leaving fort st. louis, whence the bells had sounded, upon their right, they pushed onwards as swiftly as they could, for the sun was so low in the heavens that the bushes in the clearings threw shadows like trees. then suddenly, as they peered in front of them between the trunks, the green of the sward turned to the blue of the water, and they saw a broad river running swiftly before them. in france it would have seemed a mighty stream, but, coming fresh from the vastness of the st. lawrence, their eyes were used to great sheets of water. but amos and de catinat had both been upon the bosom of the richelieu before, and their hearts bounded as they looked upon it, for they knew that this was the straight path which led them, the one to home, and the other to peace and freedom. a few days’ journeying down there, a few more along the lovely island-studded lakes of champlain and saint sacrament, under the shadow of the tree-clad adirondacks, and they would be at the headquarters of the hudson, and their toils and their dangers be but a thing of gossip for the winter evenings.

across the river was the terrible iroquois country, and at two points they could see the smoke of fires curling up into the evening air. they had the jesuit’s word for it that none of the war-parties had crossed yet, so they followed the track which led down the eastern bank. as they pushed onwards, however, a stern military challenge suddenly brought them to a stand, and they saw the gleam of two musket barrels which covered them from a thicket overlooking the path.

“we are friends,” cried de catinat.

“whence come you, then?” asked an invisible sentinel.

“from quebec.”

“and whither are you going?”

“to visit monsieur charles de la noue, seigneur of sainte marie.”

“very good. it is quite safe, du lhut. they have a lady with them, too. i greet you, madame, in the name of my father.”

two men had emerged from the bushes, one of whom might have passed as a full-blooded indian, had it not been for these courteous words which he uttered in excellent french. he was a tall slight young man, very dark, with piercing black eyes, and a grim square relentless mouth which could only have come with indian descent. his coarse flowing hair was gathered up into a scalp-lock, and the eagle feather which he wore in it was his only headgear. a rude suit of fringed hide with caribou-skin mocassins might have been the fellow to the one which amos green was wearing, but the gleam of a gold chain from his belt, the sparkle of a costly ring upon his finger, and the delicate richly-inlaid musket which he carried, all gave a touch of grace to his equipment. a broad band of yellow ochre across his forehead and a tomahawk at his belt added to the strange inconsistency of his appearance.

the other was undoubtedly a pure frenchman, elderly, dark and wiry, with a bristling black beard and a fierce eager face. he, too, was clad in hunter’s dress, but he wore a gaudy striped sash round his waist, into which a brace of long pistols had been thrust. his buckskin tunic had been ornamented over the front with dyed porcupine quills and indian bead-work, while his leggings were scarlet with a fringe of raccoon tails hanging down from them. leaning upon his long brown gun he stood watching the party, while his companion advanced towards them.

“you will excuse our precautions,” said he. “we never know what device these rascals may adopt to entrap us. i fear, madame, that you have had a long and very tiring journey.”

poor adele, who had been famed for neatness even among housekeepers of the rue st. martin, hardly dared to look down at her own stained and tattered dress. fatigue and danger she had endured with a smiling face, but her patience almost gave way at the thought of facing strangers in this attire.

“my mother will be very glad to welcome you, and to see to every want,” said he quickly, as though he had read her thoughts. “but you, sir, i have surely seen you before.”

“and i you,” cried the guardsman. “my name is amory de catinat, once of the regiment of picardy. surely you are achille de la noue de sainte marie, whom i remember when you came with your father to the government levees at quebec.”

“yes, it is i,” the young man answered, holding out his hand and smiling in a somewhat constrained fashion. “i do not wonder that you should hesitate, for when you saw me last i was in a very different dress to this.”

de catinat did indeed remember him as one of the band of the young noblesse who used to come up to the capital once a year, where they inquired about the latest modes, chatted over the year-old gossip of versailles, and for a few weeks at least lived a life which was in keeping with the traditions of their order. very different was he now, with scalp-lock and war-paint, under the shadow of the great oaks, his musket in his hand and his tomahawk at his belt.

