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 The University of North Carolina 
 
 COLLECTION OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINIANA 
 
 ENDOWED BY 
 
 JOHN SPRUNT HILL 
 of the Class of 1889 
 
 C8J5 
 
IJ^IIVERSITY OF N,C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00016896637 
 
 This book may be kept out one month unless a recall 
 notice is sent to you. It must be brought to the North 
 Carolina Collection (in Wilson Library) for renewal. 
 
 fflO^Mi^^ ^^M Mii-ixyy^sa 
 
 Form No. A-369 
 

 library 
 
 OF 
 
 The University of JiCj 
 
"Yaunocca! Yaunocca! 
 
 (See page 297.) 
 
 HE CRIED. 
 
 1 
 
WALLANNAH 
 
 A Colonial Romance 
 
 By WILL LOFTIN HARGRAVE 
 
 RICHMOND 
 B. F. JOHNSON PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1902 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I Page 
 
 The Spinning of the Web 9 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The Theft of the First-Born 23 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A Meeting and a Parting . 33 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Consuming Flames 42 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Some Further Tricks of Fate 52 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A Good Man Meets His Wife 71 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A Bit of History 81 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "Call That Man a Frencher !" 96 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A Knightly Deed and a Forewarning . . . . iii 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The Governor Does Some Plotting 119 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Conscience and a Failure 132 
 
 3 • 
 
Contents 
 
 CHAPTER XII Page 
 
 Beauty, Love and Remorse 145 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A Hunter Hunted 156 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A Cracked Skull and a Victory 165 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Motier Receives Company 177 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The Story of Jack Ashburne 189 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 The Gift of the White Rose 200 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A Temptation That Went Astray 211 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Men- AT- Arms a-Marching 225 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 The Battle of the Alamance 234 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Several Mysteries Spring Up 243 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 An Awkward Surprise 255 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A Move Forestalled , , 26^ 
 
 4 
 
ConrePts 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV Page 
 
 Some Heathen Justice 279 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Wallannah Manita 293 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A Pair of Dead Indians 307. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 Caged Birds — With a Little Sword Play . . . 322 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Reckoning an Account 333 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 Cupid Seems in Trouble 343 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 The Fortune-Teller Plays a Hand . . » . . 354 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 Unpleasant Revelations » 366 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 Murder . . . . « 379 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 627 Jeremiah Lane 393 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 "To My Mother— God Bless Her!" 407 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 In Which the Expected Happens 422 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "Yaunocca ! Yaunocca !" he cried Frontispiece 
 
 "Remember all, that I have told you" 13 
 
 And they committed Bowzer to his grave 62 
 
 "Speech is free!" retorted the woodman, his voice louder 
 
 than before loi 
 
 The glass fell from Simon's hand and was shattered on 
 
 the hearth I34 
 
 The face which she turned toward him was aglow with 
 
 pleasure 146 
 
 "Oh ! Motier," she cried, standing in front of him . . . 218 
 
 He raised his hat and smiled 412 
 
WALLANNAH 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The Spinning of the Web 
 
 T was far back in the day when, save for 
 a few thousand planted acres, the forests 
 covered North Carolina from Currituck to 
 Fear and from the peaks of the Unakas 
 eastward to the slender breakwater, which, bent like a 
 giant's knee, lies between Pamlico and the troubled 
 seas. 
 
 Over all the land lay the hush of an autumn noon, 
 a quiet deeper even than the stillness that comes before 
 the dawn. In the part of that country where the 
 Neuse creeps down to the great sweep that turns it 
 eastward to the sound, the pines pointed through the 
 breezeless air to a sky that, hard and hot, blazed like a 
 glowing brazen dome. The wood-fringed river, broad 
 as the sea of Bahret el Hijaneh, stood still at the poise 
 of the tides, lapping its shores so faintly that its 
 rippling could be heard only by the frog that blinked its 
 yellow eyes among the reeds, or by the deer that stood 
 flank deep in the cooling -waters on the shoal, a rod off 
 shore. 
 
 It seemed as though the length and breadth of the 
 wooded land had never felt the weight of the foot of 
 
Wallannah 
 
 man. Under the pines a bed of parching needles 
 covered the earth and the creatures that crawled upon 
 it; flowers, bright and vari-colored, and grass, knee 
 high and fresh with moisture, lay in unbroken expanse 
 over the sweep of the level land beneath the elms ; and 
 the lowlands at the river's brink were deep in ferns and 
 rushes. But nowhere did a road divide the glades or a 
 pathway wind about among the trees. Pines were 
 there, tall and straight and great of girth, but the 
 blazoned scar of the woodman's axe had never drawn 
 their blood. All was wild, and unprofaned by the 
 settler's ruthless hand, although but ten leagues further 
 east lay New Bern, a restless, busy town girt about by 
 the tilled and fertile lands of many planters. 
 
 But the forest, void though it seemed of human life, 
 harbored in its sultry depths a savage world of its own 
 people. Ever and anon a dusky face would peer 
 through the vine-laced undergrowth, a bronzed arm 
 would straighten to the bending of a bow, and a 
 feathered arrow, gleaming white for a half-spent 
 second, would flash across a sunny glade and sink a 
 third of its length in the side of a fawn that thought 
 itself at peace with the whole world. 
 
 Back a little way from the river and deeply bowered 
 in the woodland, a tiny spring, bubbling from the 
 ground, twisted down a grassy hillock toward a stream 
 that wound its way into the Neuse. And there, as 
 still as the trees about her, with head uplifted and her 
 hair falling back from her face, stood an Indian girl. 
 She leaned a little forward, as one who listens for a 
 far-off sound. After a moment her lips, slightly 
 parted, bent in a half-formed smile, as from the depths 
 
 10 
 
The Spinning of the Web 
 
 of the wood came the mewing cry of a cat-bird. The 
 muscles of her bare, rounded throat quivered the 
 veriest trifle, and back went the answering call, clear 
 and strong. Then, stepping quickly to the edge of the 
 glade, she parted the bushes and looked down the slope 
 toward the rivulet below. A long time she stood there, 
 her graceful figure strongly marked against the green 
 about her. Thrice did the wild-bird call awaken the 
 forest echoes, and thrice went back the answer, sweet 
 as the nightingale's song. 
 
 A fair picture she made, standing proudly in the 
 glory of her youth. Her arms were bare to the 
 bracelets that girt them above the elbows. Below her 
 fringed skirt glistened the fantastic beadwork of her 
 buckskin leggings; and her feet, small and shapely, 
 were clothed in moccasins bearing on the instep the 
 sign of a red-rayed sun. The lines of her figure were 
 full and round, and her face, framed with a flowing 
 wealth of coal-black hair, and lighted with great eyes 
 of liquid brown, was as lovely a face as God had ever 
 given to woman. 
 
 A pity it was that Sequa was a savage. True, her 
 grandfather had been a king, but the blood of pagan 
 kings carries no heritage of godliness. Her notions 
 of lying and of theft, and of many things other than 
 these, were far removed from the civilized standard. 
 If Sequa made mistakes it was largely because she 
 knew no better. At the same time, had her wishes 
 led that way, she might have learned to know the good 
 from the evil. So the facts can hardly excuse the girl 
 from the several misdeeds which must be set against 
 her account. 
 
 ir 
 
Wallannah 
 
 The heathen simplicity of Sequa's nature came 
 plainly into view when she smiled with great, uplifted 
 eyes into the face of the tall young man, who, threading 
 his way among the trees, bounded across the rivulet 
 and climbed to the mound beside her. And something 
 of the same freedom came into play when he dropped 
 his hand to her rounded waist, and she raised her 
 arms, and drawing down his head, kissed him until he 
 turned his face aside and cried for a chance to breathe. 
 Then, each holding the other's hand, they walked 
 across the glade to a spot which the sun's heat had not 
 yet touched. There she sat, leaning her shoulders 
 against the trunk of a towering elm ; while he, resting 
 lazily beside her, played with the rings on her fingers 
 and talked to her in English and in Cherokee. 
 
 Had Sequa's eyes been trained to read in the face 
 of man the lines of good and evil which were there, she 
 might have looked with less favor upon the features of 
 John Cantwell. True, his face was comely in a way. 
 His forehead was broad and high, his eyes large and 
 dark, and his skin so clear that the blue of his veins 
 showed strongly on his brow and his temples. And, 
 too, his mouth was of goodly shape, and his chin was 
 firm and squarely moulded. All these things could 
 Sequa see ; and she found them pleasing. But the deep 
 eyes had something in them which told the great, black 
 lie of his life ; and at times a look bespeaking a serpent's 
 guile crossed his face and left a shadow not good for 
 a knowing eye to look upon. But these were the things 
 that Sequa could not see; so all that he seemed — to 
 her — ^was pleasing. 
 
 They stayed in their forest bower a long time, until 
 
 12 
 
■ReIIEJIBER all that I HAVE TOLD YOU. 
 
The Spinning of the Web 
 
 the sun had gone far down to the wefst, and the woods 
 had cooled and were musical with the songs of birds 
 and the chatter of the squirrels in the tree-tops. And 
 through all that time they plotted and planned, Sequa 
 and her pale-faced lover; she laughing and making 
 a huge jest of the matter in hand, he half serious 
 and half mocking, but, through it all, masterful and 
 unrelenting. 
 
 He had told her of a house that stood in the forest 
 beyond the hamlet of Neusioc, a day's journey toward 
 the river's head, and of a child within that house which 
 must be stolen and brought to him by noon of the third 
 day after. And Sequa, not knowing that Mary Ross, 
 the mother, was Cantwell's truly wedded wife, laughed 
 scornfully at the folly of the woman who had borne 
 the child, and entered into the project with all the zest 
 of her heathen spirit. 
 
 "And now," said Cantwell, when the plot was 
 laid, "remember all that I have told you; and be 
 careful with the child, and bring him to me alive and 
 well." 
 
 "But if she — the foolish woman" — said Sequa, in 
 her native tongue; "if she sees me, what shall I do 
 then?" 
 
 "She cannot see you. Wait until she leaves the 
 child alone in the room ; then creep in and take him 
 from his bed and run down the path by the river. 
 When she comes back — " 
 
 With a low laugh, she interrupted him. 
 
 "If I could only see her then," she cried, exultantly. 
 "She will laugh and cry, and make queer sounds, like 
 the Sinnegar squaw with Tetah's arrow in her throat. 
 
 13 
 
Wallannah 
 
 All this will she do because her skin is white and her 
 heart is faint, and because she knows as little as her 
 child of the wisdom that is Sequa's." 
 
 They looked at one another and laughed, the one 
 merrily as from a light heart, the other with the ring 
 that tells of venom in the soul. Then, rising to her 
 feet she stretched out her bronzed arms with an 
 indolent gesture of command. ''Come, Great Heart," 
 she said, with the deep love-light in her eyes, "soon the 
 sun will leave us in the wood, and Sequa has yet a 
 long journey to make. Ah !" she laughed, as breaking 
 from his embrace she darted through the bushes and 
 led the way down to the creek; 'T feared you had 
 forgotten! But you are so strong — you would crush 
 me like a bear. Did she — the foolish one — love you 
 as I do? No; she could not, for her face and her 
 heart are white, and her blood runs slow like the water 
 in yonder river. She loved you so little that she must 
 bear the child and love him more than you. But Sequa 
 is wise, and gives all her love to you. And who is 
 happier, the foolish one, or Sequa?" 
 
 They went down the hill, he with an arm about her 
 waist — a lithe, firm waist, muscled with steel, yet soft 
 and yielding as a child's — and she brushing aside the 
 branches and vines that bent across their way. Lifting 
 her high above the water, he carried her across the 
 stream; then dropping her, amid a shower of kisses, 
 into the field of waist-high ferns, he led the way up 
 the further bank, and together they went through the 
 wood. 
 
 And the brook sang and danced foam-flecked over 
 its pebbles; the cardinal-bird flamed gaily across the 
 
 14 
 
The Spinning of the Web 
 
 sunlit open ; and here and there the river, resplendent 
 as a stream of gold, gleamed through the green of its 
 banks of willow. Sequa, radiant in her pagan beauty, 
 laughed and sang as she leaped from mound to fallen 
 log, and from log to beds of fragrant flowers. And in 
 that shining, favored land, all was fair and bright save 
 only the eyes of John Cantwell, gleaming ominously 
 with sinister craft — the one discordant note in the 
 symphony of beauty. 
 
 It was twihght when Cantwell, returning- to the 
 village of New Bern, walked :,lowly down the street, 
 greeting with kindly smile and cheering word the 
 scores of friends whom he passed on the way. Pausing 
 a moment at the great carriage-block before his house, 
 he looked long and earnestly down the broad expanse 
 of the Neuse as it stretched toward the sound; then, 
 with more serious mien, he opened the gate, and walked 
 up the graveled walkway to the white-pillared house 
 that reared its noble front from a terrace of green and 
 a maze of tulip-beds and blooming rosebushes. Before 
 the oaken door he paused again; and once more his 
 eyes sought the deepening haze of the seaward sweep 
 of the river. But the Leopard, freighted with the 
 wealth of the West Indies, and flying Cantwell's yellow 
 pennant, was still beyond his sight — and twelve days 
 overdue. 
 
 Opening the door, Cantwell mounted the stairway 
 and entered his room — a luxurious apartment. The 
 windows were richly curtained, and a canopy of soft 
 brocaded silk hung over the great bedstead. Upon the 
 walls were rare pictures, and on a pedestal in a 
 windowed alcove stood a bronze statue of Hermes. 
 
 15 
 
Wallannah 
 
 The classic mantel was set with carved vases of marble, 
 and back of these was a silver-framed mirror, reputed 
 to have come from a pirate brig captured of¥ Cayo 
 Verde and the Ragged Islands. The floor was bare, 
 and shone with purest wax, and on its glistening 
 expanse lay rugs of fur, and of silk from the looms 
 of Azerbijan, each worth the ransom of a Bolobo 
 slave. The massive mahogany furniture, with its rich 
 upholstering, was the envy of the townspeople — and 
 this, be it remembered, was but one room of all the 
 great house. 
 
 Surrounded by these marks of wealth and of power, 
 Cantwell dropped into his great rocking-chair, while 
 his negro valet, having lighted the candles in the 
 sconces, brought out a velvet suit of garnet, lined with 
 pea-green satin and touched here and there with silver 
 embroidery. After this, Cantwell,. whose dark eyes 
 had followed his servant hither and thither about the 
 room, called for wine and asked that he be left alone. 
 Then, although it was close to the hour of supper, he 
 lay back in his chair and gave himself over to deep 
 thought. 
 
 Scarce thirty years had passed since John Cant well's 
 eyes had first opened at Lancaster, in England, and of 
 those thirty years fourteen had been spent in North 
 Carolina. Landing at New Bern in the spring of 
 1740, a long-limbed, keen-eyed boy of sixteen, he had 
 made friends from his first day ashore ; and as he made 
 friends he made also money. At the end of his second 
 year in America he had built up a considerable traffic 
 with the Indians. Exchanging clothing and tawdry 
 ornaments for rich furs and crude native implements 
 
 16 
 
The Spinning of the Web 
 
 of war and of peace, he marketed his curious wares 
 among the British mariners who came to port, deriving 
 therefrom the just and equitable profit of eight hundred 
 per cent. Then, by an astuteness that set agape the 
 mouths of the good people of New Bern, Cantwell 
 made thousands of guineas by his sales of stores and 
 munitions of war, first to Oglethorpe, who fought the 
 Spanish invasion, and later to the Canadians and their 
 allies, at the siege of Lewisburg, in 1745. 
 
 It mattered Httle that some envious ones whispered 
 that Cantwell's powder sold for louis d' or and 
 doubloons as well as for honest British sovereigns. 
 The only thing of consequence was that Cantwell 
 made the money; and by long strides he mounted to 
 prosperity and ease. In his twenty-fifth year he bought 
 the captured buccaneer El Escoria, changed her name 
 to the Leopard, and placed her in the West Indian 
 service, trading triangularly between New Bern, 
 Havana and Liverpool. 
 
 It was after this that Cantwell, blessed with easy 
 circumstances, abandoned his adventurous trading with 
 the Indians and his long journeys with powder-trains 
 and store-wagons, and settled down to an ever-widening 
 sphere of influence in the home of his adoption. His 
 friendships extended to the statesmen of the province 
 and the favorites of the king. But this was done 
 modestly, and with no show of undue exultation. 
 Then, to keep his blood in tone and his muscles iirm, he 
 put to practical use the knowledge of surveying, which, 
 through long study by lamplight and by firelight, he 
 had gained in the years past. And throughout the 
 province many disputed boundaries were set aright by 
 
 17 
 
Wallannah 
 
 his skill. He was made justice of the peace in the 
 town of New Bern, and still retained the office, although 
 beyond real need of its fees : for John Cantwell, with 
 some fifteen or twenty thousand pounds to the good, 
 would still let nothing pass which would add a shilling 
 to his store. 
 
 During the governorship of Gabriel Johnston, the 
 influence of Cantwell became more marked than ever. 
 He might at any time have held a seat in the council, 
 yet firmly set aside the pleading of his friends, and 
 kept aloof from the halls of legislation. 
 
 It w^as at this time that Cantwell accepted a limited 
 commission from Governor Johnston. Acting under 
 this, he began a journey along the shores of the Neuse, 
 seeking a spot where a great English mill might locate 
 and find Avater wherewith to turn its wheels. Out of 
 all the province Cantwell was chosen for this mission, 
 because he knew the river from Pamlico to the 
 headwaters, and from shore to shore, and from its 
 high-tide mark to the silt that drifted along its bottom. 
 Then, too, all the tongues of the Indian tribes were to 
 Cantwell as the king's own speech ; and the governor 
 wished to learn some other things that none but the 
 Cherokees knew. Thus, Cantwell's quest was of 
 importance; and when it degenerated into something 
 not foreseen in the plan, the governor was not the one 
 to blame. 
 
 All might have gone well, and Cantwell, possibly, 
 would have lived a life of unbroken prosperity and 
 ease, had it not been that the pestilence that walketh 
 in darkness went far from its course and seized upon 
 Cantwell in the noonday. Stricken with the marsh 
 
 i8 
 
The Spinning of the Web 
 
 fever that spread through tidewater Carolina in that 
 year, he rode, ill and half crazed, through a rain-storm 
 of many hours' duration. At last, when the dusk had 
 shut down over all the land, Cantwell halted at the 
 lonely cabin of the Widow Ross, which stood then, and 
 for twenty years thereafter, at the end of the mile-long 
 path that ran crookedly westward from Neusioc. 
 
 She who opened the door to Cantwell's knock was 
 Mary, the widow's daughter, a fair-haired girl of his 
 own age, with eyes of violet and with red Hps and 
 peach-blow cheeks. Ill though the man was, a flash of 
 eager interest crossed his face, and he addressed the 
 girl in such soft-spoken phrases that the blood surged 
 beneath the fair skin of her cheek and she lowered her 
 gaze to the floor. A quick gleam came to his eyes. 
 Then, looking across the room, with unhesitating 
 frankness he met the widow's kind regard and named 
 himself John Matthev^^s, a traveler lost in the forest 
 and ill unto desperation. Why he did it, whether the 
 river-fever had mounted to his brain and had left him 
 unreasoning, or whether something came to him of the 
 things that might lie in the future, none but Cantwell 
 could tell. At any rate, Matthews had he called 
 himself, and as Matthews they took him into their 
 home, giving him such welcome as their humble means 
 afforded. 
 
 Seeing how ill the man was, they placed him in the 
 best room in the cabin, which room happened to be 
 Mary's, spotlessly swept and garnished. Then the 
 girl, with tumult in her heart, sat half the night by the 
 kitchen fire and wove romances, rose-hued and 
 fantastic, with the dark-eyed youth as their hero. 
 
 19 
 
Wallannah 
 
 They nursed Cantwell for nine long weeks. Before 
 he left them he had learned all of their pitiful story 
 of hardship and disappointment. He knew how Henry 
 Ross, who for ten long years had fought the Indian 
 and the wolf in that wilderness, met his death one day 
 at even by the falhng of a rotted pine beside his very 
 cabin door; how the widow and the daughter and the 
 twelve-year-old boy had struggled against the enemies 
 that lurked in the forest and the destruction that came 
 hand in hand with the wars of the elements. 
 
 Then, over and above all, was the pitiful hope 
 against hope for the day when all these things would 
 pass from them, and they might come back again to the 
 settlements of peace and plenty. So he learned much 
 of them; but they knew Uttle of him, save that he 
 found favor in their eyes; that he spoke with more 
 than passing kindness to the girl ; and that he had 
 wealth and power beyond that of any man they had 
 ever known. 
 
 Then came the workings of that inscrutable power 
 which the brothers of Islam call kismet — that which to 
 some is "fate," and to others "Providence." 
 
 Cantwell's visits to the cabin became frequent ; and, 
 as seemed befitting, he paid court to the widow's 
 daughter; and through it all, there being none to 
 gainsay him, he remained John Matthews. 
 
 At last, when springtime was close at hand, when 
 the wood was fair with the sweet bay and the magnolia, 
 and the yellow jessamine and the wild tulip bloomed 
 in the forest groves — on one of these days, in the 
 grass-girt path that wound along the river shore, 
 Cantwell asked Mary to be his wife. And she, looking 
 
 20 
 
The Spinning of the Web 
 
 into his face with awe, and trembling, said, "If mother 
 place no bar in my way, I will wed you when you 
 will." 
 
 And that had been four years ago ! The smile that 
 came with the thought died on Cantwell's lips in a 
 sneer. As Sequa had said, the woman was a fool ! 
 
 Rising to his feet, with something very like an 
 oath he consigned his memories to perdition and 
 began dressing for the evening meal: for Mistress 
 Cantwell, high-bred and high-strung, awaited him in 
 the dining-room, and her temper when awry was not 
 pleasant for a man to face. But Mistress Cantwell was 
 not she who had once been Mary Ross. 
 
 Now, it goes without saying that the story of a 
 man's life, as that life is known to the man himself, can 
 be told by no one else. And, equally, it goes without 
 saying that the man never tells it. From the first of 
 men (and thousands of millions have since lived and 
 died) down to the youngest among us now, certain 
 things in every life have gone and will go as secrets to 
 the tomb. Perhaps it is.best that this is so ; for, were 
 all things known, some several thousand saints would 
 have failed to rise above the ranks of men. 
 
 As for John Cantwell, the world for many years 
 thought him one man when in his life he was another. 
 In the later days, when the rest of mankind began to 
 know him as he was, some of the wise men of that time 
 said that Cantwell had two souls, one of good, the 
 other of evil. Certainly he lived two lives; but if one 
 were bad, and that were the true one, then was the 
 other bad, or worse : for it was a lie. The hypocrite 
 who bows his head in holy places has less grace than 
 
 21 
 
Wallannah 
 
 the other sinner who flaunts his wickedness from the 
 house-tops. 
 
