the vista, and the splashing paddles turned the prow inward toward our landing. I did not move, although I watched with interest, for it was not the time of year for Indian traders, and these were white men. I could see those at the paddles, voyageurs, with gay cloths about their heads; but the one in the stern wore a hat, the brim concealing his face, and a blue coat. I knew 5 not who it could be until the prow touched the bank, and he stepped ashore. Then I knew, and bent low over my sewing, as though I had seen nothing, although my heart beat fast. Through lowered lashes I saw him give brief order to the men, and then advance toward the house alone. Ah! but this was not the slender, laughing-eyed boy of three years before. The wilderness had made of him a man––a soldier. He paused an instant to gaze about, and held his hat in his hand, the sun touching his tanned cheeks, and flecking the long, light-colored hair. He looked strong and manly in his tightly buttoned jacket, a knife at his belt, a rifle grasped within one hand. There was a sternness to his face too, although it lit up in a smile, as the searching eyes caught glimpse of my white dress in the cool shade of the grape arbor. Hat still in hand he came toward me, but I only bent the lower, as though I knew nothing of his approach, and had no interest other than my work.
“Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “pardon me, but is not this the home of Hugo Chevet, the fur trader?”
I looked up into his face, and bowed, as he swept the earth with his hat, seeing at a glance that he had no remembrance of me.
“Yes,” I answered. “If you seek him, rap on the door beyond.”
“’Tis not so much Chevet I seek,” he said, showing 6 no inclination to pass me, “but one whom I understood was his guest––Monsieur Francois Cassion.”
“The man is here,” I answered quickly, yet unable to conceal my surprise, “but you will find him no friend to Sieur de la Salle.”
“Ah!” and he stared at me intently. “In the name of the saints, what is the meaning of this? You know me then?”
I bowed, yet my eyes remained hidden.
“I knew you once as Monsieur’s friend,” I said, almost regretting my indiscretion, “and have been told you travel in his company.”
“You knew me once!” he laughed. “Surely that cannot be, for never would I be likely to forget. I challenge you, Mademoiselle to speak my name.”
“The Sieur Rene de Artigny, Monsieur.”
“By my faith, the witch is right, and yet in all this New France I know scarce a maid. Nay look up; there is naught to fear from me, and I would see if memory be not new born. Saint Giles! surely ’tis true; I have seen those eyes before; why, the name is on my tongue, yet fails me, lost in the wilderness. I pray you mercy, Mademoiselle!”
“You have memory of the face you say?”
“Ay! the witchery of it; ’tis like a haunting spirit.”
“Which did not haunt long, I warrant. I am Adele la Chesnayne, Monsieur.”
7
He stepped back, his eyes on mine, questioningly. For an instant I believed the name even brought no familiar sound; then his face brightened, and his eyes smiled, as his lips echoed the words.
“Adele la Chesnayne! Ay! now I know. Why ’tis no less than a miracle. It was a child I thought of under that name––a slender, brown-eyed girl, as blithesome as a bird. No, I had not forgotten; only the magic of three years has made of you a woman. Again and again have I questioned in Montreal and Quebec, but no one seemed to know. At the convent they said your father fell in Indian skirmish.”
“Yes; ever since then I have lived here, with my uncle, Hugo Chevet.”
“Here!” he looked about, as though the dreariness of it was first noticed. “Alone? Is there no other woman?”
I shook my head, but no longer looked at him, for fear he might see the tears in my eyes.
“I am the housekeeper, Monsieur. There was nothing else for me. In France, I am told, my father’s people were well born, but this is not France, and there was no choice. Besides I was but a child of fourteen.”
“And seventeen, now, Mademoiselle,” and he took my hand gallantly. “Pardon if I have asked questions which bring pain. I can understand much, for in Montreal I heard tales of this Hugo Chevet.”
8
“He is rough, a woodsman,” I defended, “yet not unkind to me. You will speak him fair?”
He laughed, his eyes sparkling with merriment.
“No fear of my neglecting all courtesy, for I come beseeching a favor. I have learned the lesson of when the soft speech wins more than the iron hand. And this other, the Commissaire Cassion––is he a bird of the same plumage?”
I made a little gesture, and glanced back at the closed door.
“Oh, no; he is the court courtier, to stab with words, not deeds. Chevet is rough of speech, and hard of hand, but he fights in the open; Cassion has a double tongue, and one never knows him.” I glanced up into his sobered face. “He is a friend of La Barre.”
“So ’tis said, and has been chosen by the governor to bear message to De Baugis in the Illinois country. I seek passage in his company.”
“You! I thought you were of the party of Sieur de la Salle?”
“I am,” he answered honestly, “yet Cassion will need a guide, and there is none save myself in all New France who has ever made that journey. ’Twill be well for him to listen to my plan. And why not? We do not fight the orders of the governor: we obey, and wait. Monsieur de la Salle will tell his story to the King.”
9
“The King! to Louis?”
“Ay, ’twill not be the first time he has had audience, and already he is at sea. We can wait, and laugh at this Cassion over his useless journey.”
“But he––he is treacherous, Monsieur.”
He laughed, as though the words amused.
“To one who has lived, as I, amid savages, treachery is an old story. The Commissaire will not find me asleep. We will serve each other, and let it go at that. Ah! we are to be interrupted.”
He straightened up facing the door, and I turned, confronting my uncle as he emerged in advance. He was a burly man, with iron-gray hair, and face reddened by out-of-doors; and he stopped in surprise at sight of a stranger, his eyes hardening with suspicion.
“And who is this with whom you converse so privately, Adele?” he questioned brusquely, “a young popinjay new to these parts I venture.”
De Artigny stepped between us, smiling in good humor.
“My call was upon you, Monsieur Chevet, and not the young lady,” he said quietly enough, yet with a tone to the voice. “I merely asked her if I had found the right place, and if, Monsieur, the Commissaire Cassion was still your guest.”
“And what may I ask