“we have one life for the forest and one for the cities,” said he, “though indeed my good father will not have it so, and carries versailles with him wherever he goes. you know him of old, monsieur, and i need not explain my words. but it is time for our relief, and so we may guide you home.”

two men in the rude dress of canadian censitaires or farmers, but carrying their muskets in a fashion which told de catinat’s trained senses that they were disciplined soldiers, had suddenly appeared upon the scene. young de la noue gave them a few curt injunctions, and then accompanied the refugees along the path.

“you may not know my friend here,” said he, pointing to the other sentinel, “but i am quite sure that his name is not unfamiliar to you. this is greysolon du lhut.”

both amos and de catinat looked with the deepest curiosity and interest at the famous leader of coureurs-debois, a man whose whole life had been spent in pushing westward, ever westward, saying little, writing nothing, but always the first wherever there was danger to meet or difficulty to overcome. it was not religion and it was not hope of gain which led him away into those western wildernesses, but pure love of nature and of adventure, with so little ambition that he had never cared to describe his own travels, and none knew where he had been or where he had stopped. for years he would vanish from the settlements away into the vast plains of the dacotah, or into the huge wilderness of the north-west, and then at last some day would walk back into sault la marie, or any other outpost of civilisation, a little leaner, a little browner, and as taciturn as ever. indians from the furthest corners of the continent knew him as they knew their own sachem. he could raise tribes and bring a thousand painted cannibals to the help of the french who spoke a tongue which none knew, and came from the shores of rivers which no one else had visited. the most daring french explorers, when, after a thousand dangers, they had reached some country which they believed to be new, were as likely as not to find du lhut sitting by his camp fire there, some new squaw by his side, and his pipe between his teeth. or again, when in doubt and danger, with no friends within a thousand miles, the traveller might suddenly meet this silent man, with one or two tattered wanderers of his own kidney, who would help him from his peril, and then vanish as unexpectedly as he came. such was the man who now walked by their sides along the bank of the richelieu, and both amos and de catinat knew that his presence there had a sinister meaning, and that the place which greysolon du lhut had chosen was the place where the danger threatened.

“what do you think of those fires over yonder, du lhut?” asked young de la noue.

the adventurer was stuffing his pipe with rank indian tobacco, which he pared from a plug with a scalping knife. he glanced over at the two little plumes of smoke which stood straight up against the red evening sky.

“i don’t like them,” said he.

“they are iroquois then?”

“yes.”

“well, at least it proves that they are on the other side of the river.”

“it proves that they are on this side.”

“what!”

du lhut lit his pipe from a tinder paper. “the iroquois are on this side,” said he. “they crossed to the south of us.”

“and you never told us. how do you know that they crossed, and why did you not tell us?”

“i did not know until i saw the fires over yonder.”

“and how did they tell you?”

“tut, an indian papoose could have told,” said du lhut impatiently. “iroquois on the trail do nothing without an object. they have an object then in showing that smoke. if their war-parties were over yonder there would be no object. therefore their braves must have crossed the river. and they could not get over to the north without being seen from the fort. they have got over on the south then.”

amos nodded with intense appreciation. “that’s it!” said he, “that’s injun ways. i’ll lay that he is right.”

“then they may be in the woods round us. we may be in danger,” cried de la noue.

du lhut nodded and sucked at his pipe.

de catinat cast a glance round him at the grand tree trunks, the fading foliage, the smooth sward underneath with the long evening shadows barred across it. how difficult it was to realise that behind all this beauty there lurked a danger so deadly and horrible that a man alone might well shrink from it, far less one who had the woman whom he loved walking within hand’s touch of him. it was with a long heart-felt sigh of relief that he saw a wall of stockade in the midst of a large clearing in front of him, with the stone manor house rising above it. in a line from the stockade were a dozen cottages with cedar-shingled roofs turned up in the norman fashion, in which dwelt the habitants under the protection of the seigneur’s chateau—a strange little graft of the feudal system in the heart of an american forest. above the main gate as they approached was a huge shield of wood with a coat of arms painted upon it, a silver ground with a chevron ermine between three coronets gules. at either corner a small brass cannon peeped through an embrasure. as they passed the gate the guard inside closed it and placed the huge wooden bars into position. a little crowd of men, women, and children were gathered round the door of the chateau, and a man appeared to be seated on a high-backed chair upon the threshold.