 Yet, with Cantwell there were times — as one 
 among his friends could say — when the man rose for 
 a brief spell above the charnel-house of his dual self, 
 and suffered in that moment such tortures as are 
 measured to the unredeemed. Be that as it may, few 
 knew until his last day that John Cantwell was other 
 than the upright man of trade, the just magistrate, and 
 the friend of the humble people. None was more 
 eloquent in prayer, none more brotherly in sickness or 
 in death, and none more willing to help whomsoever 
 needed a friend. He who stopped a man in the streets 
 of New Bern, and asked, "What know you of John 
 Cantwell?" would straightway have his answer: 
 " 'Squire Cantwell is a good man — yea, and a true 
 one." Such was he in the eyes of the people. In the 
 eyes of God — but that is not for man to say. 
 
 Well might these things have come to Cantwell's 
 mind that night as he sat at his table. Facing him 
 was Mistress Cantwell, stately and proud of soul ; and 
 at his left and at his right were the little son and 
 daughter who had come of their union. Yet, in the 
 forest, ten leagues to the west, was Mary Ross, wedded 
 to him by the lawful ritual; and somewhere between 
 the one wife and the other was Sequa, who looked 
 upon him even as did the two others. But, with it all, 
 Cantwell's face betrayed no sign save of peace and 
 satisfaction of soul. That was the way of the man. 
 
 22 
 
The Theft of the Firstborn 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The Theft of the First-Born' 
 
 FTER her talk with Cantwell, two nights 
 and a day and a fourth part of the second 
 day passed before Sequa, emerging from the 
 forest, entered the village of Neusioc. A 
 full thirty miles had she come; and the journey had 
 been a rough one. The road that joined Neusioc and 
 New Bern could scarce be called a road. Cypress and 
 scrub oak lined the way; and marshes and bayous so 
 crossed the course that much of the highway lay a 
 sodden mire for half the day and a flooded swamp in 
 the hours when the tide was in. Through this country, 
 with the wolf and the bear in wood and in canebrake, 
 Sequa had made her solitary way. What wonder that 
 at Neusioc she sought her father's hut and slept there 
 until the close of the afternoon. 
 
 Neusioc, as has been said, stood at the eastern end 
 of the path which led to the home of Mary Ross. How 
 old the place was no one knew. V/hen the first 
 pale-face came up the Neuse, he found it an ancient 
 Indian town — so ancient that its chief, himself blind 
 and feeble with age, could but say that Neusioc was 
 old and decaying when his father's grandfather led the 
 war dance of the tribe that gave the town its name. 
 But Neusioc, in this twenty-seventh year of the 
 
 23 
 
Wallannah 
 
 reign of the second George, was not as it had been in 
 the days of its heathen king. Of the mouldering 
 wigwam walls not one stick nor stone stood beside or 
 upon another. Huts of log and sapling lined the town's 
 single, crooked avenue ; and here .and there a gleam of 
 red marked the rise of a white man's chimney. Fences, 
 heavy with gourd vines, kept the cattle from the 
 gardened yards ; and from every homestead came the 
 medley of the poultry and the swine. Indians were 
 there, some clear-eyed and proud with the pride of 
 race, but others, and the greater part, dull-faced and 
 drink-besotted — broken reeds at the end of a line of 
 kings. 
 
 Within the little settlement peace and harmony 
 prevailed, white men and red working together as of 
 one kind, each helping to ease the other's burden. 
 And of the men who peopled the town, two stood head 
 and shoulders above their fellows. They were James 
 Noel, the village minister, and Tetah, the father of 
 Sequa. Mr. Noel had a wife, frail and fair as a 
 drooping flower, and a laughing, blue-eyed child ; while 
 Tetah, whose squaw slept beneath the sod of the 
 Piedmont forests, had but the girl; yet she was one 
 whose beauty made her greater in the province even 
 than was he himself. 
 
 The Reverend James Noel had come from England 
 to the Carolinas nearly a year before, and from his own 
 purse had built the rude log cTiurch that stood on the 
 little village green. Tetah had trodden the forests 
 before Christopher Baron de Graafenreidt brought his 
 Swiss and his Germans from the Alps and from the 
 Rhine, when the century was but nine years old ; and 
 
 24 
 
The Theft of the Firstborn 
 
 Tetah had no church, for his god was the great 
 Manitou, whose temple was the earth beneath and the 
 sky above and all that lay between the two. The 
 minister was the second son of a great peer, and his 
 brother, ill in health and broken in spirit, was Henry, 
 Lord Durham. V/ith any day might come the death 
 of Durham, and the stately mansion would open its 
 doors to receive as its master the Carolina missionary. 
 Tetah was the only son of a chief whose feathered 
 crown had nodded at the downfall of legioned enemies. 
 Back among the mountains lived a warrior tribe, whose 
 squaws kept ever ready the lodge of him whose fathers 
 were kings among their people back unto the days 
 when the great sea lapped against the peak of 
 Yuannocca; and that was very long ago, for now the 
 mountain of the Manitou stands sheer three thousand 
 feet above the plains that lie below. 
 
 Such were the two men, and, although God had 
 made them of different races they were alike in so 
 far as each of them was fearless, steadfast, and of 
 unswerving truth. 
 
 From the time that Mr. Noel had come to Neusioc, 
 Sequa had made it her v/ay to stop at his house and 
 ask his blessing whenever she passed through the 
 village. Her father, who thought the white man's 
 religion a good thing for some men and all women, had 
 taught her this ; and for a twelvemonth she had been 
 unfailing in her duty. So it was with some wonder 
 that the minister learned at evening that Sequa, after 
 sleeping all day at her father's house, without further 
 ado had gone back to the forest, passins^ the parsonage 
 without a look to the right or to the left. The worthy 
 
 25 
 
Wallannah 
 
 man thought a long while over the strangeness of 
 Sequa's behavior, and at last came to think that 
 something outside of love and lovers troubled the 
 girl's mind. 
 
 Mr. Noel and his wife were at supper, and their 
 little daughter, Alice, was sleeping in her crib, when 
 the news came to them of the things which concerned 
 Sequa. While they sat there, the knocker made a loud 
 clangor on the front door. They heard the servant's 
 step, the opening of the door, a rush of skirts, and a 
 woman's quick sobbing in the hallway. A moment 
 later, and Mary Ross, white-cheeked and wild-eyed, 
 entered the dining-room. She gave them no time for 
 greeting, but burst into a storm of grief. 
 
 "My child ! my child !" she cried, as she staggered 
 forward to the light. "I^Ir. Noel, where can he — Oh ! 
 help me." 
 
 She stood for a moment, her hands pressed tightly 
 on her breast and her eyes fixed with pitiful appeal 
 upon the minister's face. And a fair picture she made, 
 for the woman was comely, and her face was such as 
 painters use for a Mater Dolorosa. 
 
 The minister and his wife had both risen to their 
 feet when Mary entered the room ; and he, fearing 
 she would faint and fall, pushed aside his chair and 
 crossed quickly to her side. 
 
 "Your child?" he said, sharply. "What is the 
 matter?" 
 
 She suffered herself to be led to the sofa by the 
 window. "Stolen," she gasped ; "stolen." 
 
 Mrs. Noel gave a nervous little cry. 
 
 "Stolen?" repeated Noel. "By whom?" 
 
 36 
 
The Theft of the Firstborn 
 
 "By an Indian girl — an hour ago. John was — " 
 
 "Never mind John now. Who was the girl?" 
 
 "Sequa," she answered him. ■• 
 
 Then he knew what had kept Sequa from the 
 parsonage. He began pacing backward and forward. 
 
 "Now tell us how it happened. Begin at the first, 
 and tell even the slightest circumstance," he said, 
 with the ring of kindness again in his voice. 
 
 She did as she was told. The stcfry was a simple 
 one. Mary's recital made it graphic, and her facts were 
 unencumbered with supposition. 
 
 She had gone to the kitchen to prepare the evening 
 meal for herself and her brother John. The babe she 
 had left sitting on the floor encircled by his toys. 
 Suddenly it came to her that the little fellow was 
 quieter than was his wont. Stepping to the doorway 
 she looked into her room. The child was gone. She 
 ran to the outer door. John was hoeing in the field by 
 the river. She tried to call. Her voice failed her. 
 Then, from the edge of the forest she heard something 
 like a laugh. Turning quickly she saw the graceful 
 figure of an Indian girl sweeping down the path to the 
 wood. She tried to follow her, but a deathly faintness 
 came over her. A little sapling stood by the door-step, 
 and she reached out for it to help her until the giddiness 
 passed away. At the bending of the path the Indian 
 girl looked back. The face was the face of Sequa. 
 She was laughing, and held a bundle in her arms. 
 Then the earth and woods and Sequa's bronzed face 
 seemed to whirl about before her eyes. Myriad stars 
 flashed before her, the ground under her feet rose up 
 like a great black sea, and she felt herself falling, 
 
 27 
 
Wallannah 
 
 falling, until her brother's voice awoke her. Then she 
 was in her room and on her bed, with John binding 
 her head in wet tSwels. 
 
 When she had finished her story, the minister, 
 standing by the table, regarded her thoughtfully. 
 
 "Have you ever done anything to offend Sequa?" 
 he asked, after a moment's silence. 
 
 She shook her head. "Never," she answered. 
 
 "Or any of her friends, or people?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Did John Matthews, your husband, ever speak of 
 her?" 
 
 Mary affirmed that Matthews had never known the 
 woman. 
 
 "Then," he said, "you know of no reason for this 
 act of hers?" 
 
 "Not the slightest." The look of appeal was still 
 in her eyes, and her lips trembled visibly. 
 
 Noel looked across at his wife. 
 
 "Alice," he said, in his firm, quiet voice; "ask 
 Henry to bring Tetah here." Scarcely had the words 
 left his lips when Henry stood in the doorway. 
 
 "Mars' Noel," the negro said, "the Injun Teeter 
 says as he wants to see you." 
 
 "Send him here." 
 
 Then, with the shuffle of moccasined feet and the 
 rattle of many beads, the chieftain entered the room. 
 Giving a quick glance into the faces of the two women, 
 he crossed to where the minister stood to meet him. 
 With a gesture of greeting, the Indian spoke. 
 
 "You see Sequa?" he asked, in low, musical tones. 
 
 "No; she did not come," responded Noel. Then, 
 
 28 
 
The Theft of the Firstborn 
 
 closely watching the chieftain's face, "Do you know 
 why?" 
 
 The strong, deep lines of Tetah's face showed no 
 change from the look of truth which was stamped 
 there. 
 
 "Sequa find trouble," was his laconic answer. 
 
 Noel kept his eyes on the scarred features before 
 him. "Trouble?" he asked. "What kind of trouble?" 
 
 "Tetah not know." 
 
 "Has she been to your house?" 
 
 "Yes. Sleep all day." 
 
 "Was she alone?" 
 
 The Indian nodded affirmatively. 
 
 "When did she go away?" 
 
 "When sun go." 
 
 "And which way?" 
 
 "Up river." 
 
 "Have you seen her since?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then why do you think she has met with trouble ?" 
 
 "Sequa no eat good — no come see white chief — 
 Peoperquinaiqua. Sequa trouble." 
 
 Despite the seriousness of the matter in hand, Noel 
 smiled at the force of the Indian's reasoning. 
 
 "Why have you come here?" he asked. 
 
 "Peoperquinaiqua good man — good heart, good 
 head. Tell what trouble Sequa?" 
 
 Noel shook his head. "No," he said, slowly. Then, 
 after a moment's silence, "Go and find Sequa. I'll 
 wait for you until midnight." 
 
 Without more ado Tetah turned on his heel and 
 left the room. 
 
 29 
 
Wallannah 
 
 The minister took his seat by his wife. Mrs. Noel 
 was the first to speak. "Why didn't you tell him 
 that Sequa had stolen Mary's child?" she asked, with 
 womanly resentment. Noel smiled. 
 
 "Tetah is an Indian: Sequa is his daughter," he 
 answered. "Had I told him all that we know, he would 
 justify her course and we would lose an ally." 
 
 "But if he finds her with the child?" 
 
 "He will bring her here, child and all." 
 
 "And if he doesn't find her?" 
 
 "Some one else will." 
 
 "But who?" 
 
 He turned his head slowly, looking first at his wife, 
 then at Mary. 
 
 "That is a question," he said, at last. 
 
 Mrs. Noel gave an impatient tap of her foot. 
 
 "James Noel, you are so provoking. Of course it's 
 a question. Who will find her ?" 
 
 Had Mary not been there, Noel's answer would 
 have been, "Perhaps no one." As it was, he looked 
 earnestly into the white face which turned with its 
 mute appeal to meet his answer. 
 
 "No mortal can tell you that," he answered, kindly. 
 "I will try ; and Mary's brother can do much. Beyond 
 that — " He paused a moment. 
 
 "Beyond that?" reminded Mrs. Noel. 
 
 He looked thoughtfully toward her. 
 
 "Beyond that," he said, slowly — and the wheels 
 of Fate were whirling fast as he spoke — "beyond that, 
 I know of but two who can give us aid. One is Tetah, 
 the other John Cantwell, of New Bern." 
 
 "Cantwell?" repeated his wife, musingly. "Oh! 
 
 30 
 
The Theft of the Firstborn 
 
 yes ; 'Squire Cantvvell ; and he knows all about Indians, 
 doesn't he?" 
 
 "Not all: no one can claim that. But he knows 
 more than any man in the province, except, perhaps, 
 the hunters who live among them." 
 
 Mrs. Noel had crossed the room, and, sitting 
 beside Mary, had slipped her hand into that of the 
 broken-hearted woman. 
 
 "You will ask 'Squire Cantwell to help us?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I will write to him now. If Tetah comes back 
 alone, Henry will start with the letter to the 'Squire." 
 Then, turning to Mary, "May God be good to you!" 
 he said, a little huskily. "I feel your grief more than 
 I can tell." 
 
 Then he left them together, which was wise in him ; 
 for a man can give little comfort to a woman in 
 bereavement, save when the tie of love is between 
 them. But two women — that is a different matter; 
 and Mrs. Noel, with the tact and resource of the 
 highly-bred, brought comfort to Mary's heart, and 
 hope into her night of trouble. 
 
 The hours passed with sullen, grudging slowness. 
 In the study the letter to Cantwell was written and 
 sealed for its sending. In the other room the minister's 
 wife, in low tones and v/ith tender words, was bringing 
 some little cheer into Mary Ross's life. At last the 
 time came. On the stroke of twelve the study door 
 opened, and Noel entered the dining-room from one 
 side as Henry and Tetah came in at the other. 
 
 The Indian stood like a bronze statue under the 
 light of the hanging lamp. In breathless silence they 
 
 31 
 
Wallannah 
 
 waited for him to speak ; but he said nothing. Raising 
 his eyes to the minister's face, he held out his open 
 hands, palms upward and empty. The eloquence of the 
 simple gesture was unmistakeable. He meant that he 
 had sought Sequa and had failed to find her. 
 
 Mary, sobbing bitterly, sank back into her seat. 
 
 Tetah gave her one quick glance, then with stolid 
 demeanor turned from them and left the house. 
 
 Thus it was that an hour later Henry, astride his 
 master's horse, took the New Bern road, bearing Noel's 
 plea to Cantwell. And Mary again took heart and 
 looked to the morrow with a new hope, for she knew 
 no Cantwell. Truly, the 'Squire had woven a devil's 
 net, and the powers of darkness seemed to have labored 
 with him. 
 
 32 
 
A Meeting and a Parting 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A Meeting and a Parting 
 
 front 
 
 HE home of the Noels was among the better 
 
 looking houses in the village. It was 
 
 strongly built, and within its walls were 
 
 several rooms and a long passage-way from 
 
 to back. It stood upon a terraced knoll, and 
 
 between it and the winding, unpaved street lay a grass 
 plot, broad and smooth and of a cheering green. The 
 house, though well constructed, was not a cool one, 
 and for this reason Mr. Noel had erected on the lawn 
 an arbor, now covered with vines ; and he and his wife 
 often sat there, for it was cool and shady and gave an 
 unobstructed view of the river as it crept past the 
 village and rounded the bend toward the sound. 
 
 The day after that on which Mary had lost her child 
 was sultry and oppressive. It was late in the afternoon. 
 Mary had returned to her woodland home, there to 
 await news from 'Squire Cantwell, and the minister 
 and his wife were spending an hour in the arbor while 
 the baby Alice slept within the house. They had been 
 talking of England, and of their life in the days before 
 they came to America. After a brief silence, during 
 which the minister, his mind far away from Carolina, 
 stared with grave, unseeing eyes down the sweep of the 
 Neuse, and his wife bent her fair young face over a 
 
 33 
 
Wallannah 
 
 lapful of embroidery — Noel returned to their former 
 theme. 
 
 "From all the talking that I do," he ^aid, turning 
 away from the river and looking down at her, "one 
 might think that I wanted to go back again; but I 
 cannot say that I do. True, England is dear to me, but 
 America is dearer, so long as you are here with me." 
 
 She raised her head, and answered him with a smile 
 of appreciation. 
 
 "We have sacrificed more than we would if we had 
 stayed in the old home parish," he continued, when she 
 had returned to her needlework; "but I feel that the 
 reward has been perfectly adequate. Still, with all our 
 contentment, I am inclined to worry over one or two 
 matters." 
 
 She looked up again, and laughed with the same 
 low, musical laugh that had won his heart years before. 
 "Worry?" she said. "Why, James, you couldn't if you 
 tried — really you couldn't." 
 
 He shook his head. "You over-estimate my 
 optimism, Elsie," he said, with a smile ; "but, seriously, 
 my brother Henry has been ill for many months, and 
 I fear that any ship may bring me news of his death." 
 
 "Y-es," was the doubtful response, "it may come ; 
 but men who are ill so long seldom die suddenly. You 
 would have heard long since if Henry's illness had 
 become serious." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right." 
 
 Then they relapsed into a silence, broken only by 
 the faint sound of the thread drawn through the linen 
 on Mrs. Noel's embroidery frame. 
 
 The minister sat leaning slightly forward, his chin 
 
 34 
 
A Meeting and a Parting 
 
 upon his hand and his eyes following the flight of a 
 gull which soared above the river. Then his gaze 
 dropped a little, and was fixed on a tiny speck in the 
 middle of the broad sweep of the river. As the spot 
 grew larger the minister's preoccupied look gave place 
 to one of eager interest; and when the dot on the 
 water's surface became an eight-oared gig with a 
 gleam of the royal blue at its helm, he began to hum an 
 old sea song, learned on the wharves of Hull in the 
 days of his boyhood. His wife looked up at him. 
 
 ''Why, James," she said, in wonder at his change of 
 mood, "how can one tell when you are serious and 
 when gay ? What have you done with your cares ?" 
 
 He nodded toward the boat in the river. "Of his 
 Majesty's navy," he said, with gladness in his voice. 
 "Perhaps some one we have seen before — at any 
 rate, a real human being who can tell us of the world 
 outside." 
 
 They watched the boat draw nearer. It seemed a 
 long time before the oarsmen reached the Neusioc 
 shore ; but when that time did come, the boat, with a 
 quick half-turn, swung with gunwale to the landing, 
 and a light, active form sprang upon the bank. 
 
 The minister and his wife, from their distant point 
 of vantage, could see only the quick, imperative 
 gestures which emphasized the officer's commands. 
 Then he turned away from his men and was lost in 
 the bushes that overhung the path to the parsonage. 
 
 Five minutes later the officer, emerging from the 
 thicket that bordered the field opposite the Noel house, 
 walked quickly across the intervening space. He 
 reached the front gate, where Mr. Noel waited to give 
 
 35 
 
Wallannah 
 
 him welcome. Taking him by the hand, the minister 
 led him to the arbor. 
 
 "Elsie," he said, with a boyish ring of gladness in 
 his voice, "here is Lieutenant Maynard. But where is 
 our fatted calf?" 
 
 Mrs. Noel arose and held out her hand. "We 're 
 very, very glad to see you again. Lieutenant; but 
 do n't let Mr. Noel's allusion to the fatted calf lead 
 you to believe that you are altogether a prodigal in 
 our eyes." 
 
 Maynard, bowing graciously, smiled at her laughing 
 welcome. 
 
 "Even though I had wasted my substance in riotous 
 living," he said, "and would fain have eaten of the 
 food of the swine, you know, Mrs. Noel, that I could 
 not have been happier in meeting you and this reverend 
 husband of yours than I am now. But, first, my dear 
 Noel, let me give you a despatch from England. It 
 should have been sent by a less busy boat. The Wasp 
 has been forced to wing her way in great zigzags, here, 
 there and everywhere, since that letter was handed me. 
 Read it now, while I deliver a cargo of woman's 
 messages to Mrs. Noel, My wife saw me for only an 
 hour in New Bern this morning, but she told me 
 enough news — for Mrs. Noel's ears, of course — to keep 
 a man's tongue busy for a whole day." 
 
 The minister stepped to one side to read the letter, 
 while the lieutenant, taking his place beside Mrs. Noel, 
 continued his conversation. 
 
 Maynard was a splendid type of the British naval 
 officer of that day. Though tall and somewhat spare in 
 build, his tightly-fitting uniform displayed a muscular 
 
 36 
 
A Meeting and a Parting 
 
 development suggesting the sinewy agility of a panther. 
 His eyes flashed whenever he spoke, sometimes with a 
 gleam of merriment, again with a blaze that more than 
 one man had learned to fear. There were other times 
 when the fire in those hazel depths was subdued into a 
 tenderness that made women wonder whether or not 
 the stories of this man's terrible deeds of war could be 
 true. And such was the light that shone upon Mrs. 
 Noel as Maynard told her, with a thrill of pride in 
 his voice, of his wife and the baby Arthur, in the 
 governor's town of New Bern, thirty miles down the 
 river. 
 
 "Margaret thinks," he was saying, "that the boy is 
 the greatest prodigy of the eighteenth century ; and I 
 don't know but what he is. If he does all that his 
 mother claims, he'll be a statesman before he outgrows 
 his dresses. But where is his little fiancee, Alice? I 
 thought to see her running about here cracking her 
 dolls' heads against the trees, and — " 
 
 "Why, Will Maynard, she's only eight months old !" 
 
 "Eight months? Well, Arthur has hardly a year 
 and a half advantage of her, and he can run and jump 
 and ride horseback, and — " 
 
 "What terrible men you sailors are ! Ananias must 
 have held a commission in the king's navy." 
 
 Maynard laughed. "No, Mrs. Noel. Not only 
 could Ananias prove an alibi, but remember that the 
 record says that he gave up the ghost. An officer in 
 his Majesty's service never gives up anything." 
 
 "Hush!" whispered Mrs. Noel, with a gleam of 
 laughter in her eyes. "Don't let James hear anything 
 like that. He'd preach about it next Sunday." 
 
 37 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "On my honor, I'll keep clear of such entanglements. 
 But where is the baby Alice? May I see her before I 
 go? I'm here only for the hour, and must sail for 
 England to-morrow." 
 
 "So soon? Can't you stay the week out?" 
 
 Maynard shook his head. 
 
