The Rivals of Acadia | Page 6

been to-day,
and, now I must see if you forgive my cowardice!"
With these words the cloak was hastily unloosed, and the young page
of Mad. la Tour sprang lightly from its folds. A tartan kirtle, reaching
below the knees, with trews of the same material, and a Highland
bonnet, adorned with a tuft of eagle feathers, gave him the appearance
of a Scottish youth;--but the sparkling black eyes, the clear brunette
complexion, and the jetty locks which clustered around its brow and
neck, proclaimed him the native of a warmer and brighter climate. Half
laughing, yet blushing with shame, the boy looked with arch timidity in
his lady's face, as if deprecating the expected reproof; but she smiled
affectionately on him, and said,
"I have nothing to forgive, my child; God knows this is but a poor place
for one so young and delicate as you, and I wonder not, that your
courage is sometimes tested beyond its strength. I would not wish you
to share the dangers which it is my duty to encounter."
"I should fear nothing could I really be of service to you," replied the
page, "but, to-day, for instance, I must have been sadly in your way,
and I am very sure the first cannon ball would have carried me off the
walls."
"The enemy would doubtless aim at so important a mark," said the lady,
smiling, "but go now,--your valour will never win the spurs of
knighthood."
"I am not ambitious of such an honour," he answered gaily; "you know

I am but a fair-weather sort of page, fit only to hover around my lady's
bower, in the season of flowers and sunshine."
"Mine is no bower of ease," said Mad. la Tour; "but with all its perils, I
am resolved to guard it with my life, and resign it only into the hands of
my lord. You have promised to assist me," she added, after a moment's
pause, "and I wish you to redeem your word by remaining here till I
return. I care not to trust the faith of those idle soldiers, who, perchance,
think they have done enough of duty to-day, and your keener eyes may
keep a closer watch on the landing place, and sooner espy the motions
of the enemy, who still hold their station below."
"This I can do with pleasure," said the page, "and I am as brave as heart
can wish, when there is no danger nigh. I love to linger under the open
sky in the twilight of these bright days, which are so cheering after the
damp fogs of spring, that I can hardly regret the eternal sunshine of my
own dear France."
"Well, do not forget my commission in your romantic musings,"
replied Mad. la Tour.
The page promised obedience, and, left to himself, assumed the post of
observation, retreating as far as possible from the view of the soldiers.
The soft and brilliant tints of twilight slowly faded away, and the
smooth surface of the river gradually darkened as its waves beat in
monotonous cadence against the walls of the fort. A slight breeze, at
intervals, lifted the silken folds of the banner, which drooped from the
tall flag-staff, displaying the escutcheon of La Tour, surmounted by the
arms of France. Far up, the noble stream, on either side, was skirted by
extensive intervals, covered with the rich, bright verdure, peculiar to
early summer, and occasionally rising into gentle acclivities, or
terminating in impervious forests. Tufts of woodland, and large trees
scattered in groups, or standing singly, like the giants of past ages,
spreading their broad arms to the winds of heaven, diversified the scene;
while here and there, the smoke curled gracefully from the humble
cabin of the planter, and at times, the fisherman's light oar dimpled the
clear waves, as he bounded homeward with the fruits of successful toil.
A bright moonlight, silvering the calm and beautiful landscape,

displayed the vessels of D'Aulney, riding at anchor below the fort,
while a thin mist, so common in that climate, began slowly to weave
around their hulks, till the tall masts and white top-sails were alone
visible, floating, like a fairy fleet, in the transparent atmosphere. The
page had gazed long in silent admiration, when his attention was
arrested by the appearance of a human figure, gliding cautiously along
beneath the parapet on which he stood. His tall, attenuated form was
clothed in the loose, black garments of a monk, and the few hairs which
the rules of a severe order had left on his uncovered head, were white
as the snows of winter. A cowl partially concealed his features, his
waist was girt by a cord of discipline, and, as he moved with noiseless
steps, he seemed counting the beads of a