“you know my father,” said the young man with a shrug of his shoulders. “he will have it that he has never left his norman castle, and that he is still the seigneur de la noue, the greatest man within a day’s ride of rouen, and of the richest blood of normandy. he is now taking his dues and his yearly oaths from his tenants, and he would not think it becoming, if the governor himself were to visit him, to pause in the middle of so august a ceremony. but if it would interest you, you may step this way and wait until he has finished. you, madame, i will take at once to my mother, if you will be so kind as to follow me.”

the sight was, to the americans at least, a novel one. a triple row of men, women, and children were standing round in a semicircle, the men rough and sunburned, the women homely and clean, with white caps upon their heads, the children open-mouthed and round-eyed, awed into an unusual quiet by the reverent bearing of their elders. in the centre, on his high-backed carved chair, there sat an elderly man very stiff and erect, with an exceedingly solemn face. he was a fine figure of a man, tall and broad, with large strong features, clean-shaven and deeply-lined, a huge beak of a nose, and strong shaggy eyebrows which arched right up to the great wig, which he wore full and long as it had been worn in france in his youth. on his wig was placed a white hat cocked jauntily at one side with a red feather streaming round it, and he wore a coat of cinnamon-coloured cloth with silver at the neck and pockets, which was still very handsome, though it bore signs of having been frayed and mended more than once. this, with black velvet knee-breeches and high well-polished boots, made a costume such as de catinat had never before seen in the wilds of canada.

as they watched, a rude husbandman walked forwards from the crowd, and kneeling down upon a square of carpet placed his hands between those of the seigneur.

“monsieur de sainte marie, monsieur de sainte marie, monsieur de sainte marie,” said he three times, “i bring you the faith and homage which i am bound to bring you on account of my fief herbert, which i hold as a man of faith of your seigneury.”

“be true, my son. be valiant and true!” said the old nobleman solemnly, and then with a sudden change of tone: “what in the name of the devil has your daughter got there?”

a girl had advanced from the crowd with a large strip of bark in front of her on which was heaped a pile of dead fish.

“it is your eleventh fish which i am bound by my oath to render to you,” said the censitaire. “there are seventy-three in the heap, and i have caught eight hundred in the month.”

“peste!” cried the nobleman. “do you think, andre dubois, that i will disorder my health by eating three-and-seventy fish in this fashion? do you think that i and my body-servants and my personal retainers and the other members of my household have nothing to do but to eat your fish? in future, you will pay your tribute not more than five at a time. where is the major-domo? theuriet, remove the fish to our central store-house, and be careful that the smell does not penetrate to the blue tapestry chamber or to my lady’s suite.”

a man in very shabby black livery, all stained and faded, advanced with a large tin platter and carried off the pile of white fish. then, as each of the tenants stepped forward to pay their old-world homage, they all left some share of their industry for their lord’s maintenance. with some it was a bundle of wheat, with some a barrel of potatoes, while others had brought skins of deer or of beaver. all these were carried off by the major-domo, until each had paid his tribute, and the singular ceremony was brought to a conclusion. as the seigneur rose, his son, who had returned, took de catinat by the sleeve and led him through the throng.

“father,” said he, “this is monsieur de catinat, whom you may remember some years ago at quebec.”

the seigneur bowed with much condescension, and shook the guardsman by the hand.

“you are extremely welcome to my estates, both you and your body-servants—”

“they are my friends, monsieur. this is monsieur amos green and captain ephraim savage. my wife is travelling with me, but your courteous son has kindly taken her to your lady.”

“i am honoured—honoured indeed!” cried the old man, with a bow and a flourish. “i remember you very well, sir, for it is not so common to meet men of quality in this country. i remember your father also, for he served with me at rocroy, though he was in the foot, and i in the red dragoons of grissot. your arms are a martlet in fess upon a field azure, and now that i think of it, the second daughter of your great-grand-father married the son of one of the la noues of andelys, which is one of our cadet branches. kinsman, you are welcome!” he threw his arms suddenly round de catinat and slapped him three times on the back.

the young guardsman was only too delighted to find himself admitted to such an intimacy.