 "You are going to England?" Mr. Noel asked, 
 suddenly, folding his letter and approaching them. 
 
 "My orders so read." 
 
 "Very soon?" 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 Mrs, Noel looked curiously at her husband. His 
 face was a trifle pale. "What is it, James ?" she asked 
 anxiously. "Bad news?" 
 
 The minister smiled and rested his hand upon her 
 shoulder. "Nothing so very serious, Elsie; but go 
 now, and see why Alice is crying. The Lieutenant and 
 I must talk over some business." 
 
 The two men watched her as she crossed the lawn 
 and entered the house. Then the minister turned 
 quickly to his companion. 
 
 "I, too, am called to England." 
 
 Maynard gave a low exclamation. "You are?" he 
 said, gravely. "I'm sorry. Can't you — " 
 
 "No, I must go. My brother Henry, Lord Durham, 
 is so ill that he may die before I can reach Lincolnshire. 
 In any event, I must be there as soon as possible. Can 
 you take me on the Wasp?" 
 
 "Certainly, if you can get ready in time — say in an 
 hour. Family going with you ?" 
 
 "No; impossible. But if I do not return within 
 two or three months, they must follow. In the 
 
 38 
 
A Meeting and a Parting 
 
 meantime, they will be safe enough here, although it 
 will be terribly lonely." 
 
 "It will, indeed. But you can arrange for Mrs. 
 Noel to stay with Mrs. Maynard during your absence. 
 It would be a godsend to my wife, for she, poor woman, 
 is doomed to more than her share of that sort of 
 privation." 
 
 "Thank you, Maynard. You have anticipated my 
 wish. She will need some little time to make her own 
 plans ; but I accept your invitation with what may be 
 unseemly haste. Elsie, I know, will be delighted with 
 the arrangement. Here she comes now." 
 
 The whole world knows that women are not alike 
 in their way of hearing bad news. Some meet the 
 shock with a gasp that ends in a flood of tears and 
 complete collapse of all that goes to the making of the 
 nervous system. Others turn a little white, smile 
 through the faintest possible mist of tears, then with 
 Spartan courage face the trouble stout-heartedly and 
 with unbending resolve. Of the latter kind was 
 Mrs. Noel. 
 
 But an hour before feeling secure, even in that 
 wilderness, with her husband to stand between her and 
 the rough world about them, she was now brought to 
 face months of separation, with danger lurking on 
 every side : for the Indians had not yet learned the 
 respect due a white man's home and kind, and what 
 was now a peaceful, thriving hamlet might at any hour 
 flow with blood and echo with the war-whoop and 
 gun-shot of a horde of savage enemies. 
 
 Yet, when Noel told her that Maynard's ship was 
 come to bear him away to England, she made no 
 
 39 
 
Wallannah 
 
 murmur of complaint, but looked him fairly in the face 
 and asked if he would be very long away. Then 
 Maynard went down to his boat while the two made 
 ready for Air. Noel's departure, and formed hasty 
 plans for the time when the minister should be in 
 England. 
 
 Returning an hour later, the lieutenant met them at 
 their door. "Before we go," he said, cheerily, "can I 
 not see the little girl ?" 
 
 Mrs. Noel's face, despite its marks of tears, was 
 wreathed in smiles. "Indeed you shall," she exclaimed, 
 leading the way to the house. "You'll find her waiting 
 for you." 
 
 They entered the room together. In a canopied 
 crib in one corner of the apartment, lay the child. Her 
 great blue eyes were open, and fixed themselves upon 
 Maynard as the three bent over the crib. Mrs. Noel 
 took her in her arms. 
 
 "Look at this great tall man, Alice. He's little 
 Arthur's father, and little Arthur, you know, is going 
 to be a great big man like this one is, and you are 
 going to be his wife. Are you glad ?" 
 
 The baby's mouth opened in a droll, childish laugh, 
 and she stretched out her chubby arms to Maynard. 
 
 "That settles it," laughed Maynard. "She can hear 
 the wedding bells now." Then after a few words of 
 the flattery which women love — although they say 
 not — the lieutenant led the way from the house. 
 
 Together they went down the path, Maynard 
 walking ahead, and after him the minister and his 
 wife, trying each to cheer the other. The ship's gig, 
 guided by a stout sailor named McFaddin, came from 
 
 40 
 
A Meeting and a Parting 
 
 behind a clump of willows and lay alongside the 
 landing. The lieutenant and Mr. Noel stepped aboard, 
 the oars dipped into the stream, and the journey was 
 begun. 
 
 Mrs. Noel stood on the bank and watched the boat 
 until it swept around the bend ; while the minister, 
 looking back toward the little village, saw standing on 
 the shore the frail woman whose sweet face and lovelit 
 eyes as they then looked were fixed in his mind 
 through all the years that came after. 
 
 Alone she stood there, a slight figure clad in creamy 
 white. She gave one last look down the bare expanse 
 of water, and a sob rose in her throat as she cried out 
 into the solitude, "Oh! James, when shall I see you 
 again?" In her frenzied fancy she thought that she 
 heard an answer. Startled, she turned and looked up. 
 A white-throated kingfisher darted past her with a 
 hoarse cry. She shuddered, for the sound was an 
 ill-omened one and the bird seemed to laugh in her 
 face. 
 
 4T 
 
Wallannah 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Consuming Flames 
 
 N after days, when the man's deeds were 
 known to the world, the people of New Bern 
 wondered greatly that John Cantwell had 
 for more than a score of years stood in their 
 eyes a lype of the upright man. And, viewing his life 
 in the light of his deeds, strange indeed does it seem 
 that his cloak had never fallen from him. True, some 
 had seen what lay behind the veil of his great deceit, 
 but these were silent for many years; and two, who 
 knew quite as much as any of the others, never spoke 
 save in the after-evidence which mortal power could 
 not control. 
 
 Deeply laid were Cantwell's plots, and no one man, 
 or woman either, knew a tenth part of them all. Yet 
 their very mystery, and the perfect ease with which 
 they passed on to success, made the weakest link in the 
 chain of circumstance that brought the after ruin. 
 And, with it all, twice — ^yea, thrice — did he plot beyond 
 his own great reach. Had it not been for this 
 over-stepping he would have died as he had lived, 
 honored and respected by all except those — few in 
 number as the fingers of a man's one hand — who knew 
 the fellow for what he was. 
 
 As on a playhouse stage the paint and the sham 
 
 42 
 
Consuming Flames 
 
 seem naught but the veriest truth, so in Cantwell's Hfe 
 did everything which the ingenuity of a devil's craft 
 could work to that end proclaim to the world virtues 
 which were but an empty show hung upon a fabric of 
 treachery and falsehood. 
 
 Nowhere was the man's machinery of hypocrisy 
 more glaring than in the office-room in which he 
 handled his West Indian trade and voiced the 
 thunderings of the law. Upon its walls were hung 
 prints from the masters, of The Crucifixion, The 
 Temptation, The Death of Ananias and Sapphira, and 
 Daniel in the Lions' Den. Besides these, in gilded 
 frames, were the Ten Commandments, with illuminated 
 border, and a chart exhibiting some man's notion of a 
 Christian's path to heaven ; which last must have had 
 its irony in Cantwell's mind. Then, over the desk at 
 which the 'Squire w^as wont to write his bills, his briefs, 
 and his sermons, were three framed mottoes, blazoned 
 in great letters of crimson and gold : "Waste Not, Want 
 Not," "Everything in its Time," and "Honesty is the 
 Best Policy." The first two were well enough; but 
 the third — well, Cantwell kept it as a man listens to 
 an adversary's argument, because he took no stock 
 in it. 
 
 The morning was half gone. Cantwell, seated at 
 his desk, seemed awaiting a visitor. 
 
 Although he sat very quietly, scanning with more 
 than casual interest the pages of a bulky work on 
 chemistry, his eyes were often raised to the window 
 that opened toward the street, and several times within 
 the half hour had he looked at his watch and frowned. 
 He was waiting, and impatient; yet when a knock 
 
 43 
 
Wallannah 
 
 sounded upon the door he gave a sudden sta and 
 half arose from his seat. Then he smiled 'and sank 
 back into the chair. The knock was repeated. 
 
 "Come in," called Cantwell. 
 
 The door was opened by a servant. "Mrs. 
 Maynard," was the announcement. The 'Squire rose,, 
 and moved toward the door. His visitor, superb and 
 queenly in mien and dress, met him at the entrance. 
 
 "My dear cousin," exclaimed Cantwell, with open 
 admiration in his restless eyes, "you excel even yourself 
 this morning. I feel amply repaid for the hour I have 
 waited." 
 
 Mrs. Maynard laughed lightly as releasing her 
 hand from his over-ardent grasp she crossed to a chair 
 by the window. "An hour, you say! Well, forgive 
 me; my little Belgian clock is dropping backward in 
 the race. But, really, I — " 
 
 "No, no, no ; the delay caused me no inconvenience, 
 be assured of that." The 'Squire, with a stately bow, 
 returned to a seat at his desk. "The lieutenant sailed 
 yesterday, I saw ; and the worthy Mr. Noel, also. God 
 speed them both." 
 
 Mrs. Maynard nodded her acknowledgment. Her 
 woman's discernment had caught the indifference 
 which lay beneath the 'Squire's fair-spoken phrases, 
 and she wasted no words in replying. 
 
 The 'Squire smiled urbanely. 
 
 "And little Arthur — how is he?" 
 
 "But slightly better. The medicine you gave the 
 other day seems to make the little fellow drowsy and 
 dull. Did you intend that it should ?" 
 
 'Squire Cantwell's face was averted as he bent 
 
 44 
 
Consuming Flames 
 
 over his desk to sharpen a quill. After a moment he 
 looked up. 
 
 "Well — hardly," was his slow response, "but there 
 are conditions, particularly in so young a patient, when 
 almost any medicine would cause some degree of 
 lethargy. But there is really no cause for anxiety." 
 
 "You think, then, that the child is not seriously ill ?" 
 
 "Seriously! Indeed, no. Were he so, I should 
 send you to Doctor Boggs. The boy is doing well, very 
 well indeed." 
 
 Cantwell smiled blandly as he voiced his opinion, 
 for he took pride in his knowledge of nostrums. Then 
 he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. 
 
 "Now, Margaret," he said, with a certain 
 business-like brusqueness, "you told me you had some 
 papers to be examined — something of a legal nature, 
 as I understand." 
 
 Mrs. Maynard took a small bundle of documents 
 from her hand-bag. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "my husband advised me to have 
 you register these papers, if you thought it necessary 
 to give them legal force. One of them, I believe, may 
 be of personal interest to you." 
 
 'Squire Cantwell took the documents and rapidly 
 read them through. Mrs. Maynard, as she watched 
 him, could well have been the model for a painter's 
 masterpiece. The rich harmony of the deep brown of 
 her eyes and the raven blackness of her hair with the 
 rose of her cheeks and the vivid blood-red of her lips 
 would have made her singularly beautiful, even had 
 her features been less striking than they were. That 
 great statesman, Governor Gabriel Johnston, had said 
 
 45 
 
Wallannah 
 
 that Margaret Dudley Maynard was the loveliest 
 woman in the American provinces ; whereat Lord 
 Keightley, scanning her classic features and meeting 
 the look of her great dark eyes, had said, "Your 
 Excellency means the loveliest woman in the universe." 
 And the old lord seldom spoke praise of any woman. 
 
 At last Cantwell laid the papers aside and looked up 
 at the lieutenant's wife. 
 
 "This last paper does interest me," he said, slowly, 
 tapping with his long index finger the back of an 
 elaborately engrossed deed; "but only upon your 
 account and that of your husband. The interest of 
 remainder vesting in me rests upon a contingency that 
 probably will not occur. Your possession, cousin, is 
 almost absolute." 
 
 "But if my son should die before reaching the age 
 of twelve ?" 
 
 "In that case the property, at your death, might 
 revert to me or my heirs. But in the first place, your 
 little Arthur is not likely to die within the next ten 
 years; children under such circumstances seldom do. 
 And then, if you will notice, the language of this 
 conveyance is, that if you have no son who shall reach 
 the age of twelve years, then, and then only, shall 'all 
 the goods and chattels, real and personal, herein above 
 described, be conveyed to John M. Cantwell' ; and so 
 forth. It does not say that this particular son must be 
 twelve years of age, but a son, any son ; and remember, 
 Margaret, that you are practically at the beginning of 
 what may be a long married life ; there might be — " 
 
 "Yes," interrupted Mrs. Maynard, lowering her 
 eyes, "there might; but still 'a son' may prove to be 
 
 46 
 
Consuming Flames 
 
 this son only." A smile crossed the face of the 
 justice. 
 
 "That remains to be seen. But," and he dropped 
 the documents into a desk drawer, "you have not told 
 me, cousin, why this brother, Richard Dudley, did not 
 leave you his property without conditions." 
 
 "He and my husband had some misunderstanding, 
 the work, perhaps, of a secret enemy," In her 
 earnestness, she raised her eyes to his. The 'Squire's 
 face was expressionless as marble. 
 
 "But, passing over that," she continued, quickly; 
 "the papers will require registration?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly. I will have it done to-day. Now," 
 and he arose from his chair and cam.e toward her, "is 
 there anything else you wish done?" 
 
 "Yes. I want a good safe boat with two 
 trustworthy men, the day after to-morrow. I'm going 
 up to Neusioc to bring down Mrs. Noel, the minister's 
 wife. Our husbands have gone away together and 
 we think it only fair that we, too, should join forces; 
 so I've asked her to come down to spend a month with 
 me. You can get me the boat?" 
 
 "To be sure. I'll send McFaddin and another good 
 
 man." 
 
 "McFaddin ? I thought he belonged to the Wasp." 
 
 "He did up to the hour she sailed. His time 
 expired, and I've hired him for the Leopard." 
 
 "Ah, yes. And you're sure the boat won't leak? 
 I'm— But, quick! Who is that?" She and Cantwell, 
 rising hastily, reached the window at the same time. 
 
 "That?" The 'Squire laughed. "A young squaw 
 with a papoose strapped to her back. No unusual — " 
 
 47 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Go after her — send some one to see if the child 
 isn't white." She spoke excitedly. "Please, John, 
 send some one. I'll — I'll explain afterward." 
 
 The 'Squire flushed as she used his Christian name. 
 He opened the door quickly. 
 
 "McFaddin ! AIcFaddin !" he called. 
 
 "Aye, aye, sir," sounded a gruff voice in the 
 hall. 
 
 Cantwell stepped outside the door. A whispered 
 conversation followed, and the 'Squire, returning, sat 
 down beside his visitor. 
 
 "He has gone," he said, briefly. 
 
 "Thank you, very much. I want to know because 
 my husband and Mr. Noel brought a boy down from 
 Neusioc yesterday. He was searching for an Indian 
 woman who had stolen his sister's child. I thought 
 the girl who passed here might be the one." 
 
 Cantwell's mask-like face seemed whiter than ever. 
 "What was the boy's name?" he asked, looking down 
 as he played with his watch-charm. 
 
 "John Ross." 
 
 "Is he here yet?" Cantwell asked, quickly. 
 
 "No, I think not." 
 
 "Who is his sister?" 
 
 "Mary Ross — Matthews, rather ; for she married 
 some worthless fellow, who afterward deserted her." 
 
 "Ah, yes. I recall the case. An unprincipled rascal, 
 this Matthews. I met him once. But who is the Indian 
 girl ?" He raised his head, and their eyes met. 
 
 "Sequa, a Neusioc." 
 
 The 'Squire's glance wavered a little, and a quick 
 flush rose to his temples. 
 
 48 
 
Consuming Flames 
 
 "Sequa," he repeated, musingly. "I do not know 
 the woman," But something in his manner beUed his 
 words, and Mrs. Maynard's eyes flashed with a sudden 
 surprise. 
 
 When he spoke again it was upon another subject. 
 
 "While we wait for McFaddin, have you no other 
 business to discuss?" 
 
 "Yes, and I nearly forgot it, too. I need some 
 money, Mr. Agent, quite a little sum. After Mrs. Noel 
 comes down here, she and Madame DeVere and I are 
 going to Wilmington for a pleasure trip. I am the 
 instigator of the plot, and all expenses will be mine. 
 So, money, good 'Squire! Money!" She laughed as 
 she held out her hand. 
 
 "How much, cousin? Times are close, you know, 
 and rents hard." 
 
 "Now, now, 'Squire ! don't stint, or you'll make me 
 find another agent. Calvin Brown paid you a quarter's 
 rent yesterday. Come \" And she shook her hand 
 with mock impatience. The 'Squire, fairly beaten, gave 
 a low chuckle. 
 
 "Tell me when to stop," he said, taking a roll of 
 bills from his pocket, and counting them one by one 
 into her outstretched palm. She spoke when Cantwell 
 had but two bills left. 
 
 "Thank you, truly. Keep the rest until the next 
 time." 
 
 Cantwell smiled dryly. "May it be far distant, 
 cousin. You are — " 
 
 A great shouting came from outside the house. 
 
 "Fire !" sounded a hoarse voice in the street. 
 
 "Fire ! Fire !" echoed a dozen others. 
 
 49 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Cantwell rushed through the hall to the front door. 
 
 "Where ?" he shouted. 
 
 "Lieutenant ."Maynard's," came the answer. 
 
 An anguished cry came from the parlor. "Oh ! my 
 child. My child ! Can't you save him ?" 
 
 Hatless, the 'Squire dashed down the steps and 
 darted up the street. The alarm had been long delayed. 
 When he reached the house it was a mass of raging 
 flame. Cantwell broke through the crowd. Some one 
 called him. 
 
 "Too slow, 'Squire ; we've got the furniture — all 
 exceptin' one room." 
 
 "Which room?" thundered the 'Squire. 
 
 "The south one," was the answer. 
 
 Cantwell was deadly pale. Mrs. IMaynard, 
 breathless and sobbing, pushed through to his side. 
 
 "My child!" she moaned. "Where is he?" 
 
 The men looked stupidly at one another. One 
 hysterical woman screamed. A tall negro with a 
 bloody rag about his head elbowed his way to the 
 front. 
 
 "Whar be yer boy, Missis?" 
 
 "In the south room." 
 
 The black shook his head. 
 
 "Stairs is done broke. Missis; I went down wid 
 
 'em." 
 
 She seemed not to hear him. 
 
 "Is there no hope?" she asked, with slow utterance, 
 like one speaking in a dream. 
 
 Cantwell pointed to the terrible furnace before 
 them. 
 
 The answer was plain. From what had been the 
 
 50 
 
Consumino: Flames 
 
 to 
 
 south wing the flames leaped in a roaring, twisting 
 column fifty feet above the walls. 
 
 If Margaret Maynard saw Cantwell's gesture or 
 heard the words of the throng about her, she made no 
 sign. Silent, motionless, she stood there, as senseless 
 as a statue carved in marble ; and upon her lips lingered 
 a faint, dreamy smile. So it was that they who saw 
 her knew that somewhere behind that pure white 
 forehead a little vein or a tiny nerve had ceased its 
 working; and that the woman knew naught of the 
 world that moved about her. 
 
 Out on the wide Atlantic, hugging the coast toward 
 the shoals of Hatteras, reeled the IVasp under full sail. 
 Her commander, leaning on the after-rail, watching the 
 sea as it rolled away in their wake, was thinking of 
 his wife and their baby Arthur. 
 
 "How happy we'd all be," he said softly, to himself, 
 "if I could walk in on them now — God bless them 
 both !" 
 
 He looked, smiling, toward the hazy shore lines of 
 the Old North Province. But he was a hundred miles 
 too far away to see the pillar of smoke and fire that 
 writhed angrily above the little town of New Bern. 
 
 51 
 
Wallannah 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Some Further Tricks of Fate 
 
 HE morning of the following day dawned 
 bright and clear. The road that led from 
 New Bern to the Pamlico shores stretched 
 broad and level beneath its vista of towering 
 interbranching cypress trees, its white length touched 
 here and there by a gleam of ruddy gold as the sunlight 
 pierced the leafy maze above and played upon the 
 sands of the travelled way. 
 
 The sun had climbed but an hour high when 
 'Squire Cantwell, on a chestnut mare of Eastern 
 breeding, rode slowly up the highway toward the old 
 town. Where he had been at such an early hour did 
 not appear, nor did it in any way affect the things 
 which happened afterward. What played a part, 
 however, in the forming of the great web which was 
 of the 'Squire's spinning, was the point toward which 
 his mettled steed was now bearing him ; for that point 
 was the house of McFaddin, who, a few days before, a 
 sailor on the Wasp, had left his Majesty's service to 
 enter that of Cantwell. It was this man's house which 
 now sheltered the child that Sequa had tried to carry 
 to Cantwell. This explains why the 'Squire was 
 making his way toward the sailor's home. It also makes 
 clear the presence of McFaddin himself, trudging 
 
 52 
 
Some Further Tricks of Fate 
 
 along the road beside the rider's stirrup. The two 
 men were tallying; and quiet though the roadway 
 was, Cantwell had to bend often over his saddle- 
 bow to catch the utterances of the over-cautious 
 sailor. 
 
 As they neared a little log-cabin that stood a short 
 way from the roadside, Cantwell leaned again toward 
 his fellow-traveller: "And so you have the child?" he 
 asked — although he knew as well as did the man 
 himself. 
 
 The sailor raised his black eyes to Cantwell's face. 
 "Yes, yer honor," he answered, smiling, as he shifted 
 his tobacco in his cheek. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "At the house with the old woman." 
 
 "Boy or girl?" 
 
 "Boy, yer honor." 
 
 "Describe him to me." 
 
 "He's all rig'lar an' ship-shape, yer honor; 'most 
 too much sail fer the ballast, maybe ; but more 'n that 
 I don't see nothin' pertic'lar. He jes' cries, that's all. 
 He'd drownd the bo's'n's whistle in a sou'west gale. 
 'Pears old enough to talk ; but we can't git nothin' out'n 
 him but 'Mama! Want mama!' an' sich stuff." 
 
 "What did the squaw say about him?" 
 
 "Did n't wait to say nothin'. When she saw me 
 overhaulin' her she drapped the baby, blanket an' all, 
 an' steered fer the woods." 
 
 "You 've done well ; but I'm in doubt yet : I must 
 see the child, McFaddin." 
 
 "Easy 'nough, yer honor. There's my cabin, a ship's 
 length up the road; an' there's the old 'oman lookin' 
 
 53 
 
Wallannah 
 
 out o' the winder. Jes' heave me yer bowline an' I'll 
 make fast to a tree while ye git down." 
 
 Reaching the cabin and fastening the horse, 
 Cantwell, dismounting, followed McFaddin into his 
 humble abode. 
 
 "Hi, Peggy!" thundered the sailor; "here's the 
 'Squire come to see the Httle un'." 
 
