The Lady of Fort St. John | Page 6

most cowardly creature in my affections,
Madame Bronck."
They moved toward the stairs. Antonia was as perfect as a slim and
blue-eyed stalk of flax. She wore the laced bodice and small cap of
New Holland. Her exactly spoken French denoted all the neat
appointments of her life. This Dutch gentlewoman had seen much of
the world; having traveled from Fort Orange to New Amsterdam, from
New Amsterdam to Boston, and from Boston with Madame La Tour to
Fort St. John in Acadia. The three figures ascended in a line the narrow

stairway which made a diagonal band from lower to upper corner of the
remote hall end. Zélie walked last, carrying her lady's cloak. At the top
a little light fell on them through a loophole.
"Was Mynheer La Tour in good heart for his march?" inquired Antonia,
turning from the waifs brought back to the expedition itself.
"Stout-hearted enough; but the man to whom he goes is scarce to be
counted on. We Protestant French are all held alien by Catholics of our
blood. Edelwald will move Denys to take arms with us, if any one can.
My lord depends much upon Edelwald. This instant," said Marie with a
laugh, "I find the worst of all my discomforts these disordered
garments."
The stranger left by the fire gazed around the dim place, which was
lighted only by high windows in front. The mighty hearth, inclosed by
settles, was like a roseate side-chamber to the hall. Outside of this the
stone-paved floor spread away unevenly. She turned her eyes from the
arms of La Tour over the mantel to trace seamed and footworn flags,
and noticed in the distant corner, at the bottom of the stairs, that they
gave way to a trapdoor of timbers. This was fastened down with iron
bars, and had a huge ring for its handle. Her eyes rested on it in fear,
betwixt the separated settles.
But it was easily lost sight of in the fire's warmth. She had been so
chilled by salt air and spray as to crowd close to the flame and court
scorching. Her white face kindled with heat. She threw back her
mufflers, and the comfort of the child occurring to her, she looked at its
small face through a tunnel of clothing. Its exceeding stillness awoke
but one wish, which she dared not let escape in words.
These stone walls readily echoed any sound. So scantily furnished was
the great hall that it could not refrain from echoing. There were some
chairs and tables not of colonial pattern, and a buffet holding silver
tankards and china; but these seemed lost in space. Opposite the
fireplace hung two portraits,--one of Charles La Tour's father, the other
of a former maid of honor at the English court. The ceiling of wooden
panels had been brought from La Tour's castle at Cape Sable; it

answered the flicker of the fire with lines of faded gilding.
The girl dropped her wrappings on the bench, and began to unroll the
baby, as if curious about its state.
"I believe it is dead!" she whispered.
But the clank of a long iron latch which fastened the outer door was
enough to deflect her interest from the matter. She cast her cloak over
the baby, and held it loosely on her knees, with its head to the fire.
When the door shut with a crash, and some small object scurried across
the stone floor, the girl looked out of her retreat with fear. Her eyelids
and lips fell wider apart. She saw a big-headed brownie coming to the
hearth, clad, with the exception of its cap, in the dun tints of autumn
woods. This creature, scarcely more than two feet high, had a woman's
face, of beak-like formation, projecting forward. She was as
bright-eyed and light of foot as any bird. Moving within the inclosure
of the settles, she hopped up with a singular power of vaulting, and
seated herself, stretching toward the fire a pair of spotted seal
moccasins. These were so small that the feet on which they were laced
seemed an infant's, and sorted strangely with the mature keen face
above them. Youth, age, and wise sylvan life were brought to a focus in
that countenance.
To hear such a creature talk was like being startled by spoken words
from a bird.
"I'm Le Rossignol," she piped out, when she had looked at the vagrant
girl a few minutes, "and I can read your name on your face. It's
Marguerite."
The girl stared helplessly at this midget seer.
"You're the same Marguerite that was left on the Island of Demons a
hundred years ago. You may not know it, but you're the same. I know
that downward look, and soft, crying way, and still