“i will not intrude long upon your hospitality,” said he. “we are journeying down to lake champlain, and we hope in a day or two to be ready to go on.”

“a suite of rooms shall be laid at your disposal as long as you do me the honour to remain here. peste! it is not every day that i can open my gates to a man with good blood in his veins! ah, sir, that is what i feel most in my exile, for who is there with whom i can talk as equal to equal? there is the governor, the intendant, perhaps, one or two priests, three or four officers, but how many of the noblesse? scarcely one. they buy their titles over here as they buy their pelts, and it is better to have a canoe-load of beaver skins than a pedigree from roland. but i forget my duties. you are weary and hungry, you and your friends. come up with me to the tapestried salon, and we shall see if my stewards can find anything for your refreshment. you play piquet, if i remember right? ah, my skill is leaving me, and i should be glad to try a hand with you.”

the manor-house was high and strong, built of gray stone in a framework of wood. the large iron-clamped door through which they entered was pierced for musketry fire, and led into a succession of cellars and store-houses in which the beets, carrots, potatoes, cabbages, cured meat, dried eels, and other winter supplies were placed. a winding stone staircase led them through a huge kitchen, flagged and lofty, from which branched the rooms of the servants or retainers as the old nobleman preferred to call them. above this again was the principal suite, centering in the dining-hall with its huge fireplace and rude home-made furniture. rich rugs formed of bear or deer-skin were littered thickly over the brown-stained floor, and antlered heads bristled out from among the rows of muskets which were arranged along the wall. a broad rough-hewn maple table ran down the centre of this apartment, and on this there was soon set a venison pie, a side of calvered salmon, and a huge cranberry tart, to which the hungry travellers did full justice. the seigneur explained that he had already supped, but having allowed himself to be persuaded into joining them, he ended by eating more than ephraim savage, drinking more than du lhut, and finally by singing a very amorous little french chanson with a tra-le-ra chorus, the words of which, fortunately for the peace of the company, were entirely unintelligible to the bostonian.

“madame is taking her refection in my lady’s boudoir,” he remarked, when the dishes had been removed. “you may bring up a bottle of frontiniac from bin thirteen, theuriet. oh, you will see, gentlemen, that even in the wilds we have a little, a very little, which is perhaps not altogether bad. and so you come from versailles, de catinat? it was built since my day, but how i remember the old life of the court at st. germain, before louis turned serious! ah, what innocent happy days they were when madame de nevailles had to bar the windows of the maids of honour to keep out the king, and we all turned out eight deep on to the grass plot for our morning duel! by saint denis, i have not quite forgotten the trick of the wrist yet, and, old as i am, i should be none the worse for a little breather.” he strutted in his stately fashion over to where a rapier and dagger hung upon the wall, and began to make passes at the door, darting in and out, warding off imaginary blows with his poniard, and stamping his feet with little cries of “punto! reverso! stoccata! dritta! mandritta!” and all the jargon of the fencing schools. finally he rejoined them, breathing heavily and with his wig awry.

“that was our old exercise,” said he. “doubtless you young bloods have improved upon it, and yet it was good enough for the spaniards at rocroy and at one or two other places which i could mention. but they still see life at the court, i understand. there are still love passages and blood lettings. how has lauzun prospered in his wooing of mademoiselle de montpensier? was it proved that madame de clermont had bought a phial from le vie, the poison woman, two days before the soup disagreed so violently with monsieur? what did the due de biron do when his nephew ran away with the duchess? is it true that he raised his allowance to fifty thousand livres for having done it?” such were the two-year-old questions which had not been answered yet upon the banks of the richelieu river. long into the hours of the night, when his comrades were already snoring under their blankets, de catinat, blinking and yawning, was still engaged in trying to satisfy the curiosity of the old courtier, and to bring him up to date in all the most minute gossip of versailles.