 McFaddin's wife, stout, brawny and eunburned, 
 held out a calloused hand to Cantwell. As he spoke 
 his graceful words of greeting his keen eyes saw that 
 the woman's face was a good one, strong and kind and 
 motherly. He asked to see the child ; and the sailor's 
 wife led him to the bed-room, where the baby lay 
 sleeping on a couch, by his open hand a wooden spoon, 
 his plaything in his waking hours. The 'Squire bent 
 down and studied the little round face. Then he shook 
 his head and murmured something under his breath. 
 
 "Know him, sir?" asked the foster-mother. 
 
 "No, Peggy; but I think he's the child that some 
 of my friends are looking for. Keep him here until I 
 find out. In the meantime, you must have something 
 for the expense of taking care of him. I don't know 
 that I'll ever get it back; but you know, Peggy, we 
 must be kind to the unfortunate if we hope to get on 
 in the world." 
 
 "That's so, yer honor ; an' for my part, I think this 
 here's a case in p'int. A poor innercent thing, stole 
 from his nat'ral mother by a low-down Injun squaw 
 as tried to make a dirty papoose of 'im. I hates 'em, 
 sir — them Injuns. I hates 'em 'cause they 're red ; 
 an' I hates 'em 'cause they grease their ha'r — hates 
 'em fer nigh onto ev'rythin'. But as you say, yer 
 
 54 
 
Some Further Tricks of Fate 
 
 honor, bein' we 're poor, it would go sorter hard with 
 us to care fer the Httle thing fer somebody as is better 
 placed than us; an' all fer nothin', too. Hows'ever, 
 I'd V done it, pay or no pay." 
 
 "Spoken like a Christian woman, Peggy." 
 The 'Squire smiled upon her with benign 
 complacency. 
 
 "Nothing is lost by good actions. Bread cast 
 upon the waters will return again, you know. Now, 
 my good woman, here is some money. When it's 
 gone, call upon me for more. But, hark you, Peggy, 
 and you, too, McFaddin, keep all this business to 
 yourselves ; and, above all, never mention my name in 
 connection with it. I do not care to become a subject 
 of common talk." 
 
 "No more do I, yer honor," protested Peggy, her 
 face reddening under its coat of tan. "But when the 
 neighbors comes in — " 
 
 "They must n't come in, Peggy — at least, not yet. 
 I have my reasons, which I cannot tell you now. So, 
 for the present, not a word of it, or — " 
 
 "You can depend on us, yer honor," McFaddin 
 interrupted. "Peggy's all right." 
 
 "But — " started Peggy, looking from one man to 
 the other. 
 
 "But me no buts, old 'oman. You know yer all 
 right, 'specially when I says it. Tell the 'Squire so." 
 
 "Of course, I — " 
 
 "That'll do. I knowed you'd say so, Peggy." 
 
 Cantwell watched them closely. Then, moving to 
 the door, he said, with a smile of satisfaction, "We 're 
 agreed now ; I will come again to-morrow," 
 
 55 
 
Wallannah 
 
 McFadclin followed him to the roadside. Cantwell 
 uttered some trifling jest, and the two men parted with 
 laughter, the 'Squire turning his horse's head toward 
 New Bern. 
 
 True to his word, Cantwell returned at noon of the 
 next day. Seated upon a log out of ear-shot of the 
 cabin, he and AIcFaddin talked for an hour; but the 
 look upon the sailor's face betrayed dissatisfaction, 
 and the rigid set of the 'Squire's jaw showed, in turn, 
 the stubbornness of his determination. 
 
 IMcFaddin was speaking. "I don't like it — with 
 all respeck to yer honor. Ef so be as you wants me to 
 board a Frencher, or, fer that matter, a Britisher — fer 
 it's all the same to me ef the shiners is there — Fm 
 squar' on hand. That's fightin' 'g'inst men. But 
 babies — that's another kind o' game." 
 
 "But the child's in my way, AIcFaddin." 
 
 "That ain't no concern o' mine. Ef it's the baby 
 o' that gal up the river, she's give it up 'fore now. 
 Her brother's gone back, and that's goin' to be the last 
 of it. Let the old woman keep him. He'll be a kind 
 o' comfort-like,_ when Fm a-cruisin'," 
 
 "Too many prying eyes and busy tongues around 
 us, IMcFaddin," protested Cantwell. Then, with 
 ill-disguised impatience, "but manage the details your 
 own way. Lose the brat, or send him off so far he'll 
 never come back. Remember, work this right and you 
 ship as mate when the Leopard sails again." 
 
 "Aye, yer honor; and thanky. Fll do my best to 
 deserve yer compliment. But this here bus'ness — 
 well, give me time. Fll fix it if I can." 
 
 "I prefer to be served promptly. Take your time, 
 
 56 
 
Some Further Tricks of Fate 
 
 but be sparing of it. Now, let's go in and try your 
 wife's persimmon beer. By the way, do you keep your 
 secrets from her?" 
 
 "When I can. Peggy's mighty peart at findin' 
 things out; but we've got her guessin' now. Fearin' 
 accidents, I won't tell her, neither. But Peggy's all 
 right." 
 
 Mrs. McFaddin, her face a little flushed, met them 
 at the door. 
 
 "Bring out yer home-made beer, Peggy, dear?" 
 said the sailor. "The 'Squire wants to see the color 
 of it." 
 
 She did as she was bidden, and the jug and the 
 glasses made merry music for several minutes; then 
 the 'Squire, taking some spices from his waistcoat 
 pocket, placed a pinch in his mouth. "Well, Peggy, 
 may I see the two-year-old?" 
 
 "Certain, sir," was the answer, as the old woman 
 led the way into the bed-room. "But he's sick, yer 
 honor ; got a fever, I'm afeerd. No wonder, neither ; 
 don't see why he didn't die, trudged about the country 
 a-steamin' in that 'ere blanket fer I don't know how 
 many days, an' nothin' to eat but Injun swill. But, 
 hush ye ! He's sleepin' now." 
 
 The Good Samaritan, bending over the luckless 
 wayfarer on the road that led to Jericho, could not have 
 looked with kindlier eyes upon the stranger whom he 
 befriended than did 'Squire Cantwell, the pious justice 
 of New Bern, upon the little child on Peggy's bed. 
 Stooping down, he felt the baby's pulse. 
 
 "Why yes, Peggy; the child has a burning fever. 
 We must stop that. I'll ride down this afternoon with 
 
 57 
 
Wallannah 
 
 some powders for him. Poor little fellow! I wish I 
 had the medicine now." 
 
 His voice seemed to betray great concern, and he 
 hurried away without stopping for an exchange of 
 adieus. 
 
 The sound of his horse's hoofs had hardly died in 
 the distance when Peggy turned abruptly to her 
 husband. 
 
 "Bob," she asked, sharply, "whose child is this ?" 
 
 "Blast my peepers ef I can guess. Peg." 
 
 "Whose do you think ?" 
 
 "I don't think. I've gi'n it up." 
 
 "Oh! Bob McFaddin. Can't you tell nothin' to 
 yer wife? But Til call in Poll Johnson; it'll take 
 more'n me to watch this 'ere baby." 
 
 "Call nobody. You told the 'Squire you wouldn't." 
 
 "There's where yer wrong. You promised, not 
 me." 
 
 "Didn't you say, 'Of course,' when we squeezed you 
 up in a corner? Certain you did, an' you've got to 
 stick to it — stick to it like a man, ef you know what 
 that means." 
 
 "Ef Pve got to keep it from other folks, I won't 
 have it kept from me. Tell me the hull thing, or FU 
 blow." 
 
 "Blow an' be da — well, jest blow. I told you all 
 I know about the thing." 
 
 "But I heerd you talkin', Bob." 
 
 "The devil an' Tom Walker ! What did you hear ?" 
 
 "I didn't hear nothin' 'bout no Tom Walker ; but as 
 to the other feller — I come pretty close to seein' him 
 and hearin' 'im, too." 
 
 58 
 
Some Further Tricks of Fate 
 
 "Now, be sens'ble, old woman ; what did you 
 hear?" 
 
 "You know what he said about pryin' eyes an' busy 
 tongues ?" 
 
 "Did you hear that ?" 
 
 "Never mind, Bobby. An' yer goin' to be mate on 
 the Leopard?" 
 
 "Blast it ! you heard the hull thing." 
 
 "An' yer goin' to lose the youngster, be you?" 
 
 "Oh! say—" 
 
 "Or send him clean away, eh?" 
 
 "Oh! the thunder! I mean. Come, I'll shut 
 
 yer mouth by givin' you the hull story." 
 
 Thus did Peggy learn the 'Squire's plot against the 
 child which she had already learned to love. For 
 several hours afterward her eyes gleamed ominously, 
 and she muttered strange things to herself as she 
 worked about the house. 
 
 When the 'Squire came at four o'clock in the 
 afternoon, Peggy, radiant with smiles, met him at the 
 door. 
 
 Cantwell greeted her cheerily. "My good woman, 
 how fresh and young you look ! How is the little boy ? 
 Still feverish ? Too bad, too bad. Well, we must cure 
 him for the sake of his mother, whoever she may be. 
 Here are the powders. Start them about bedtime. 
 One will be enough to-night; give the rest at hourly 
 intervals to-morrow." 
 
 Peggy followed the instructions to the letter; but 
 when the following day had nearly passed the child 
 was still very ill. At sunset of this second day the 
 'Squire came again. 
 
 59 
 
* Wallannah 
 
 "I begin to feel interested in the little fellow," he 
 said, by way of introduction. "I think he is some 
 better; but he is threatened with tetanus — lockjaw, 
 you know. There, don't wake him, but give him 
 another powder when he wakes from his nap." 
 
 "The powders is gone," Peggy responded; "used 
 the last one two hours ago." 
 
 "True ; I forgot. Let's see ; I think I've got some 
 more in my pocket ; if — I — have n't — ah ! yes here 
 is another dose. Give him that." 
 
 As he handed the blue paper to Peggy, the watchful 
 woman saw that the 'Sauire's hand trembled, and that 
 his eyes avoided hers. 
 
 An hour later the child awoke, moaning piteously. 
 Peggy gave him a drink of water. Then she took the 
 paper of powder and crossing to the window stood 
 looking reflectively down the road. "Bob," she said, at 
 last. "Ef the gal up the river's this child's mother, 
 who's his daddy?" 
 
 "The 'Squire knows ; it's out o' my jurydiction." 
 
 "What'll you bet 'tain't the 'Squire hisself ?" 
 
 McFaddin stood up with a jerk; a sudden light 
 came into his eyes. "Peggy," he said, in an awed 
 whisper, "I'll be durned ef I don't think yer right." 
 
 Peggy was silent a moment, looking down at the 
 blue-wrapped medicine. 
 
 "Bob," she said, finally, "The 'Squire give me this 
 'ere powder for the baby. I ain't goin' to try it on 
 him." 
 
 "Why not? Didn't the others go all right?" 
 
 "Yes, but this is diff'rent." 
 
 "Who'll you try it on? Not on me, ef I knows 
 myself." 60 
 
Some Further Tricks of Fate 
 
 "Take it out and give it to Bowzer, that nasty dog 
 
 o' vour'n." 
 
 Bob, pulling nervously at his black side-whiskers, 
 took the paper gingerly in his fingers and went out of 
 the kitchen door. It was nearly a quarter of an hour 
 before he returned; and when he entered the room 
 his face was grey with horror. 
 
 "Ef there's a God in heaven," the sailor blurted 
 out, "he ought to take that 'ere 'Squire by the neck 
 an' beat 'im till he's dead." 
 
 "Did yer dog eat the powder?" asked Peggy, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "Did he? Well, I jes' reckon." 
 
 "What did it do?" 
 
 McFaddin raised his eyes. "What did it do! 
 What did it do!" he shrieked. "It knocked Bowzer so 
 stiff — oh ! my Lord ; I never — " 
 
 "But what did it do? Is Bowzer dead?" 
 
 "Dead? Yes, dead and gone to — no, jes' dead." 
 
 The couple sat for a long time in silence; then 
 Peggy came to the fore with a masterpiece of 
 ingenuity. 
 
 When the good 'Squire came to the McFaddin's 
 house at sundown the next day, Bob, with solemn 
 demeanor, met him and led the way to the bed-room. 
 Peggy, her face buried in her handkerchief, sat beside 
 something that, long and box-shaped, lay across a chair 
 and was covered with a spotless sheet. The 'Squire 
 gave a nervous start, and spoke with a great effort. 
 
 "I hope the child is better," he said, in a voice that 
 sounded strange even to himself. Peggy looked up 
 into his face. "He is dead," she said, simply. Cantwell 
 
 6i 
 
Wallannah 
 
 bowed his head. "I am shocked," he said, slowly. "Do 
 you really mean dead?" 
 
 "Dead as the dev as a herrin'," broke in 
 
 McFaddin, with a queer quaver in his voice. 
 
 "When and how?" asked the 'Squire, his 
 self-possession returning. 
 
 "As to when," answered Peggy, fixing her eyes 
 upon his face, "he died the minute he took yer powders ; 
 as to how" — she shrugged her broad shoulders — "you 
 said it was the lockyjaw." 
 
 "Just as I feared," said Cantwell, with a look of 
 supreme resignation. "Tetanus is a terrible malady. 
 What have you done with the — with the body ?" 
 
 "I've jacked up a rough coffin," answered the sailor. 
 "Couldn't keep him no longer; he outsmelt anythin' 
 I ever run ag'in'." 
 
 "If you 've made the grave," gently suggested the 
 'Squire, "we might bury him now." 
 
 "Got it all fixed, 'Squire. Reckon you could read a 
 few lines o' prayers, to make a kinder decent send-off ? 
 I—" 
 
 McFaddin was seized with a violent fit of coughing, 
 but Cantwell nodded his assent, and they filed out into 
 the yard and stood beneath a great tulip tree. There, 
 silently, devoutly, as twilight deepened into night, 
 'Squire Cantwell read three pages of the solemn liturgy 
 of the Church of England ; and they committed Bowzer 
 to his grave. 
 
 While this was happening, Peggy's white cat and 
 the baby that Sequa had left in the road were 
 slumbering quietly on a pile of blankets beneath the 
 kitchen table; and, lest the child should cry at an 
 
 62 
 
Am) they committed Bowzkk to his grave. 
 
Some Further Tricks of Fate 
 
 inopportune moment, his silence had been assured by a 
 hberal dose of sleeping-potion. Cantwell, when he did 
 learn the truth — but that was long years afterward ! 
 
 In the present day the things which happened in 
 and around New Bern in the year of grace 1754 could 
 not have occurred as they did. Within a week Sequa 
 had stolen Mary Ross's child, the Reverend James Noel 
 had left for England with but an hour's warning, the 
 Maynard house, with its infant occupant, had been a 
 prey to the flames, and Cantwell had, to his own mind 
 at least, satisfactorily ridded himself and the rest of 
 the world of the child which Mary Ross had borne to 
 him. In the matter-of-fact days of the present the 
 scarcity of Indian abductresses, the service of the 
 transcontinental cables, the deluging powers of a 
 battery of fire engines, and the intolerable officiousness 
 of the coroner, the police, and the press would have 
 stifled in embryo the plans which for twenty-two years 
 kept the people of New Bern in a mist of perplexity. 
 
 Allowance must be made, of course, for the 
 workings of Providence, which, being unsusceptible to 
 improvement or patented evolutions, are about the 
 same now as then. Providence played a leading part in 
 the chain of events which began with Cantwell's birth 
 and ended with his death. It was Providence which 
 made Sequa mix matters most inexplicably; and the 
 same power brought about the death of Bowzer and 
 kept alive the babe in McFaddin's cabin. The rest of 
 it was done by human deeds, both good and evil, which 
 may or may not have been of free moral agency — who 
 can say? 
 
 During the week which followed the theft of Mary 
 
 63 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Ross's child the search for Sequa had been continued 
 with untiring energy. Mrs. Noel had opened her house 
 to Mary and the boy John, and, for the time, the cabin 
 in the forest was deserted. But the efforts of Tetah, 
 the chieftain, were of no avail; and if he, crafty and 
 powerful as he was, failed to find the girl, who could 
 do more ? True, 'Squire Cantwell, in a long and kindly 
 letter, had promised active aid ; but, with all that, the 
 justice admitted that he had never seen nor heard of 
 Sequa. Which admission would have seemed strange 
 to Tetah had he known it; but Tetah's belles lettres 
 were scratches on rocks, and snakes carved on tree 
 trunks, and he never read Cantwell's missive. 
 
 Still, in a quiet way, the search had gone on. John, 
 seeking a clue of his sister's recreant husband, had 
 journeyed to New Bern, there to make careful inquiry 
 for his brother-in-law, and thus trace the trail of the 
 serpent which might lead to Sequa. But the boy 
 learned nothing there. Indeed, one man, a sailor with 
 jet-black eyes and bushy side-whiskers, had told him 
 that no such man as Matthews had ever lived in New 
 Bern, or, to his knowledge, anywhere else in the 
 length and breadth of the province. So the boy, 
 returning tired and discouraged, announced that he 
 had abandoned the search. Alary, too, had all but lost 
 her upholding hope. Those whom she told the story 
 of her baby's disappearance shrugged their shoulders 
 and straightway regaled her with harrowing tales of 
 like Indian outrages. One old Scotch woman, with 
 more candor than consideration, made the avowal that 
 the Cherokees and the Cotechneys held their great 
 ceremonial dances in September, and, during the 
 
 64 
 
Some Further Tricks of Fate 
 
 ensuing orgies, ate nothing but the flesh of white 
 infants. Mary, accepting this as of gospel truth, 
 returned home and wept bitterly throughout the night. 
 
 Had the widow Ross been living, her daughter 
 might have found comfort in her own home ; but she, 
 poor woman, had died soon after Matthews had left 
 Mary in abandonment. As it was, all that the girl 
 could do was to look to the minister's wife for 
 sympathy. Nor did she go awrong in doing this, for 
 Mrs. Noel, with kindliness immeasurable, kept open 
 for her the gates of hope. Little wonder was it that 
 between the two women was forged a chain of 
 friendship that made their ways as one, and seemed to 
 point them to the same goal. 
 
 When the day came which marked the close of the 
 first week of her baby's absence, Mary, who had spent 
 the night at the cabin in the woods, reached Neusioc at 
 nine in the morning. There she found the minister's 
 wife lying in bed with a severe cold. So Mary 
 volunteered the management of the house for the day. 
 Playfully decking herself with cap and apron of snowy 
 linen, the comely girl, already attired in a gown of 
 grey, looked like the saintly nurses that Mrs. Noel had 
 once seen in the field camps of her father's army. 
 
 At the hour of noon Mary sat by the window in 
 Mrs. Noel's room with the blue-eyed Alice, eight 
 months old that very day, lying across her lap and 
 cooing at the ceiling above. 
 
 Suddenly the sound of rapid hoof-beats sounded 
 from the street. Mary arose, and, laying the baby 
 upon the bed beside its mother, hurried to the door. 
 She returned with a letter in her hand. "By a mounted 
 
 65 
 
Wallannah 
 
 messenger," she said, handing the missive to Mrs. 
 Noel. "It requires no answer, he said," 
 
 Mrs. Noel looked puzzled. "I expected a letter 
 from Mrs. Maynard explaining why she failed to send 
 a boat for me to go to New Bern Monday; but this 
 is in a man's handwriting." After much study, she 
 overcame her woman's habit of guessing at the outside 
 of an envelope, and ruthlessly tore it open. "From 
 Mr. Cantv/ell," she exclaimed, with some surprise. "I 
 wonder — " Then relapsing into silence, she read the 
 letter with eyes that told of ill tidings. 
 
 "Awful! Awful!" she said, as she sank back to 
 her pillows. "Poor Margaret Maynard. Read it, 
 Mary. I've never heard of anything more terrible." 
 Mary took the letter. It read: 
 
 "Respected Madam : It is my painful Duty to acquaint 
 you with the sad Calamity that will prevent my Kinswoman, 
 Mrs. Maynard, from receiving you, for the present at least, 
 as a Guest. She had just given me Instructions to send a 
 Boat up for you, anticipating great Pleasure from your Visit, 
 when the Calamity came. It grieves me to relate the horrible 
 Tragedy ; but I will give as brief a Recital as I can ; knowing 
 that every Word will be a Dagger to your friendly Heart. 
 
 "My respected Kinswoman, on leaving Home to visit me 
 for the Arrangement of important Business, confided the care 
 of her son, Arthur, to his Nurse. Tlie boy was sleeping under 
 the Influence of Narcotic Powders — he had been restless for 
 several Days — and she charged the Nurse to keep close Watch 
 in her Absence. A Chafing-Dish was in the Room on a Side 
 Table, with a Lamp burning under it, to keep the Baby's Broth 
 warm. It seems that the Nurse slipped away from the Child, 
 and, according to universal Belief, left the Lamp in such 
 careless Position that the Child, awaking restlessly, knocked it 
 down and so set the House on fire. 
 
 66 
 
Some Further Tricks of Fate 
 
 "The House was burned, and the Child in it. The horrid 
 Death of the Boy was too much for the Fortitude of my poor 
 Cousin. Her Mind has given away, never, it is feared, to be 
 recovered. Her Friend, Mrs. DeVere, is taking Care of her at 
 present. The Child was ahnost entirely consumed — only a few 
 of his Bones being left. 
 
 *' 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away ; blessed 
 be the Name of the Lord.' 
 
 "God in His Providence has provided for the Care of the 
 Estate during the Malady of our Afflicted Friend. 
 
 "In deep Distress, which I know is shared in your Christian 
 Heart, I am, Madam, Your Obt. Svt. to Command, 
 
 " J. M. Cantwell." 
 
 Mary laid the letter aside, her eyes moist with 
 tears. "Why, Mrs. Noel!" she exclaimed; "it's the 
 most horrible story I've ever read. God knows, it is 
 hard enough to have one's baby stolen ; but to have 
 him burned — I can't bear to think of it !" 
 
 "Nor I," said Mrs. Noel, softly, taking little Alice's 
 hand in her own. 
 
 They talked until dinner time of Mrs. Maynard 
 and the news in Cantwell's letter, and in that talk 
 Mary learned much of the romance surrounding the 
 lives of the lieutenant and his wife. 
 
 With the coming of the twilight, the wind shifted 
 to the northeast, and a cold, drizzling rain beat across 
 the lower Neuse. The baby was sleeping quietly in 
 her cradle; and Mrs. Noel and Mary, in the candle 
 light, made fanciful predictions of the child's life 
 throughout the coming years. In fact, none of these 
 things ever came true; but that was not the child's 
 fault; neither, as it developed, was it the mother's. 
 
 While they talked thus a wild gust of wind howled 
 
 67 
 
Wallannah 
 
 about the house, and, in seeming answer, came the 
 clangor of the great knocker on the front door. The 
 women started nervously. The summons was repeated, 
 and Mary, taking a candle with her, went to the hall. 
 Mrs. Noel heard the door open, and felt the wind as it 
 swept through the house. Then came Mary's voice. 
 "Who are you?" it said. 
 
 "Me," was the guttural response. 
 
 "But my candle's blown out ; I can't see you. Who 
 are you ?" 
 
 "Tetah ; Peoperquinaiqua bobbasheelah." 
 
 The minister's wife laughed softly to herself, for 
 she knew how little the answer meant to Mary. "Bring 
 him in, Mary," she called. "It's Tetah." 
 
 With unseemly haste, the Indian, wet and muddy, 
 rushed into the room. "Peoperquinaiqua?" he asked, 
 looking quickly about the room. 
 
 "Gone to England, Tetah." 
 
 "Dove Eyes go quick — quick go!" exclaimed the 
 chief. 
 
 "Go, Tetah? Where? Why?" Mrs. Noel raised 
 herself on one arm, and looked into the tawny face 
 with something like fear in her eyes. 
 
 "Cotechney steal Neusioc horse — Neusioc catch — 
 take scalp," and he held up one grimy finger. 
 "Cotechneys dig hatchet — go war path. Coreys help — ■ 
 no like Cherokees (Cherokees paleface bobbasheelah). 
 Neusioc hear — send Tetah. Tetah go close — hide 
 big tree — Cotechneys say come night — so much." 
 And he clapped his hand twenty times to count two 
 hundred. " Big whoop — kill — take scalp — burn 
 Neusioc." 
 
 68 
 
Some Further Tricks of Fate 
 
 The women looked at one another with terror in 
 their faces. Tetah continued. 
 
 'Teoperquinaiqua good to Tetah — Tetah tell 
 squaw. Tetah warrior — stay fight — Dove Eyes go 
 quick — take papoose." Then, without another word, 
 he folded his blanket about him and left the house. 
 
 Fire and blood reigned in Neusioc that night, the 
 one lighting the clouds for miles around, the other 
 dying the sparkling waters that crept slowly down to 
 the sound. The Neusiocs, forewarned by their chieftain 
 Tetah, repulsed their allied enemies and drove them 
 back to the forests. Four houses were burned ; one 
 was the village parsonage. And that attack on Neusioc 
 was but the foreshadowing of one that came three 
 years later and swept the little hamlet from the face of 
 the earth. 
 
 Mrs. Noel, heeding Tetah's warning, had gone with 
 Mary and the baby Alice to the home in the forest. 
 There they watched in the sky the light of Neusioc's 
 flames. But toward daybreak, the minister's wife, 
 suffering from the exposure of her walk through the 
 cold driving rain, was seized with a violent fit of 
 coughing. She tried to muffle the sound by holding her 
 handkerchief to her lips. As she did so, Mary gave a 
 quick, low cry and hastened to the bedside. The 
 handkerchief was dyed a deep red. This was but the 
 beginning of the end ; and throughout the morning 
 and far past midday Mary watched by the side of the 
 sufferer. But nothing that she did could relieve the 
 violent, racking cough ; and with every paroxysm Mrs. 
 Noel gave of her life-blood. 
 
 At last the hour came when the coughing ceased. 
 
 69 
 
Wallannah 
 
 It was in the warm afternoon that came after the rain. 
 Out of doors the sun was bright and the forest rang 
 with the music of the birds. In the front room of the 
 log-house Mary sat beside the bed, holding Alice in 
 her arms. Lying against her pillows, Mrs. Noel, her 
 pallor intensified by the flush upon her cheeks, fixed her 
 soft blue eyes upon the baby's face. As Mary watched 
 her she could not refrain from thinking of what it 
 had been to this frail woman to sacrifi.ce the comforts 
 of her father's house in Britain for the cheerless life 
 of a Carolina village. Her revery was interrupted by 
 the faint voice of the minister's wife. 
 
 "I've coughed so much, Mary," whispered the 
 fair-haired woman, smiling into her companion's face, 
 "that I am very tired and want to go to sleep." Her 
 eyelids drooped a moment, then lifted again. "Tell 
 James," she continued, with a wandering slowness, "to 
 wake me when he comes." Then, to the laughing baby, 
 "Good night, little girl ; mother's going to sleep. Good 
 night !" And Alice, as she had learned to do, reached 
 out her little arms and laughed with childish glee. 
 
 The sweet, pure face turned slightly on the pillow, 
 the dark lashes shut out the light of the eyes as clouds 
 passing over the stars, and the little woman's lips 
 parted in a weary sigh. 
 
 A flash of blue swept past the window; a 
 white-throated kingfisher gleamed in the sunlight. Its 
 hoarse cry echoed through the pines like a sorrowing 
 wail. Mary saw the bird, and it seemed to laugh. _at 
 the face upon the pillows. 
 
 70 
 
A Good Man Meets His Wife 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A Good Man Meets His Wife 
 
 WEEK after Mrs. Noel's death there came 
 to Mary Ross news concerning Sequa. For 
 Jemmie Dow, a youth hving in Neusioc, 
 came one night to the cabin in the woods 
 and told of a rumor which placed the Indian girl in 
 New Bern. Without loss of time, therefore, Mary and 
 John, leaving little Alice Noel with Mrs. Dow, set out 
 at daybreak with cart and horse for the scene of 
 Sequa's appearance. 
 
 Reaching New Bern late in the afternoon they 
 stopped at an inn which bore a glaring sign-board, 
 proclaiming it a place of "Entertainment for Man and 
 Horse." Across the way from this hostelry stood a 
 merchant's store, with doors and window sashes of 
 brilliant yellow. Between the two lay the street, 
 unpaved and level as a bowling alley. 
 
 Entering the inn, Mary's first move was to enlist 
 the sympathies of the landlord's wife, a pleasant 
 seeming woman with much in her face to tell of 
 goodness of soul. To her, stranger though she was, 
 Mary related her story of misfortune, and, at its close, 
 asked, naturally enough, "Where can I go for aid? 
 Who can help me?" 
 
 Then, so entangled was the situation, the innkeeper's 
 
 . 71 
 
Wallannah 
 
 wife, with innocence unmeasured, scored another point 
 for iron-handed circumstance. "Why, go to 'Squire 
 Cantwell," she said, with great convictioru "Go to 
 him by all means," 
 
 Mary's heart gave a bound of hope, remembering 
 that this Cantwell, in his letter to Mr. Noel, had offered 
 to aid untiringly in the search. 
 
 "Everybody," the v/oman continued, rubbing her 
 hands with the satisfaction of one giving sound advice ; 
 "everybody goes to the 'Squire when nobody else can't 
 help 'em. He's the smartest man in New Bern, an' the 
 best man in the world, I reckon. To see 'im in church, 
 a-lookin' so reverent-like, is 'most as good as a sermon. 
 Yes, you certainly must see 'Squire Cantwell." 
 
 Thus it was that Alary, leaving John to search for 
 Sequa, bent her steps to the home of John Cantwell, 
 friend of governors and revered of the populace. And 
 her heart beat high with hope, for she pictured the 
 justice as a man with heart and soul of purest 
 gold. 
 
 Leaving the inn, she crossed the street. At the 
 door of the yellow-fronted shop she came face to face 
 with a portly man of ecclesiastic look. She shrank 
 back a trifle, then bent her head and went on her way 
 toward the house on the terraced lawn. But she had 
 met the light, shifting eyes of a man whom she had 
 seen once before, in the better days gone by ; and the 
 thought of all that had since come into her life went 
 like iron into her soul. 
 
 Further on she came to the mansion of the 
 Cantwells. On the lawn beneath the great bay-windows 
 stood a tiny boy, pulling buds from a rosebush in the 
 
 72 
 
A Good Man Meets His Wife 
 
 garden. By his side was a nurse girl, holding a sleeping 
 baby. Entering the gate, Mary passed the girl and the 
 children, and ascended the broad steps to the mansion's 
 imposing front door. Half way up she met a woman 
 attired in rustling silks and holding her head as befitted 
 one of high degree. As they passed, each glanced 
 quickly at the other, and Mary saw that the look on 
 the woman's face was of pride, mingled with a certain 
 sweetness which gave a rare charm to her clear-cut 
 features. "Mrs. Cantwell," she thought, as she paused 
 before the door and looked back at the shapely silk-clad 
 figure. And she knew that she was right, for the boy 
 left the roses and ran across the grass laughing and 
 calling, "Mother, let me go, too." 
 
 A moment later, led by the 'Squire's servant, Mary 
 entered Cantwell's study. Her eyes caught first the 
 glare of the mottoes and scriptural pictures on the wall. 
 Then she sought the face of John Cantwell, who sat 
 behind his desk. A quick cry came to her lips; and 
 she wavered a moment as she stood. Cantwell half 
 arose. The smile of welcome froze upon his lips ; and 
 within his eyes was a gleam of fear. 
 
 It was Mary who broke upon the strained silence. 
 
 "You !" she cried, her voice tense with feeling. 
 "You ! — and so we meet again." 
 
 Cantwell opened his lips to speak. 
 
 Mary stayed him with a quick movement of her 
 hand. "Hear me first," she said, with an imperious 
 toss of the head. "So you are the good — the reverend 
 — the esteemed — 'Squire Cantwell! Look up, John 
 Matthews, and tell me, in the presence of these sacred 
 things upon your walls, are you the noble 'Squire 
 
 73 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Cantwell, whose virtues are the talk of all good 
 people ?" 
 
 "Mary," gasped the 'Squire, "do not judge me yet; 
 remember how the Scriptures — " 
 
 "Hypocrite ! Don't quote Scripture to me. Quoting 
 Scripture" — her voice was bitter with sarcasm — "to 
 me — your deserted wife!" 
 
 Cantwell straightened up with something like a 
 laugh. "No; not wife, Mary. It's bad enough as it 
 is ; but not as bad as that." 
 
 "Not your wife! Were we not married with a 
 license? and by a priest?" 
 
 The 'Squire, his self-control regained, smiled at her 
 vehemence. 
 
 "If you examine," he said, dryly, "you'll find that 
 no such license has ever been registered ; and, as for 
 the priest, he was a clever fellow of no particular 
 profession, whose friendship could not deny me the 
 service. It was his first and only performance in 
 canonicals." 
 
 The cool impudence of this villainous confession 
 staggered Mary. At first she did not grasp its 
 meaning. Then, in a moment, the full consciousness 
 of her degradation came over her. Raising her hands 
 to her face, she dropped upon the sofa, and the one 
 word, "Disgraced," came to Cantwell's ears. 
 
 He saw his advantage. "No," he said, gently, "not 
 unless you choose to have it so. No one but you knows 
 that John M. Cantwell and John Matthews are the 
 same. Why tell it?" 
 
 It was a master-stroke, but Mary met the thrust 
 with a firm guard. "Why tell it !" she exclaimed, rising 
 
 74 
 
A Good Man Meets His Wife 
 
 again to her feet. "Because I will not live a lie. I will 
 tell it that this other one, she whom you now call your 
 wife, may look to her license, and see who married her." 
 She caught her breath, and her eyes flashed with her 
 anger. "And more than this, good 'Squire Cantwell, 
 I'll tell it to the king's councillor and to the 
 courts." 
 
 Cantwell bit his lip. "Hold on, hold on !" he said, 
 with a sneer; "this is no play-house, nor are we 
 play-actors." 
 
 Mary gave no heed to his words. "And I'll find 
 out for the sake of my boy if this that you have told 
 me is true." 
 
 Whether from subtle policy or from a new-born 
 admiration for the strength of her whom he had 
 hitherto thought timid to the point of weakness, 
 Cantwell altered his manner and his tactics. "Mary," 
 he said, tenderly, with the soft-toned voice of the 
 Tilatthews of old times, "I am not so great a villain as 
 I represented myself a moment ago. You exasperated 
 me — perhaps beyond prudence. I loved you from the 
 first — I love you now." He saw her lips open as for 
 an angry retort. "Wait, wait, for God's sake, hear 
 me !" he cried. "When I first met you, that night when 
 I came sick and a stranger to your door, I was already 
 betrothed to the woman who is now my wife — the one 
 you met when you came into the house. I did not love 
 her ; but — but she was rich and I was poor. I make 
 no other excuse ! 
 
 "When, recovering from the delirium of my illness, 
 I told you my name was John Matthews, I told you 
 the truth, but not the whole truth. My name is John 
 
 75 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Matthews Cantwell. I kept back the surname because, 
 looking into the future, I knew it would be hard to 
 tear myself from you ; and I did not wish to give my 
 betrothed a clue by which to trace me out. When I 
 came back to town, after submitting my surveys to 
 Governor Johnston, I called upon Miss Creamly, 
 determined to break off our engagement. Love in a 
 cottage, I thought, would be better than indifference 
 with wealth. But when I stood beside her, with all 
 the elegance of luxurious life about me, romance — I'm 
 ashamed to confess it — gave way to a meaner feeling; 
 and I renewed my false vows. 
 
 "Before I saw you again the bans had been 
 published, and I could not retract. Had I done so, I 
 should have lost the patronage of the governor, who 
 had been my warmest advocate with Miss Creamly. 
 Without the governor and without money, I felt that I 
 would be a burden to you. You were miles away, in 
 the woods; and with little management I could keep 
 you there. As Matthews I could marry you, and 
 afterward be united, by what would really be an illegal 
 ceremony, to Miss Creamly. 
 
 "There was only one man in the world to whom I 
 could confide my trouble, and he was the one who acted 
 as the priest. This man said that my plan might lead 
 to indictment for bigamy. He said that Miss Creamly 
 was of frail constitution, had consumption, and could 
 live but a short time ; and that, by marrying her first 
 and securing you with the deception of a sham 
 marriage, I would soon be free with an ample fortune 
 to legalize our union and to make you independent. 
 The plan may still be carried out. I stopped coming to 
 
 76 
 
A Good Man Meets His Wife 
 
 you because my wife, becoming jealous, had spies set 
 uiDon me. 
 
 "Now, Mary, I have told you all that is to be told. 
 Can you not forgive me?" He crossed to where she 
 stood and tried to take her hand. 
 
 She drew back as from a viper's sting. "Do not 
 touch me," she cried hoarsely, backing quickly away 
 from him. "What kind of man are you, to talk of love 
 in the same breath with crime? Your love — if love 
 you call it — is as poisonous as your avarice. Forgive 
 you? You should thank God that I do not kill you! 
 I listened to you; now hear me. I saw your oldest 
 child at the gate as I came in. He is younger than 
 ours. I will not believe that our marriage came after 
 the other; nor was ours the illegal one. Your face 
 has told me more than your lips. I shall learn the 
 truth from the priest himself." 
 
 "You'll never find him," said Cantwell, with a short 
 laugh. "He has left the country." 
 
 "He has not. I saw him to-day." 
 
 Cantwell gave a violent start. 
 
 "Yes, I saw him an hour ago. No wonder you turn 
 pale. I'll have his evidence before night, unless you 
 confess that our marriage was legal. If you do confess 
 it, I promise you — and you know that I will keep my 
 word — I promise you never to disturb you unless you 
 force me to it in defence of my reputation. This I will 
 do for the sake of the innocent woman I met on the 
 steps. She may want you ; I do not. Now tell me, am 
 I your lawful wife ?" 
 
 Cantwell looked sharply into her face. "Yes," he 
 said, after a moment, "you are. 
 
 77 
 
 >> 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Write it." 
 
 "But — " 
 
 "Write it!" 
 
 The 'Squire stammered something inaudible. "I 
 would rather — " 
 
 "Write it !" came the inexorable command. 
 
 "You will use it — " 
 
 "Only in self-defence and if you force me to it!" 
 
 Cantwell went to his desk and wrote the simple 
 statement. Mary took it, read it through and slipped 
 it into a pocket in her dress. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Cantwell," she said, coldly, "I must ask 
 your aid in another matter. My little boy, John, has 
 been stolen by an Indian woman. Can you help me to 
 find him?" 
 
 Cantwell leaned back in his chair. "No," he said, 
 slowly shaking his head, "I'm sorry, Mary; perhaps 
 I should not tell you so abruptly, but the boy is 
 dead." 
 
 Mary moved a step toward him. "Dead ! How do 
 you know that ? " She stetched out her hands 
 imploringly. "Oh ! John, do not deceive me in this !" 
 
 "I wish that it might be untrue. I cannot prove 
 it; but still I cannot doubt it. I have watched over 
 you more than you know. I, too, searched for the 
 Indian woman, and I found her. She did not have the 
 child, and said that it was dead." 
 
 Mary sank into the chair by the window, and buried 
 her face in her hands. 
 
 Cantwell crossed the room, and stood beside her. 
 
 "Mary," he said, gently, "I know what a shock it 
 is to you. I feel it too keenly myself not to know how 
 
 78 
 
A Good Man Meets His Wife 
 
 it hurts you. Think how much worse it might be. 
 Compare your case — our case — with that of poor 
 Margaret Maynard." 
 
 Mary, catching her breath in broken sobs, seemed 
 not to hear him. 
 
 "Her misfortune," continued Cantwell, "is worse 
 even than you had known. Lieutenant Maynard is 
 dead. The Wasp went down off Hatteras and not a 
 soul reached the shore." 
 
 Mary started to her feet with a cry of horror. 
 "Merciful Heaven!" she cried, "can this be true?" 
 
 Cantwell bowed his head. "Yes," he said, simply, 
 "the news came in by the Leopard." 
 
 The Wasp was lost. The Rev. James Noel had been 
 its passenger. Motherless, fatherless, the baby Alice 
 could claim no home but Mary's. Filled with the 
 thought of the orphaned child she started toward the 
 door. 
 
 Cantwell stopped her. "Before you go," he said, 
 resting his hand upon her shoulder, "tell me of our 
 other child." 
 
 "What other?" 
 
 "Why, the youngest — the little girl." 
 
 Mary drew in her breath sharply. Cantwell did 
 not know that the child had died months before. 
 
 A sudden thought flashed into her mind. "I left 
 her at Neusioc," she said hurriedly. "I — I must go 
 now. Let me pass." 
 
 "One question more: Her name is Mary?" 
 
 "I have changed it to Alice." She moved toward 
 the door. 
 
 "But one thing more," said Cantwell, in a low 
 
 79 
 
Wallannah 
 
 voice, as his hand rested on the knob. "I think it better 
 that John Matthews should be dead." 
 
 "I agree with you — hterally," answered Mary. 
 
 And they parted in the hall. 
 
 Cantwell stood at the window and watched her as 
 she crossed to the inn. Then, playing mechanically 
 with the curtain tassel, he looked musingly down at 
 the flower-bed in front of the house. 
 
 "Literally !" he muttered, slowly. "What the devil 
 did she mean by th^t !" 
 
 80 
 
A Bit of History 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A Bit of History 
 
 [I^or those who like that sort of thing. '^ 
 
 ANTWELL'S belief to the contrary 
 notwithstanding, the Wasp had not 
 foundered off Hatteras, but, Avith battened 
 hatches and bare poles, had weathered the 
 gale without the loss of sail or spar. Crossing the 
 Atlantic, turbulent and angry with the storms of the 
 equinox, the Wasp finally landed at Plymouth, and 
 Mr. Noel went thence by stage to his brother's home. 
 Within a month Henry, Lord Durham, had gone to his 
 fathers; and title and estate fell to the Carolina 
 missionary. But close upon his brother's death, came 
 one day a letter from far-away New Bern. It told of 
 the raid of the Cotcheneys and the Coreys and of the 
 burning of Neusioc. And in its course it said, "I 
 grieve to say that Mrs. Noel and the baby Alice were 
 not spared, the parsonage having burned to the very 
 ground." The signature at the letter's end was "J- ^^• 
 Cantwell." So, many years passed before Lord 
 Durham returned to the valley of the Neuse. 
 
 In North Carolina events moved slowly for several 
 years. Arthur Dobbs took the reins of power in 
 November, 1754, and spent something over ten years 
 in disagreeing with his council and with the legislature. 
 
 81 
 
Wallannah 
 
 During this period the people began to fret under 
 the strictures of the government, which fretting 
 caused excessive discomfort to the harassed old 
 governor. When death gave this royal favorite a happy 
 release from the cares of state, Lieutenant-Governor 
 William Tryon qualified as Commander-in-chief and 
 Captain-General of the Province of North Carolina. 
 This was title enough even for Tryon, who delighted 
 in swelling out his chest and reflecting upon his own 
 greatness. 
 
 This Tryon was a soldier — as soldiers sometimes 
 go — and his idea of government was the simple one 
 that might and right (differing, as is seen, in but one 
 letter) went together in indissoluble union. When 
 councillors advised, "Concihate," Tryon would bring 
 forth a bombastic proclamation teeming with vague 
 and direful threats. When wise heads said," Arbitrate," 
 then would Tryon strike a pose and thunder, "Disperse, 
 ye rebels !" and another proclamation would be 
 forthcoming. In fact, he wrote proclamations as some 
 men have written epigrams, thinking them the all in all 
 of his mission upon earth. 
 
 Having dreamed from the days of his youth of the 
 glory of arms, and having learned in years past some 
 little of the ways of war. Governor William proceeded 
 to make a plaything of the royal army in the province. 
 On one occasion, when Tryon was suffering from want 
 of amusement, he mustered his troops and marched 
 them across the province from seashore to mountains, 
 in a time of perfect peace, for the purpose of marking a 
 boundary line to be respected by the Cherokee Indians. 
 This delightful excursion won Tryon great glory in 
 
 82 
 
S- 
 
 A Bit of History 
 
 his own estimation ; but the honest taxpayers, venturing 
 a degree of free thought, conchided that a second-rate 
 surveying corps, eating but Httle and drinking less, 
 could have made a very serviceable boundary line 
 without the aid of a ravenous army, with men and 
 horses whose stomachs knew no fill. So well did Tryon 
 comport himself in this matter that the Cherokees, who 
 possessed an admirable sense of the fitness of things, 
 gave to Governor William the name of "The Great 
 Wolf," which was an unkind defamation of a very 
 honest sort of animal. 
 
 In general, it might be said that Tryon possessed "^i,^ 
 every quality which a man should not possess, and was \i 
 lacking in most of those which go to the making of a 
 praiseworthy gentleman. Humanity to him was but 
 a word of eight letters, that might mean one thing or 
 another. His freedom from religious intolerance was 
 a virtue taking equal rank with a savage's disregard 
 for decent clothing: his religious principles, like the 
 barbarian's modesty, being greatly in the negative. 
 
 The tidal wave, born of the love of hberty, which 
 finally swept the king's minions back to Britain, gained 
 much of its force in this sparsely populated province. 
 The commissioned officers of the crov/n, and the 
 multitudinous rank and file of petty office-holders, 
 cultivated a great and growing greed of other people's 
 gold. And these other people, already overburdened 
 with taxation, resented the extortions from their very 
 start. 
 
 The Stamp Act, which inflamed American minds 
 from the northernmost province to its furthest sister 
 in the South, stirred North Carolina to the heart. The 
 
 83 
 
Wallannah 
 
 provincial legislature was in serene and peaceful session 
 when advices of the passage of this act came from the 
 royal Parliament. The excitement was intense; and 
 Tryon made terrific haste to prorogue the legislature, 
 after a session of but fifteen days, that the people's 
 representatives might not raise a storm which should 
 reach the throne and bring the king's disfavor upon 
 his beloved self. 
 
 Then it was that John Ashe, revered of all 
 Carolinians, said to Tryon that the odious Stamp Act 
 would be resisted by the people even to blood and to 
 death. And Tryon knew Ashe for a m.an who spoke 
 advisedly. 
 
 The wily governor, seeing clearly that the breaking 
 of the whirlwind which lay within the cloud that 
 overhung the province would bring about his official 
 ruin, kept the legislature out of business throughout 
 the life of the Stamp Act. Fearing, however, that 
 something might arise to bring the rays of indignation 
 to a burning focus, Tryon exerted himself to win the 
 favor of the people. He mingled with them, and, with 
 surpassing tact and hospitality, played the host at many 
 banquets. But, although a man's heart may sometimes 
 be reached through his stomach, his appetite fails 
 before the grasping hand of the tax-gatherer. 
 
 Then came his Tvlajesty's sloop-of-war Diligence, 
 freighted with stamped paper for use (on payment of 
 due consideration) by the disgusted colonists. Hardly 
 had the vessel's anchor touched the bottom of the Cape 
 Fear River before John Ashe, of New Hanover 
 (helping keep good his prophecy to Tryon), and 
 Colonel Waddell, of Brunswick, placed themselves at 
 
 84 
 
A Bit of History 
 
 the head of a band of patriots, and proceeded to give 
 the master of the Diligence the greatest fright of his 
 Hfe. After the trenibhng sailor had sworn to land no 
 stamped paper on Carolina's soil, the patriots marched 
 to the governor's palace and called upon Tryon to desist 
 from all efforts to enforce the Stamp Act. Then they 
 demanded James Houston, the stamp master for North 
 Carolina. But James kept very quiet, and made no 
 effort to meet those who so eagerly sought him. The 
 crowd called again, and more loudly than before. But 
 Tryon said, "Gentlemen, I cannot accede to such a 
 turbulent demand ; but if you will take formal action, 
 and do so and so and thus and thus, I will give the 
 matter my consideration." 
 
 It happened that the people wanted the stamp 
 master, not the governor's consideration — which was 
 a flimsy thing at best. So they called, "Houston ! Give 
 us Houston, or we'll burn your palace to the ground 1" 
 And Houston was produced forthwith. 
 
 It is highly probable that the stamp master looked 
 upon that hour as his last. Whatever his thoughts, he 
 suffered himself to be led to the public market-house, 
 where, instead of being hung, he was sworn by a 
 solemn oath to perform none of the official duties 
 assigned him. Then, set free and wondering how he 
 still lived, Houston found his way back to the palace, 
 where he and Tryon comforted one another with 
 caustic observations upon people who aspired to human 
 rights. 
 
 After this throb of the popular pulse, Tryon made 
 a frantic effort to persuade the people of the province 
 to think his way. He doubtless overlooked the fact 
 
 85 
 
Wallannah 
 
 that he was paid to think as he did, and that the people 
 did the paying without having the privilege of choosing 
 their goods. The governor implored the forbearance 
 of the citizens, and begged for their advice. At public 
 meetings, with his hand over his heart, he bowed and 
 smiled on all men, believing such benignity to be the 
 most masterful of flatteries. It seems strange that, 
 playing such a gracious part, his Excellency was 
 meanwhile planning to open upon these verv peoole 
 the vials of the royal wrath. 
 
 Tryon's conciliatory labors ended abortively. 
 Taking advantage of an outpouring of the people to 
 witness a general muster of the militia in New Hanover 
 in February of the year 1766, the governor prepared a 
 barbecue which was to be such a barbecue as had never 
 before been given beneath American skies. The most 
 prodigious ox in all North Carolina was cooked and 
 placed upon a great stout-legged table. To wash down 
 the beef was beer in many barrels. The governor was 
 there, with bland and fatherly smile; the multitude 
 was there, with some curiosity and with much fixedness 
 of purpose; the feast, also, was there and waiting; 
 but peace and harmony were afar off. 
 
 A few minutes before Tryon remembered a pressing 
 business engagement elsew4iere, a score of sturdy men 
 lifted the roasted ox from the table and threw it into 
 the river, while some others of the crowd emptied the 
 beer casks upon the ground. In one respect the feast 
 met Tryon's expectations : never before had American 
 skies smiled upon such a barbecue. This episode went 
 to show that Tryon's cajolery availed him little while 
 the Stamp Act hung dark and cloudlike over the land. 
 
 86 
 
A Bit of History 
 
 Arising from this incident, a duel of fatal 
 termination was fought between Alexander Simpson, 
 master of his Majesty's sloop-of-war Vixen, and 
 Thomas Whitechurst, lieutenant of the same vessel. 
 Simpson openly praised the exhibition of the 
 self-respect of the North' Carolinians; while 
 Whitechurst (a relative, by the way, of Lady Tryon's) 
 favored the governor. Whether the captain's skill or 
 his espousal of a just cause served him in good stead, 
 he was the victor in the duel. He was apprehended 
 and was tried before Judge Berry, with the result of 
 full acquittal. This was displeasing to Tryon, who was 
 fond enough of the law when its verdicts suited his 
 views, but who launched furious proclamations when 
 the courts essayed to set imprudent precedents. So 
 the governor summoned Judge Berry to his presence. 
 The interview was not a long one; but the poor 
 justice saw such menace in Tryon's demeanor that, 
 leaving the palace, he ripped himself open with a 
 penknife and suffered a horrible death. 
 
 Simpson fled from the colony, assisted by William 
 Maynard, once lieutenant and afterward captain of 
 his Majesty's sloop-of-war Wasp. Maynard, having 
 resigned his commission in the royal navy, had returned 
 to North Carolina, allying himself with the cause of the 
 Regulators, and having a price set upon his head by 
 the governor 
 
 The Stamp Act died in due course of time, and 
 Tryon rolled up his sleeves and, crowning himself with 
 a wreath of laurel, indited a wordy proclamation, 
 which the people received with great joy. Then his 
 Excellency, seeing the good humor of the populace, 
 
 87 
 
Wallannah \ 
 
 rushed through the assembly a bill appropriating a 
 large sum of money for the building of a palace to 
 protect the gubernatorial head from the weather. At 
 the same time the legislature, bending to the governor's 
 opinion that King George had repealed the Stamp 
 Act out of love for him, brought together some pieces 
 of good, fertile land and inflicted upon this tract 
 the county name of Tryon. Later on, when that 
 gentleman's renown had ceased to be a thing by which 
 to conjure, the sovereign people split this Tryon county 
 into two, which were then given the names which still 
 are theirs — Lincoln and Rutherford. 
 
 Tryon worked harder for his palace than he ever 
 labored for the good of the people of his province. 
 Nor did he work alone; for his wife dined and feted 
 and flattered every man and v/oman whose influence 
 seemed worth a shilling; and her sister, Esther Wake, 
 beautiful and of wondrous fascination, won to the 
 governor's hobby every one with whom she talked. As 
 an outcom.e, the people of the province were taxed 
 fifteen thousand pounds for Tryon's palace; and, this 
 sum falling short of the needed total, the governor 
 m.ade up the deficit by a dexterous error in computing 
 the balance on hand to the credit of the public school 
 fund. 
 
 To build this palace (which for its day was a 
 splendid provincial edifice) bricks and prepared 
 material were brought from England, and one John 
 Llawks, recorded as a Moor from Malta, was employed 
 as its official architect. The building was completed 
 in October of 1770; and the Latin inscription over its 
 portal thenceforth looked serenely down upon the 
 
 88 
 
A Bit of History 
 
 taxpayers who had invited its sarcasm. This was what 
 it said : 
 
 "Rege pio, dira inimica tyrannis 
 Vertuti has jedes libera terra dedit. 
 Sint domus tt dominus saeclis exempla futuris 
 His artes, mores, jura legesque colanL" 
 
 It was well that all the people could not read the 
 language of ancient Rome; for had the words on 
 Tryon's palace been translated into the king's English 
 and been graven on the heart of every man whose 
 hard-earned gold had gone to the building of that 
 house, something unpleasant might have occurred. 
 Translated, the inscription announced the following 
 marvellous falsehood : 
 
 "A free and happy people, opposed to cruel tyrants, 
 have given this edifice to virtue. May the house and 
 its inmate, as an example for future ages, here cultivate 
 the arts, order, justice and the laws." 
 
 After the people began to realize that a palace was 
 a costly gift to such virtues as were represented by 
 Tryon, they were also made to feel with redoubled 
 weight the extortions and frauds of the provincial 
 officers. In Orange county a number of citizens filed 
 with the court a dignified and forcible protest against 
 the current practice of inordinate feeing. This 
 resulted in the convention held at Haddock's Mill in 
 October, 1766, and at which resolutions were adopted 
 condemning such illegal practices. 
 
 In the spring of 1768 the active spirits of the former 
 convention met again and formed an association for 
 the regulation of public grievances and abuse of power. 
 
 89 
 
Wallannah 
 
 They resolved "to pay only such taxes as \vere 
 agreeable to law and applied to the purpose therein 
 named, and to pay no officer more than his legal fees." 
 The fact that such a simple declaration was necessary 
 proves the length to which these abuses had been 
 carried. The formation of the Regulators with this 
 avowed purpose was a bitter pill for Tryon, and for his 
 favorite, whose unfailing procedure was to charge two 
 or three or more fees for every official service, one fee 
 to go to the public treasury, the others to their pockets. 
 
 Among these gentlemanly highwaymen was 
 Edmund Fanning, who rose from poverty to affluence, 
 from the ranks of the rabble of some other state 
 to the position of a green bay tree flourishing in 
 Tryon's favor ; for he was clerk of the court of Orange, 
 colonel of the county militia, an attorney-at-law, and 
 representative (in a restricted sense) in the general 
 assembly. In addition to these things. Fanning was 
 the most polished robber of his age. He extorted fee 
 upon fee; and the people? — "Make your complaints, 
 gentlemen: Governor Tryon will consider them." 
 Then, "Your Excellency, some seditious persons are 
 misrepresenting me in a petition to your Excellency. 
 But behold in me a man after your Excellency's own 
 heart !" Whereupon would William, the Wolf drop one 
 eyelid by the fraction of an inch, and murmur, 
 "Edmund dear, the people were made for us, not we 
 for the people." And Fanning increased in wealth ; 
 and incidentally played fast and loose v/ith a pretty — 
 However, that comes further on. 
 
 In April of 1768 the people, greatly exasperated by 
 the illegal acts of Fanning and the county sheriff, and 
 
 90 
 
A Bit of History 
 
 flespairing of any result from appeals to the governor 
 and to the crown, made something of a demonstration 
 against these inexpressible gentlemen. The consequence 
 was perfectly natural. The people had assumed rights ; 
 the government insisted that its officers' rights must 
 come first ; and Herman Husbands and James Hunter, 
 two of the leaders, were arrested and given a 
 comfortable place within the walls of the Hillsborough 
 
 jail. 
 
 The Regulators, reasonably enough, were displeased 
 at the law which made fish of one class and fowl of 
 another ; for they had appealed to the courts for relief 
 from extortion and fraud and had met with rebuff 
 upon rebufl:', yet the first of them who dared to 
 raise a hand against the commissioned thieves was 
 made to suffer the penalty of the statutes. These 
 men congregated in large numbers and started for 
 Hillsborough for the purpose of freeing their 
 imprisoned comrades. Hearing of this. Fanning and 
 his confreres suddenly found it convenient to release 
 the prisoners on bail. 
 
 A month later James Hunter and Rednap Howell, 
 prominent Regulators, presented to the governor and 
 his council a paper setting forth the people's grievances 
 in simple, straightforward terms, and praying 
 reasonable redress. The council, at Tryon's dictation, 
 praised Fanning for his dignified and irreproachable 
 course, and poured condemnation ad nauseam upon 
 the Regulators for daring to consider the people 
 possessed of such a devil as rights of citizenship. 
 
 This astonishing attitude gave increased popularity 
 to the cause espoused by the Regulators. The 
 
 91 
 
Wallannah 
 
 movement shaped itself into somewhat of an avalanche, 
 and swept across the province, gaining weight and 
 force as it went. It came to a stop near Hillsborough 
 in July, 1768. By that time the rebels (to use Tryon's 
 term of endearment) numbered thirty-seven hundred; 
 but the governor mustered his army, and thus developed 
 the fact that the Regulators were not looking for war. 
 Their dispersal was effected without the shedding of 
 blood. 
 
 Then the courts began to take a more active part. 
 A large number of the "rioters" were lodged in jail, 
 and were finally brought to trial. Hunter and several 
 others were remanded to the prison, and Husbands was 
 acquitted. William the Wolf, to whom an acquittal by 
 a court meant little, refused to pardon Husbands and a 
 dozen others, but took the stigma from the names of 
 all the other participants in the movement of the 
 Regulators. 
 
 In the spring of 1770 the beloved Maurice Moore, 
 justice of the superior court, announced that the Rowan 
 county people were so aroused against the constituted 
 law that civil processes were impossible of execution 
 among them. Similar conditions existed in other 
 counties. The sheriff of Orange attempted the service 
 of a warrant, and was seized by John Pugh, a famous 
 woodsman, and by several other Regulators, and 
 received a wholesome chastisement. In Dobbs county 
 the sheriff was indiscreet enough to essay the capture 
 of two Regulators, and was fortunate in escaping with 
 his life — which, be it said, was more than holds true 
 with his deputy. The superior court at Hillsborough 
 was invaded by Husbands, Hunter, Howell, William 
 
 92 
 
A Bit of History 
 
 Butler, Samuel Divinny and others, who bundled up 
 the lawyers and court officers, stood them up in the 
 streets and thrashed them soundly. Judge Henderson, 
 presiding over this body, came to the conclusion that 
 an adjournment would be quite appropriate under the 
 circumstances, and acted accordingly. More than this, 
 the worthy judge, not liking the look of things, left 
 the town in great precipitation some time during the 
 night. The Regulators held this court in suspenso for 
 a full year. 
 
 Fanning soon met a small portion of his just deserts 
 at the hands of those whom he had wronged. He was 
 taken from the court-house at Hillsborough, and his 
 punishment was well under way when he took refuge 
 in a store, closely followed by a shower of stones and 
 brickbats. After this the enraged crowd tore down the 
 colonel's house and demolished its furniture. The 
 general public thought this no wrong, as all that 
 Fanning had came by extortion from the people. 
 
 About this time the governor and his hirelings 
 devoted themselves to securing evidence of the treason 
 of these Regulators, and affidavits innumerable were 
 taken to prove this. Among these was that of one 
 Robert Lytle, who swore that he had seen the 
 Regulators encamped, and drinking damnation to 
 King George. This, of course, was reprehensible, and 
 it was also ill-advised, for the damnation of King 
 George was something rather beyond the scope of the 
 good people whom Lytle visited. 
 
 In the last month of 1770 Tryon urged upon 
 the assembly the necessity of having an increased 
 army; for he saw that naught but blood could make 
 
 93 
 
Wallannah 
 
 submission out of a chaos of ideas of liberty and of 
 equitable representation. 
 
 Husbands was the assemblyman from Orange, but 
 his patriotism became too conspicuous, and he was 
 expelled, and afterward spent several days in jail as 
 a reward for past demonstrations in the cause of liberty. 
 
 February of 1771 marked the appearance of a 
 characteristic proclamation from Tryon, ordering that 
 no one should sell powder, shot, or lead until William 
 should permit. This was thought to be a measure 
 which would driye the Regulators into the ways of 
 peace, or to the use of bows and arrows. One 
 merchant, however — But of that later. 
 
 A month afterward Tryon intercepted a letter 
 written by Rednap Howell, and intended for James 
 Hunter, concerning an attack upon New Bern, and the 
 council at once provided for the raising of an army, to 
 be headed by his Excellency, and to sweep the 
 Regulators from the soil of North Carolina. 
 
 By this time the patriots were in arms, and were 
 ready to meet Tryon should he seek for battle ; but, be 
 it remembered, their cry was ever, "Give us our rights, 
 make your officers obey the written laws, and we will 
 disperse in peace, and, as loyal subjects of his Majesty 
 King George, will uphold the government." 
 
 And Tryon's unfailing answer was, "I cannot 
 concede rights to rebels; the king's officers and my 
 officers are honest and upright, never failing in their 
 duty ; and " — under his breath, of course — "hang it ! 
 you've got to fight, anyway !" 
 
 Men have asked, "Why did not the Regulators 
 appeal to the courts for justice?" Well, they did. 
 
 94 
 
A Bit of History 
 
 They charged Fanning with extortion, and Fanning 
 pleaded guiUy (on Tryon's advice) to six indictments. 
 Then were the people glad for a few moments ; for 
 they thought that justice had at last awakened in the 
 land. Fanning, professedly guilty on six damning 
 indictments ! Yes ; and Fanning was fined one penny 
 on each count — sixpence for the bunched lot. 
 
 Much of conflicting tenor has been written 
 concerning Herman Flusbands. Beyond question the 
 man was more than once involved in what the 
 government was pleased to call rioting; but so were 
 good men in all the colonies, and their descendants 
 point to the fact with a just pride. The thorn in 
 Tryon's side seemed to be,.more than all else. Husbands' 
 "seditious utterances" ; for Husbands was the man 
 who wrote the paper read to the court in Orange, the 
 resolutions of the Haddock's Mill Convention, and 
 every document of importance which came from the 
 councils of the Regulators. On this account Husbands 
 may have been a traitor; perhaps he was; but if so, 
 he stood in good company, for then was Benjamin 
 Franklin a traitor, and Patrick Henry, and Hancock, 
 and Adams, and a thousand others. If these were 
 traitors, then Husbands was a traitor; and they were 
 the men who made free America. 
 
 Furthermore, governors like Tryon create a demand 
 for men like Husbands and Howell and Hunter and 
 their associates. Trampling upon human rights can 
 have but one result : the rights will spring upward, and 
 the right men with them, and will smite the trampler. 
 And that is unpleasant for tyrants and for the friends 
 of tyrants. At least, Tryon found it so. 
 
 95 
 
Wallannah 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "Call that Man a Frencher!" 
 
 T was a cool clay near the close of the first 
 week in April of the year 1771. On the 
 New Bern parade ground Governor Tryon, 
 greatly pufifed up v/ith military vainglory, 
 was holdnig a review of his Alajesty's provincial troops 
 of North Carolina. From miles around had come the 
 people, all in holiday attire, and all ready to cheer for 
 the king, for Tryon or for the army, whichever seemed 
 the most timely ; for cheers mean little on a gala day, 
 and many who shouted for Tryon would as readily 
 have cheered the devil. Their only aim was the making 
 of a great noise. In this their success was amazing. 
 
 In one of the largest stores on Pollock street were 
 congregated numerous men of many callings, dressed 
 in the various garbs of the planter, the artisan and the 
 woodsman. These were the people who, caring nothing 
 for the vain pomp of the governor's review, had sought 
 congenial companionship within the yellow-fronted 
 shop of Simon Fawn. 
 
 The merchant beh-'nd the counter, obsequious and 
 good-humored, seemed amply blessed with customers, 
 although the greater part of the score or more men 
 who lounged in his chairs and kicked their heels 
 against his well-filled boxes, were not there for trading. 
 
 96 
 
" Call That Man a Frencher ! '' 
 
 Fawn himself might have attracted attention in 
 any crowd. He was a large, round-faced man, of 
 ministerial look, with light blue eyes that shifted rather 
 too much. He moved like one proud of his physical 
 superiority, and bore that air of condescension so 
 common among large men, giving him an appearance 
 of good-fellowship and benevolence. This, naturally, 
 did him immense credit with his friends and 
 acquaintances. His manner was affable and cordial, 
 his voice deep and cheery, and the expression of his 
 face generally pleasing, barring the restlessness of his 
 light eyes. This peculiarity, however, seldom attracted 
 more than passing notice ; for Simon Fawn's popularity 
 and his sterling qualities were too patent to justify any 
 man in saying that the look in his eyes was furtive and 
 cunning. 
 
 During the first half hour of their meeting, the 
 motley throng within the store conversed on general 
 topics and in a general way; but later, when the air 
 grew thick with tobacco smoke, and the customers 
 ceased their coming (for the martial review was then 
 at its height), they separated into little groups and 
 talked together in subdued tones. 
 
 Two or three men sat aside from the rest and said 
 but little. One of these, a portly, well-built man, in 
 the simple garb of a Quaker, sat just inside the closed 
 door, smoking a long-stemmed pipe and showing more 
 than a casual interest in the snatches of conversation 
 which came to his ears. This man, though past the 
 prime of life, seemed the very incarnation of vigor. 
 His large grey eyes shone with the boldness of an 
 eagle's, and the height of his forehead and the 
 
 97 
 
Wallannah 
 
 squareness of his lower jaw were accentuated ratiier 
 than hidden by the curhng masses of his vivid red hair 
 and beard. 
 
 Close beside the Quaker, and upon apparently 
 friendly terms with him, sat a man of similar build, 
 attired in a plain suit of jeans and wearing a pair of 
 stout, mud-spattered boots. Beneath the narrow- 
 brimmed hat, which rested jauntily upon his head, fell 
 a profusion of curly black hair. His large and 
 vari-colored cravat was fastidiously arranged, and he 
 wore a slip of holly on his coat lapel. Younger by 
 several years than his companion, his manner was 
 animated to a noticeable degree, and his eyes alternated 
 with the glow of vigorous spirit and the sparkle of 
 good humor. 
 
 A third man, tall and of muscular frame, stood 
 leaning with his back to the counter. His fox-skin 
 cap and brown hunting-suit would have proclaimed 
 his vocation even had his long rifle not stood, with butt 
 upon the floor, beside him. 
 
 "Stirring times, neighbor," remarked Fawn, movmg 
 to a place behind the hunter. "But how about the meat, 
 friend Witten? Where is your venison?" 
 
 The woodsman shrugged his shoulders. "Sell me 
 powder and lead, and I'll bring the meat," he answered, 
 looking back and giving a short, mirthless laugh. "I 
 can't catch deer with bird-lime." 
 
 "Persuade Governor Tryon to repeal his law, my 
 friend, and you'll get your powder," said Fawn, smiling 
 blandly. "We must be good citizens, Witten, peaceful 
 and law-abiding." 
 
 "Yes," retorted the hunter, with a sneer, "peaceful 
 
 98 
 
"Call That Man a Frencher ! " 
 
 and law-abidin' ! Our abidin' may be good enough, but 
 the law's a damned outrage." 
 
 " 'Sh ! Witten, don't start such talk as that." Then, 
 in lower tones, "the governor has big ears, you 
 know." 
 
 Witten laughed loudly. "Every ass has got big 
 ears," he said. "The gov'nor wouldn't look nat'ral 
 without 'em." 
 
 A man lounged forward from the crowd, "Pretty 
 good, friend," he said, addressing Witten ; "but the 
 Cherokees call the governor a better name than that. 
 They say he's 'The Bloody Wolf; and you may find 
 he's got teeth as well as ears." 
 
 "The Injuns is wrong," was the bold retort. "A 
 wolf is a wild dog as loves freedom. He don't wear 
 no silver collars ; it's yer city dogs as does that. King 
 George owns a heap o' that breed, an' Gov'nor Tryon's 
 the bigges' one in the lot." 
 
 "Wolf, dog, or whatever you please, for the 
 governor," said a quiet-looking man, rising from his 
 chair and coming forward; "but we're the asses, and 
 will be so as long as we bear the burdens the king and 
 his servants put upon us." He drew a bundle of 
 printed pamphlets from his pocket. "Here friends," 
 he said, handing them about the crowd, "take these 
 sermons and read them. Then you'll see that what I 
 say is true. Take one, Witten." 
 
 The hunter smiled as he shook his head. "Keep 
 it, Pugh ; I know the thing by heart — cover to cover. 
 Don't believe me, eh ? Well, here's yer text : 'Issachar 
 is a strong ass couching down between two burdens: 
 and he saw that rest was good, and the land that it was 
 
 99 
 
Wallannah 
 
 pleasant ; and bowed his shoulder to bear, and became 
 a servant unto tribute.' " 
 
 The little knots of men had stopped their 
 conversation, and the eyes of all were fixed upon 
 Witten. 
 
 "That's the first text," continued the hunter, "an' 
 the sermon goes to prove how Issachar stands for the 
 people — us people — an' how civil slav'ry an' religious 
 slav'ry is the two burdens. Ain't that what it says?" 
 And he smiled triumphantly at Pugh. 
 
 "Who writ the thing?" called some one from the 
 crowd. 
 
 "Some says Herman Husbands," answered Witten, 
 "an' som.e says Ben. Franklin. They're two o' the same 
 kind, anyhow — cousins by blood an' liberty-men by 
 brains. If we had enough o' sich we wouldn't be no 
 Issachars." 
 
 A dozen men stamped their feet in applause. Fawn 
 gave an anxious look toward the door. 
 
 "Where's this 'ere Husbands now ?" asked a farmer 
 sitting astride an empty barrel. "Hidin' in a tree?" 
 
 "A long ways from here, I reckon," Witten 
 answered. "He ain't runnin' his head into no gallus 
 rope by comin' round these parts. Sence the gov'nor 
 got him dumped out 'n th' assembly, he's made a clean 
 pa'r o' heels, don't ye fergit that. The gov'nor's 
 outlawed him, but the people's goin' to care fer Herman 
 Husbands." 
 
 Once more the crowd answered with the thunder 
 of heavy boot-heels. 
 
 "Can't the man take care of himself ?" asked Fawn, 
 with a forced laugh. 
 
 100 
 
^^^5r^' 
 
 "Speech is free," retorted the woodman, his voice louder than 
 
 BEFORE 
 
" Call That Man a Frencher ! " 
 
 Witten spun around on his heel. "Take care of 
 himself!" he roared. "You bet he can; an' you bet he 
 will, too. An' he can help us take care of ourselves, 
 'spite of the gov'nor an' all his gang o' thieves." 
 
 A great shout came up from the crowd. 
 
 Fawn, his face whitening, leaned over the counter 
 and whispered into Witten's ear. "For Heaven's sake, 
 be careful, man! The governor's troops could hear 
 that yell." 
 
 "Speech is free," retorted the woodman, his voice 
 louder than before. "If the gov'nor's chicken-hearted 
 troops don't Hke what I say, they can come in an' string 
 me up. It's comin' soon enough, anyhow." Then he 
 turned to his audience. "I ain't no traitor," he said, 
 "but," and he shook his great fist toward the governor's 
 palace, "I want the squar' treatment, an' the law an' 
 the jestice that the king's Lazarus-lickin' hound over 
 yonder won't give us. That's what I want ; an' that's 
 what you want, too." 
 
 The din of applause drowned his voice. Witten 
 held up his hand to command silence. 
 
 "If the gov'nor," he said, bending forward and 
 looking his auditors in their faces ; "if the gov'nor 
 loved us people as much now as he said he did when 
 he wanted money to build that 'ere palace o' his'n, he 
 wouldn't have to raise no army to fight the Regulators. 
 He made plenty o' promises an' talked mighty fine till 
 he got all the money he wanted ; an' after that, what 
 did you git ? Nothin'. That's what you got ; an' that's 
 all yer goin' to git. He's fixed now with all he wants, 
 an' you can feed and clothe his lazy spen'thrift fav'rites 
 and can't open your mouths to say nothin'. There's 
 
 lOI 
 
Wallannah 
 
 where you stand. He don't care who sinks so long as 
 he can swim. You gave him his palace ; and now he 
 wants you to give 'im a crown. He's holdin' his empty 
 head now like he's born a king." 
 
 " 'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty 
 spirit before a fall/ " sounded a deep voice from the 
 front of the room. 
 
 All eyes were riveted on the speaker. 
 
 The Quaker sat quietly, smoking his pipe. After 
 a moment he took the stem from between his teeth. 
 "Pardon my interruption, friends ; but if you think my 
 quotation fits the case, remember it. Now, tell me one 
 thing. Who are these Regulators?" 
 
 Pugh answered him. "I guess you're a stranger in 
 these parts, sir. Where did you come from, not to 
 know the Regulators?" 
 
 "I've come from Pennsylvania," answered the 
 red-bearded man, quietly, "and my name is Jenkins. 
 Candidly, I have heard something of the Regulators ; 
 but accounts differ so that I want the truth. Some 
 have called them good and true men; others, rioters 
 and disturbers of the peace. Who is right?" 
 
 A dozen men replied. The babel of eager shouts 
 was louder than had been the repeated applause that 
 greeted Witten's speech. 
 
 Fawn, coming from behind the counter, took the 
 hunter by the arm and hurried him into the back room. 
 "Witten," he said, excitedly, "there's danger in all this 
 talk ; you've got to stop it. Tryon suspects me now." 
 He turned and took two packages from a book-case 
 shelf. "You wanted powder and lead," he said, in a 
 whisper. "There are both. It's a risk; and — keep 
 
 I02 
 
"Call That Man a Frencher!" 
 
 your money; but for Heaven's sake, go out and shui 
 those people's mouths. They'll ruin me." 
 
 Witten dropped the ammunition into an inside 
 pocket of his coat, and left the room. 
 
 After he had gone, a tall man, his features hidden 
 by his slouched hat and by the upturned collar of his 
 grey military cloak, looked up from the table at which 
 he had been writing throughout the conversation 
 between Witten and Fawn. "You gave Witten his 
 powder," he said, with a smile; "but where's mine?" 
 
 "I'll have it ready to-night, Captain. Want it at 
 the same place?" 
 
 "The same place ; but don't send it, bring it." 
 
 "Certainly; if you'll meet me yourself. You can 
 see, Captain, I can't risk getting a third party into this 
 thing." 
 
 "As you will," answered the officer, curtly. "And 
 at what hour?" 
 
 "Eleven, to-night." 
 
 "Very well," and he resumed his writing. 
 
 Fawn started toward the door. 
 
 "A moment more," called the other. "I wish to 
 send this letter to Lord Durham, a guest of the 
 governor. Can you work it for me?" 
 
 "Why — yes, yes. But here's a customer. Excuse 
 me a moment, Captain." The store-keeper went into 
 the front room, where quiet now reigned, and the door 
 was carefully closed behind him. 
 
 The officer returned to his writing, but his eyebrows 
 were drawn together with a frown. 
 
 Simon Fawn's customer was an Indian boy, about 
 sixteen years of age. His dress was a ludicrous 
 
 103 
 
Wallannah 
 
 combination of the fineries of barbarity and civilization. 
 From the feathered cap on his head to the gayly 
 beaded moccasins on his feet the boy was a human 
 kaleidoscope; and buckskin leggings with red fringe 
 upon them, a pair of sky-blue silk breeches, a shirt and 
 waistcoat of the latest Parisian mode, a glaring yellow, 
 neck-scarf, and over all a red and green horse-blanket, 
 were the things that went to the making up of the 
 spectacle. 
 
 Fawn smiled broadly as the vision greeted his eyes. 
 "What will you have, my boy ?" he asked, bending over 
 the counter. 
 
 "Me want spurs." 
 
 "Spurs? To be sure; I've got some beauties here, 
 just the thing for you." 
 
 "No for me. Fit Caiheek — foot leetle." 
 
 After considerable parley, the purchase was made 
 and the boy left the store. 
 
 "Who's yer gaudy friend. Fawn," asked the Man 
 on the Barrel. 
 
 Witten responded. "Waits on the young Frencher 
 at the gov'nor's." 
 
 "Bah !" growled the questioner, in disgust. "French 
 and Injuns. Both our nat'ral-born enemies, an' both 
 kissin' Tryon's feet." 
 
 "Oh! well," said Witten, oiling the rising waves, 
 "let yer by-gones be by-gones. We fought the French 
 an' Injun war once, an' we ain't goin' to fight it ag'in. 
 The French is our friends ; let 'em stay so." 
 
 Opportunely enough the door opened and a stranger 
 entered. The room was silent as a tomb. 
 
 Simon was the first to speak. "Walk up, my friend, 
 
 104 
 
"Call That Man a Frencher!" 
 
 walk up." 'Then, as the man approached him, "Let 
 me see, Mr. — Your name has shpped my mind, but 
 I've certainly met you before." 
 
 The new-comer, a short, thick-set man of thirty, 
 looked puzzled. 'T guess you have, if you say so," he 
 answered ; "but," with a little laugh, 'T can't remember 
 when nor how. My name is Ross — John Ross, from 
 up the river." 
 
 The merchant's eyes dropped for a moment. "I'm 
 Simon Fawn, as you can see by the sign over the door." 
 He looked up again. "But I guess we've never met: 
 I don't remember any Ross. But now, what can I do 
 for you? Here's a big variety to choose from." And 
 he waved his hand toward the heavily laden shelves 
 along the wall. 
 
 "A little later," said Ross, smiling and walking back 
 toward the door. "One of your guests is an old friend 
 of mine. I must have a word with him first of all." 
 He crossed to the curly-haired man with the holly on 
 his coat. "Howell," he whispered, putting himself 
 between the man and the crowd, "why are you parading 
 yourself about the Carolinas. This is no place for 
 you." 
 
 "Quiet, Ross," admonished the other. "Hunter and 
 I are bearers of dispatches from the Regulators to 
 Tryon. We want him to accept our terms and avert 
 bloodshed." 
 
 "Will he doit?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then, why do you and Hunter risk it?" 
 
 "We have to do our duty, that's why." 
 
 "But the danger?" 
 
 105 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Howell lifted his eyebrows and laughed lightly. 
 "Danger? It comes with our daily bread." 
 
 John turned away. "I'll see you to-night," he said. 
 
 "Yes — if all is well." 
 
 During their talk together, both perhaps thinking 
 that Rednap Howell was a stranger to all save a few 
 of those about them, the Man on the Barrel was 
 humming a popular air in a soft undertone. As John 
 returned to the counter some others in the crowd joined 
 in the singing, and in a moment the room rang with the 
 words of Howell's best song — for the curly-haired 
 man was the poet-laureate of the simple patriots of 
 the province. 
 
 "Says Frohawk to Fanning, to tell the plain truth. 
 When I came to this country, I was but a youth; 
 My fath— " 
 
 "Neighbors, neighbors !" cried Fawn, in an agony 
 of apprehension (the clamor had made the pans rattle 
 on the shelves) ; "stop that noise. You'll bring the 
 governor — " 
 
 "Damn the governor!" came the hot retort. 
 
 "Start over again," yelled another. "Fawn put us 
 out £)i our time." 
 
 "Grind out the next verse," cried the Man on the 
 Barrel. 
 
 "Says Fanning to Frohawk, 'tis folly to He, 
 I rode an old mare that was blind of one eye; 
 Five shillings — " 
 
 "Hold on, friends!" called Fawn. "Here comes 
 a customer." 
 
 1 06 
 
"Call That Man a Frencher!" 
 
 "The Frenchman from the palace," muttered some 
 one. 
 
 "Shut up! while Simon bleeds him," laughed the 
 Man on the Barrel, 
 
 The door opened and the young Parisian entered. 
 The eyes that sought him curiously at first began soon 
 to exhibit undoubted admiration. For the Frenchman, 
 although apparently not more than a score of years in 
 age, was tall above the common, and carried tlie 
 shoulders of an Olympian athlete, and upon them a 
 head held high as became one of his station, with a face 
 strong in feature and high-bred in its every expression. 
 Such was Motier Du Val, the friend of Governor 
 Tryon. 
 
 He walked to the counter. 
 
 Fawn met him with his characteristic smile. "Can 
 I do something for you, sir?" he asked. 
 
 "This is Mr. Fawn?" was the questioning response, 
 in a voice that had but a slight suggestion of foreign 
 accent. 
 
 "That's my name, sir; at your service." 
 
 "My Indian servant made a purchase of you a short 
 time ago, did he not?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, sir. I waited on him very gladly. A 
 pair of spurs, sir. I hope they suited you." 
 
 "Perfectly. But the boy picked up this knife 
 somewhere — he thinks here — and wished me to 
 return it. I would have asked him to bring it to you, 
 but fearing he might find difificulty in expressing 
 himself clearly, I preferred to make the restitution 
 myself." 
 
 Fawn took the knife. "It is my penknife, sir," he 
 
 107 
 
Wallannah 
 
 said. "Much obliged, very much obliged, sir ! Perfectly 
 natural on the boy's part. No ill-will, sir — none 
 whatever. People put things into their pockets without 
 thinking — fingering and fumbling from mere habit. 
 I do it myself, sometimes. He's an honest fellow to 
 restore it : few Indians would do it." 
 
 Du Val had been regarding the merchant with an 
 amused and tolerant smile. "I will tell him of your 
 good opinion, Mr. Fawn," he said, when Simon had 
 finished his rambling dissertation. "He will doubtless 
 appreciate it." 
 
 "I hope so, sir; I hope so. Anything else, sir. 
 Some fine gloves, just in from England. Let me show 
 them to you, sir." 
 
 "No, no, not to-day. But — have you a small 
 memorandum book, something to fit the waistcoat 
 pocket ?" 
 
 "The very thing, sir. Excuse me for a moment; 
 they're in my counting-room, to the rear." 
 
 Du Val's eyes followed the bulky form of the 
 merchant as it disappeared through the glazed 
 doorway. While he still looked he caught a glimpse 
 of the features of him whom Fawn had addressed as 
 "Captain." The face, with its piercing eyes and firm-set 
 lips, compelled the young man's notice, and it stamped 
 itself indelibly upon his memory. 
 
 When Simon Fawn returned he brought several 
 note books and, moreover, two large envelopes, one 
 addressed in the handwriting of the ofiicer in the 
 counting-room, the other in Simon's own rude scrawl. 
 
 "You are a guest of the governor, are you not ?" he 
 asked, after Du Val had selected his book. 
 
 1 08 
 
"Call That Man a Frencher ! " 
 
 "I am," was the answer. 
 
 "Then, will you kindly hand this note," holding out 
 the officer's missive, "to Lord Durham, very privately; 
 and this one," giving him the envelope bearing his own 
 writing, "to Governor Tryon?" 
 
 "Certainly, sir," answered Du Val, as he held the 
 letters in his hand for a moment. 
 
 Suddenly a crash shook the air like a thunder-clap. 
 The men in the store started nervously, and the 
 merchant's wares rattled and jumped in their places. 
 Du Val alone had not stirred by as much as the 
 movement of an eyelid. 
 
 "Who shot the cannon ?" asked Rednap Howell. 
 
 " 'Squire Cantwell's boat, the Leopard," answered 
 John Ross. "She rounded the bend as I came down 
 the street." 
 
 " 'Squire's too fond of salutin'," muttered Witten. 
 "Burns good powder fer nothin'." 
 
 The Frechman, smiling a little, dropped the two 
 letters into separate pockets. "Good day, sir," he said, 
 courteously. The floor trembled under the heavy tread 
 of his feet. 
 
 The Man on the Barrel was the first to speak. "Call 
 that man a Frencher!" he said, with dry sarcasm. 
 
 "French enough," retorted Pugh. "He and his 
 father came up from Charleston. They landed there 
 fresh from France." 
 
 "France or no France," returned the first speaker. 
 "There ain't no frog-eatin' blood in him." 
 
 "Powerful lookin' feller," commented Witten. 
 
 "Powerful ! Wal, I reckon so ! Arms and legs as 
 big as my waist." 
 
 109 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Nervy, too." 
 
 "Nervy! Did you see 'im when that 'ere cannon 
 went off? He never twitched a muscle. He ain't no 
 Frencher !" And the Man on the Barrel spat upon the 
 lioor with his disgust at the idea. 
 
 Suddenly from without came the sound of shouting, 
 rising in a wild crescendo. Witten rushed to the door 
 and thrust out his head. The din of the tumult swept 
 in with the wind. The crowd in the store ran toward 
 the street. 
 
 "A fight ! A fight !" yelled the Man who had been 
 on the Barrel. 
 
 And Simon Fawn was left alone in his store. 
 
 IIO 
 
A Knightly Deed and a Forewarning 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A Knightly Deed and a Forewarning 
 
 OTIER DU VAL, after leaving the store 
 of Simon Fawn, walked leisurely toward the 
 palace. 
 
 The military review had ended, and the 
 militiamen in broken ranks were going from the field. 
 A shimmering cloud of dust hanging above the avenue 
 to the palace gave evidence that the governor and his 
 suite were homeward bound. 
 
 The decorated review stand and the public 
 bench-rows were slowly yielding up their crowds of 
 spectators, when a long wavering line, like a great, 
 dark caterpillar, wound slowly up the path, and the 
 sailors and immigrants from the Leopard came up from 
 the vessel's wharf, A straggling, motley crowd it was. 
 Rough, sunburned sailors, with the roll of the sea still 
 in their legs; strange looking women whose figures 
 and faces were as uncouth and as unwomanlike as the 
 men's ; children with the look of youth pinched from 
 their faces ; these were they who had come across the 
 sea in 'Squire Cantwell's ship. 
 
 The people in the review stand saw the strangers 
 and gave greeting with a ripple of good-humored 
 laughter. This was pardonable because irresistible; 
 but the people of the lower classes and the young men 
 
 III 
 
Wallannah 
 
 and boys, who were nearest to the ship's outpouring, 
 went a point too far ; and surrounding the Httle party 
 began a fusilade of boisterous shouts and offensive 
 epithets. This was the sound which had emptied 
 Simon's store. 
 
 The ship's people might have crossed the parade 
 ground without interference had not the attention of 
 these riotous bystanders been drawn to one person, 
 whose appearance was grotesque even in that rude 
 procession. This was a woman of bulky and masculine 
 figure, swaying from side to side as she walked, and 
 seeming to move with unbended knees. This gait was 
 due, perhaps, to the stiffness of the great, high 
 boots which encumbered her, and which showed 
 conspicuously below her short petticoat. A faded blue 
 sun-bonnet, with loosened strings, was thrown back 
 from her face, showing her strongly marked and 
 red-tinged features. Under one arm she carried a 
 bundle of clothing ; and upon her other shoulder rested 
 a long broom with a string of tin cups and pans 
 pendant from it. 
 
 A crowd of boys pressed about her. "A witch ! A 
 witch!" they shouted gleefully. "Duck her in the 
 pond !" 
 
 The woman raised her eyes. "Out o' my way, boys. 
 Let me pass by yez," she said, good-naturedly. 
 
 "Ride on your broom," called one of the crowd. 
 
 "Yes, witch, ride your broom!" sounded the 
 chorus. 
 
 One great hulking fellow came through the herd. 
 "Ride your broom, woman," he said, with an oath. 
 "Ride it, or we'll soak you in the ditch !" 
 
 112 
 
A Knightly Deed and a Forewarning 
 
 She looked about nervously. Her party, unmindful 
 of her absence, was half way across the field. "Let me 
 pass," she said, hoarsely. "This ain't no way to treat 
 a woman." 
 
 "Ho ! Hear the old fool !" guffawed the big fellow. 
 "Give her a dose of witch's medicine, boys !" 
 
 "Go ahead, Cantwell !" answered the rabble. "We're 
 with you !" 
 
 Picking a half brick from the ground Jake Cantwell 
 hurled it at the woman. It grazed the back of her 
 head, knocked off her bonnet, and was caught by some 
 one on the opposite side of the circle. The woman, pale 
 and trembling, stood looking at her persecutors, her 
 eyes pleading for pity and her thin grey hair waving 
 about in the cold breeze. 
 
 With a laugh Cantwell made a move toward her, 
 holding a stout stick in his uplifted hand. "Move 
 along, you hag!" he yelled. 
 
 She turned toward him ; and, dropping her bundle 
 and the broom with its rattling burden, held up her 
 hands to shield her face. 
 
 Drawing back the cudgel Cantwell aimed a blow at 
 her head. A hand caught his wrist from behind. 
 
 "Let her alone, you brute," said a deep voice, close 
 to his ear. 
 
 Cantwell, without turning, tried to break from the 
 stranger's grip. His arm was forced back until it 
 seemed parting from the shoulder. 
 
 With a cry of pain he dropped the club and swung 
 about. He met the piercing eyes of Motier Du Val, 
 and made a quick step backward. A yell of applause 
 came from the people in the stands, fifty yards away. 
 
 113 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Cantwell turned pale with rage. "Let go my arm !" 
 he shouted. "Let go, I say!" 
 
 "You'll leave the woman alone?" 
 
 "No, you fool, I won't !" 
 
 The crowd of boys laughed in derision. 
 
 Du Val's eyes flashed dangerously. "Coward !" he 
 said, contemptuously. "Lay your hands on her again 
 and you'll regret it." He released Cantwell's wrist and 
 started toward the woman. 
 
 With a muttered curse the big fellow struck at the 
 Frenchman with his heavy fist. The women in the 
 review-stand gave a little scream. The blow grazed 
 Du Val's shoulder. 
 
 The mob rushed in to Cantwell's aid. Du Val 
 turned quickly; his clenched hand, backed by his 
 powerful arm, broke through the ruffian's guard as 
 through a pair of straws, caught the man full in the 
 chest, lifted him off his feet and hurled him prostrate 
 to the ground. A great shout came from the 
 stands. 
 
 "Roarin' frogs !" yelled a voice on the outskirts of 
 the crowd. "That feller a Frencher!" And the Man 
 who had sat on the Barrel in Simon's store dropped 
 the two bricks which he had brought to Du Val's aid. 
 "He don't need no help from me," he said, with a quiet 
 laugh. "He's a reg'lar ox-killer." 
 
 Du Val stood for a moment looking dov/n at his 
 helpless adversary. The crowd of men and boys 
 rushed toward him. He looked up at them. They 
 hesitated a moment. One man closed in and struck 
 at him. Du Val drove his fist straight into the fellow's 
 face. The man went down without a sound. Another 
 
 114 
 
A Knightly Deed and a Forewarning 
 
 exultant shout rang across the field. The rabble surged 
 back. The Frenchman made a quick move toward 
 them ; they broke and scurried off like a pack of 
 mongrel curs. 
 
 With contempt in every line of his face Du Val, 
 without a word, turned his back to his foes and 
 crossed to where the old woman, in open-mouthed 
 astonishment, viewed the scene. A rough-looking 
 sailor, with black eyes and grizzled side-whiskers, stood 
 beside her. 
 
 "You will have no further trouble, my good 
 woman," said Du Val, touching his hat. "But move 
 along quickly." 
 
 "Thank you, young master," answered the woman, 
 with tears in her eyes. "You saved my life that time. 
 I'll see you ag'in some day ; an' you'll find it's not old 
 Peggy McFaddin as fergits a favor. She may pay it 
 back better'n you think. Good bye to you, sir ; an' God 
 bless you 1" 
 
 "You've got my thanks, too," said the sailor, with 
 an awkward bow. "I runned back here to help you, 
 but durn me if you didn't lick the hull gang." And 
 the pair crossed the parade ground and passed from 
 view. 
 
 Du Val, brushing some dust from his coat-sleeve, 
 walked slowly toward the palace. 
 
 Near the middle of the flag-draped review stand a 
 party of perhaps a dozen people stood, watching with 
 interest the outcome of the conflict. These were a part 
 of Governor Tryon's social following, and among them 
 were the handsomest women and the ablest men in the 
 whole province. 
 
 115 
 
Wallannah 
 
 As Du Val walked across the parade ground, this 
 little knot of spectators broke into a storm of plaudits. 
 
 "Think ! That quiet Du Val !" exclaimed one. 
 
 'T thought they'd kill him," said a pretty 
 light-haired girl. 
 
 "He evidently had no fears," laughed another. 
 
 "Your friend has a cool head, Miss Wake," said a 
 young officer to Lady Tryon's sister. 
 
 "Indeed he has," was the laughing response. "And 
 a strong arm, too." Then, leaning toward a handsome 
 woman with dark eyes and white hair, "You have never 
 met Monsieur Du Val, Mrs. DeVere?" 
 
 "No," answered the other, with a smile. "Have 
 you, Alice?" she asked of the light-haired girl. 
 
 "I wish that I might," responded the girl, with a 
 pretty shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 A tall, shapely woman, dark-haired and dark-eyed, 
 looked down at Alice. "You shall. Miss De Vere, if I 
 bring him to you myself." 
 
 Miss De Vere laughed musically. "Really, Miss 
 Creighton, you must. I like his chivalry, don't you?" 
 
 The handsome woman's eyes softened as they 
 looked from beneath their long lashes. "He'd fight no 
 sooner for a queen than he did for that poor woman." 
 
 Mrs. De Vere gave a little cry. "He's in trouble 
 again," she said, pointing to the far side of the field. 
 
 Her companions, already moving toward the 
 gateway, stopped and looked after Du Val. 
 
 He was standing, facing those who followed him. 
 The crowd of men and boys had returned, and with 
 them was a short, fat man dressed in black. 
 
 "Who is that man?" asked ]\Iiss Wake. 
 
 ii6 
 
A Knightly Deed and a Forewarning 
 
 "Graball, the constable," answered the man at her 
 side. 
 
 Miss Creighton was bending forward, her eyes 
 looking eagerly toward the knot of men across the field. 
 "They are arresting him," she exclaimed, in a strained 
 voice. 
 
 "Where is young Cantwell?" asked Miss De Vere. 
 "He was the one at fault." 
 
 "A mile away by this time," answered Miss Wake's 
 escort. "He hardly cares to meet that sledge-hammer 
 again." 
 
 "There's something queer and underhanded in all 
 this," said the governor's sister-in-law, under her 
 breath. "Take me to the palace, Mr. Macdonald ; I 
 must see Governor Tryon." 
 
 "Take my carriage, Esther," said Mrs. De Vere. 
 "I'll go out to Beechwood with Mr. De Vere and Lord 
 Durham. But you must hurry." 
 
 So Estlier Wake and Macdonald, with Miss 
 Creighton entered "'the De Vere carriage, and were 
 driven rapidly toward the palace. On the other side 
 of the parade ground Du Val and the sheriff walked 
 slowly down toward Pollock street, talking and 
 laughing with one another, greatly to the v/onderment 
 of the crowd, whose tastes would have been suited far 
 better had the Frenchman shown fight and been clubbed 
 into insensibility. But, nevertheless, Du Val was in 
 the hands of the law. 
 
 The last people to leave the field were those who 
 had come from Fawn's store. They walked slowly 
 across the level green, listening to the enthusiastic 
 account of the Man who had sat on the Barrel. "Here's 
 
 II 
 
 / 
 
Wallannah 
 
 where it happened," he was saying, "right here where 
 you see the other feller's dub. When he hit that feller 
 Cantwell, he punched 'im out to here — a clean four 
 yards; an' when he caught Jim Smedley in the teeth 
 he dropped 'im, sittin'-down-ways, over yonder, Call 
 that feller a Frencher ! Swimmin' snakes ! He's North 
 Carolina to his toe-nails — France or no France !" 
 
 With a quick exclamation Jenkins, the Quaker, 
 stooped and picked up a paper which, rumpled and 
 dirty, lay on the ground. He called Howell to his side. 
 "Open it, Rednap," he said, handing it to him. 
 
 "It's addressed to the governor," said Howell, a 
 little stupidly. 
 
 "So much the better. Open it." 
 
 Their companions had gone ahead. Howell tore 
 open the envelope. The two men bent over the slip of 
 paper which fell out. "I can furnish your Excellency. 
 Send to-night about ten." This was all that it said, and 
 the signature was, "S. Fawn." 
 
 The Quaker gave- a low whistle. "We have read 
 of Simon the Pharisee," he said, with a chuckle. "This 
 is Simon the Flypocrite. Tell Ross as soon as you can. 
 'Forewarned, forearmed,' you know." 
 
 "But what does it mean? What can he furnish his 
 'Excellency'?" 
 
 "To-night at ten we shall see," was the quiet 
 response. 
 
 Ii8 
 
The Governor Does Some Plotting 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Governor Does Some Plotting 
 
 OVERXOR TRYON and his suite had 
 arrived at the palace and were gathered 
 in the Grand Hall of Audience. The 
 governor, resplendent in the uniform of 
 captain-general, beamed complacently upon the officers 
 gathered about him. 
 
 "Your infantry is greatly improved, Colonel Leach," 
 he said, turning to the one at his right. Then smiling 
 to the left, "And your artillery, Captain Moore, is not 
 a v/hit less deserving of praise. I count upon you both 
 to do his Majesty the good service which my knowledge 
 of 3'ou leads me to expect." 
 
 The officers briefly expressed their gratification. It 
 took no second glance at their faces to see that they 
 were men whose lives were bound up in their duty. 
 
 "I hope your Excellency has not been altogether 
 dissatisfied with my Rangers," said a younger officer, 
 advancing toward the governor. 
 
 "By no means. Captain Neale. I beg your pardon, 
 if I appeared to forget you. But the parade ground is 
 not the place to develop your good qualities. It will 
 take the field itself to test your efficiency; for the 
 Rangers will need more knovs^ledge of woodcraft than 
 of tactics. The Regulators will hardly meet us in close 
 
 119 
 
Wallannah 
 
 formation; instead, they will fight from buslies and 
 from behind trees. In case of ambuscade, it is 
 principally upon you, Captain Neale, and upon your 
 gallant Rangers that I shall rely. From my inspection 
 of your company to-day, I do not fear disappointment. 
 Indeed, gentlemen all, I shall take care that his 
 Majesty be duly informed of your devotion; and I 
 promise that your faithful services shall not go 
 *" unrewarded. But, I am detaining you. Send in your 
 requisitions early ; for in a week or two, at most, we 
 must be ready to march against these rebels." And 
 with a gracious wave of the hand, he dismissed 
 them. 
 
 The governor, smiling to himself, crossed the 
 room and took his place in the executive chair. There 
 he sat for several minutes, and as he sat, the smile 
 slowly faded from his eyes. He was thinking deeply, 
 and the frown which formed the wrinkles between his 
 shaggy brows showed that his thoughts were not 
 pleasant. 
 
 While he still sat there, his chin resting upon his 
 gauntleted right hand, and his eyes fixed upon the 
 floor, a door half way down the side of the room 
 opened, and Esther Wake, her cheeks flushed and her 
 eyes flashing, entered the hall. 
 
 The governor, shaking off the cloud of his gloom, 
 arose and removed his plumed hat. "Tou jours la 
 bien-venue ! ma chere soeur ! — as our friend, the 
 senior Du Val, v/ould say. Take the place at the 
 right of the throne, Esther ; for I am truly glad to see 
 you." The captain-general, taking her hand, led her 
 to the chair beside his own. "Now, what is it, my 
 
 1 20 
 
The Governor Does Some Plotting 
 
 prime minister?" he asked, cheerfully, as he resumed 
 his seat. "What brings you here when the tea-cups 
 are rattling in my lady's boudoir ?" 
 
 "Trouble, trouble, your Excellency." 
 
 " 'Your Excellency,' indeed ! " he said, with line 
 scorn. "Why place a title between us two? Why art 
 so formal, fair one?" 
 
 She smiled as she half turned toward him. "Why ?" 
 she repeated, softly, resting her elbows on the chair 
 arm and looking into his eyes over her clasped hands. 
 "Because, your Excellency, I am here as a loyal subject 
 of his Majesty the king, pleading for justice for our 
 junior visitor from the land of Louis XV." 
 
 "Motier? Wliat of him?" 
 
 "Your Excellency, our protege, crossing the parade 
 ground after the review, found a great brute of a 
 youth — one Jacob Cantwell, your Excellency — • 
 throwing stones at, and otherwise abusing, a poor old 
 woman who had landed from the Leopard but a few 
 moments before. This Cantwell, your Excellency, was 
 about to strike the woman with a stick when our friend 
 Motier interfered. This Cantwell, your Excellency, 
 struck at Motier and Motier knocked him down. Then 
 another man tried to strike our friend and met the 
 same fate. This Cantwell, your Excellency, escaped ; 
 while Motier left the field in the hands of tliat horrid 
 Graball, the constable." She paused a moment in her 
 speech. 
 
 The governor smiled. " 'And this Cantwell, your 
 Excellency,' " he mimicked, "this Cantv/ell is a son of 
 good 'Squire Cantv/ell?" 
 
 She nodded, and a quick gleam came into her eyes. 
 
 121 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Yes," she answered, slowly, "of — good — 'Squire — 
 Cant — well." 
 
 The captain-general laughed. "You do not love 
 the man." 
 
 Esther gave a shudder. "Ugh!" she exclaimed, 
 drawing down the corners of her pretty mouth. "When 
 he is near I feel as though I had put my hand upon a 
 corpse in the dark." 
 
 "Horrible figure of speech, Esther — horrible!" 
 
 "So is the man, your Excellency." Then imitating 
 his deep tones, "Horrible man, William — horrible !" 
 
 The governor crossed his knees and laughed loud 
 and long. 
 
 Esther reached out one hand and laid it upon his 
 gold-braided sleeve. "But my justice, your Excellency, 
 where is my justice?" 
 
 "Your justice. Queen Esther? But, what do the 
 Scriptures say about it? I think it is, "Then said the 
 king unto her. What wilt thou. Queen Esther? and 
 what is thy request ? it shall be even given thee to the 
 half of the kingdom.' Isn't that the writ?" 
 
 Esther laughed, and a little flush came to her cheeks. 
 " 'And Esther answered,' " she quoted, " Tf it seem 
 good unto the king, let the king and Haman come this 
 day unto the banquet that I have prepared for him.' " 
 
 The captain-general rose to his feet. "Be it so, 
 Esther," he said, v/ith a gleam of kindly humor in his 
 eyes. "Prepare your feast if you will, and Motier and 
 I will tea with you before the end of the hour. Have 
 I met the situation?" 
 
 "Like blindfolded Justice herself, your Excellency. 
 And now I must go to make ready my banquet." 
 
 122 
 
The Governor Does Some Plotting 
 
 "Come first to the window where we can see our 
 view, while I ask a question." 
 
 They crossed to one of the deep-seated windows. 
 ''You have a woman's keen eye, Esther. Is there 
 disaffection in the camp?" He looked closely at her. 
 
 She shook her head. "I have seen none, brother. 
 Why do you ask ?" 
 
 "Treachery, black treachery, little woman. My 
 guards, soon after the review, seized a man named 
 Witten. He was laden down -with powder and lead. 
 Where did he get it ? From Fawn ?" 
 
 Again she shook her head. "Perhaps ; but I cannot 
 think so. Simon Fawn's aim is gold. It is more to his 
 good to please than to antagonize you. It is to his 
 interest to be loyal; and the insurgents, you know, 
 cannot outbid you ; they are too poor." 
 
 "Wisely reasoned, my councillor. You have added 
 greatly to my debt. And now — " 
 
 "I must go, William, I — How splendid you look 
 in your uniform. Can't you wear it always?" 
 
 "Go on, child," he said laughing, as he felt the 
 blood rise to his cheeks. "You'll make me vain — " 
 
 "Vainer, your Excellency, vainer !" And, laughing, 
 she went from the hall, leaving the governor smiling 
 out of the window and whistling softly to himself. 
 
 Several minutes later a knock sounded on the door, 
 and a liveried attendant entered. "A note from Lord 
 Durham," he said. 
 
 The governor, waiting until the door was closed, 
 returned again to his seat at the end of the hall, opening 
 the letter as he walked. There were two enclosures. 
 The one from Lord Durham read, "My servant has 
 
 123 
 
Wallannah 
 
 just brought me the enclosed letter addressed to your 
 Excellency, evidently given to him by mistake. 
 Durham." 
 
 Sitting down and replacing his hat, the governor 
 opened the other envelope, and smiled as he read the 
 message which it had contained; for it was the letter 
 from Simon Fawn, which, falling from Du Val's 
 pocket, had been picked up and read by Howell and 
 -the Quaker. The missive was the same, but the 
 envelope was another, addressed by a different hand. 
 This, however, the governor did not notice. 
 
 Had he known that Rednap Howell's pen had 
 traced that flourished superscription, his Excellency 
 Vvould have changed his plans. As it v/as, he only 
 slipped the note beneath his belt and muttered, "Esther 
 was right. Fawn is to be trusted." 
 
 He touched a bell. The liveried attendant came to 
 his elbow. "Ask my secretary to summon the council 
 at once, to meet me here when they are together." 
 
 The governor turned to his table and began writing. 
 After a moment he looked up. The wondrously attired 
 Indian boy stood before him. 
 
 "When did you come, Tonta? 'and v;hat do you 
 v/ant ?" 
 
 "Want soldier bring Caiheek," was the answer. 
 
 "Caiheek? You mean your young master?" 
 
 Tonta drew himself up proudly. "No master," he 
 said, quickly. "Tonta got no master. Him Caiheek — 
 in jail." 
 
 "I've heard of this. He will be set free. You 
 may go." 
 
 And Tonta went, but not whither the governor 
 
 124 
 
The Governor Does Some Plotting 
 
 thought ; for, with a quick glance about him, he slipped 
 into the private study of the executive, a small room 
 adjoining the Hall of Audience and connected with it 
 by a door. 
 
 Governor Tryon resumed his writing. He had 
 finished, and was drying the ink upon the sheet when 
 the door opened. 
 
 "Mr. Cantwell," announced the servant. 
 
 The governor looked up and nodded. 
 
 Cantwell, scrupulously dressed in black and bearing 
 his hat in his hand, entered the hall. 
 
 "You are prompt, Mr. Cantwell," remarked the 
 governor, leaning back in his chair. 
 
 Cantwell bowed profoundly. "I am always ready 
 to serve your Excellency," he said. 
 
 "I thank you," was the governor's dry response. "I 
 have never doubted you. I only fear, Mr. Cantwell, 
 that at times you may be over-zealous in your duty." 
 
 The justice looked up in surprise. "But vour 
 Excellency would find no fault with that." 
 
 "I am not so sure of that, Mr. Cantwell, For 
 instance," and the governor bent forward, smiling 
 grimly, "you have caused, only to-day, a gentleman 
 who has come to me from the court of Louis XV to be 
 arrested by a common constable. He is a representative 
 of a foreign power and is an honored guest of mine. 
 Was that a kindly service? Was that a discreet act, 
 Mr. Cantwell?" 
 
 The 'Squire's eyes fell. "I am sorry," he stammered, 
 "that I did not know this a few hours earlier. Your 
 Excellency's orders were imperative. The civil 
 authorities were to co-operate with the military in 
 
 12$ 
 
Wallannah 
 
 preserving order. This young man was clearly guilty 
 of an affray." 
 
 ''Doubtless. And you have committed him ?" The 
 governor's sm.ile was far from being a pleasant one. 
 
 "For want of bail, your Excellency, which he 
 would not even try to procure. He's as proud as — " 
 
 "As any Frenchman," interrupted the governor. 
 "Although our hereditary foes, and of late at v/ar with 
 us, we must concede to the French a delicate sense of 
 honor. Besides, a stranger, unknown even to the 
 well-informed 'Squire Cantwell, might find it difficult 
 to secure a bondsman under such circumstances. It is, 
 indeed, a matter for the French government to adjust," 
 he added carelessly. "It may come to that yet. But," 
 and his smile deepened, "there must needs be two 
 parties to an affray. Of course, you committed the 
 other, also." 
 
 "He escaped, your Excellency." 
 
 "Ah ! That was unfortunate. Your zeal should 
 have found him. And who was he?" 
 
 "He — he was — hum — " 
 
 "Never mind, Mr. Cantwell," the governor said, 
 sharply. "I know who it was." 
 
 The door again opened, and in thunderous tones 
 came the announcement, "Mr. Rednap Howell and 
 Captain James Hunter." 
 
 "Show them into the anteroom," commanded the 
 governor; "and let them wait until I ring." Then to 
 Cantwell, in tones of confidence that completely 
 reassured the discomfited magistrate, "This, my good 
 'Squire, is a deputation from the Regulators; they 
 bring, as their note this morning informed me, 
 
 12^ • 
 
The Governor Does Some Plotting 
 
 proposals for an amicable adjustment of our difficulties. 
 They are bold rascals, to come to me at such a time on 
 such an errand. I almost feel that my duty is to detain 
 them. Nous verrons! The interview will be brief. I 
 wish you to remain, but not in sight. There is a room 
 into which you can retire until they are gone. We can 
 then finish our business, which, in good truth, has been 
 already too long delayed." 
 
 Following the direction of the governor's finger 
 Cantwell entered the same chamber which harbored 
 Tonta, who stood now behind a friendly curtain. The 
 door having been closed upon the 'Squire's entrance, 
 the Indian could not hear the words which passed 
 between the governor and the committeemen; for the 
 good 'Squire had placed himself at the keyhole. 
 However, there was little to hear, for the proposals 
 were to go before the council, and the governor's 
 part was intermediary. The executive's manner, 
 notwithstanding, was overbearing and threatening. It 
 required no decision of the council to show the futility 
 of all conciliatory efforts ; and it is probable that the 
 two Regulators arrived at that conclusion long before 
 they left. 
 
 When Cantwell returned to the hall, he saw that his 
 Excellency's face was still flushed with anger. "The 
 impertinence of those fellows !" he exclaimed, hotly. 
 "Think, my good Cantwell, of their demanding 
 passports to protect them on their way home in case 
 of the rejection of their precious proposals. Passports ! 
 Think of it ! Passports for damned rebels ! And 
 they appealed to my honor, claiming the rights of 
 belligerents! Malefactors, the whole of them; and 
 
 127 
 
Wallannah 
 
 these are their ringleaders ! I told them their security 
 depended upon themselves, and that the slightest 
 demonstration would commit them. I have taken the 
 liberty of sending them to you for lodging, 'Squire. 
 I beg you to watch them closely. And, also, as you 
 have Witten a prisoner, see if you can extort a 
 confession from him implicating them. It would be 
 extremely convenient at this time." 
 
 Cantwell fumbled with the lining of his hat. 
 "Witten is not a prisoner, your Excellency," he said, 
 after an embarrassed pause. 
 
 "He is not !" thundered the governor. "You surely 
 have not let him go !" 
 
 "He escaped, I grieve to say; or, rather, he was 
 rescued. A man mounted on a black horse, apparently 
 a passer-by who had attracted no suspicion, dashed up 
 suddenly and carried off the prisoner while the guard 
 was taking him to jail." 
 
 "The devil !" growled the governor, testily. "And 
 did they not fire upon him?" 
 
 "Yes ; but too late to do any good." 
 
 "The guard must account to me to-night." The 
 governor began pacing up and down the floor. "Who 
 was this horseman?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 "No one recognized him. He wore a slouched hat 
 and appeared to be disguised." 
 
 "Strange, very strange ! Why was this not reported 
 to me?" 
 
 "It occurred just before I came in, your Excellency. 
 I have had no official notice of it." 
 
 "Very well ; let it pass for the present. Now, 
 'Squire, we understand each other, I think. I shall 
 
 128 
 
The Governor Does Some Plotting 
 
 expect Monsieur Du Val's immediate release. Good 
 day, sir." And, with something hke contempt in his 
 eyes, he watclied CantweH's hurried departure. 
 
 Simon Fawn must have been waiting at the door, 
 for he entered unannounced as Cantwell passed out. 
 
 "You are playing a bold game, Mr. Fawn," said the 
 governor, as the merchant came before him. "It may go 
 beyond you. Are you sure Maynard has no suspicions." 
 
 "Very sure, your Excellency," responded Fawn, 
 with his pompous smile. "I have done the captain 
 many favors ; and the Regulators, you know, claim me 
 as a secret friend. They bring me trade, and naturally 
 I treat them politely." 
 
 "And take a lion's share of their money," remarked 
 the governor, with sarcasm. 
 
 "I must live, you know. Must live, your 
 Excellency." 
 
 "You work, then, for money, Mr. Fawn ?" 
 
 "Not alone, your Excellency. I would serve his 
 Majesty from loyalty alone; but if I can find a little 
 more in it, why, so much the better." 
 
 "Well, my dear sir, in your present enterprise you 
 have both motives — loyalty and interest. Because of 
 his part in the Whitechurst murder, for Captain 
 Maynard, dead or alive, there stands a reward of one 
 hundred pounds ; as for Herman Husbands, if you can 
 take him — and his capture will be quite as difficult as 
 the other — you must be satisfied with the gracious 
 approbation of the king, which, after all, may be worth 
 more to you than the other. You say the appointment 
 is at eleven to-night, and that you are to go alone? 
 How will you carry the ammunition ?" 
 
 129 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "In a cart." 
 
 "What!" The governor leaned forward, deeply 
 interested. "So large a quantity as that? And you 
 are paid in advance ?" 
 
 "No, your Excellency. Captain Maynard would 
 have suspected me had I asked that. But if your 
 Excellency can so plan that I will have time to receive 
 the money before Maynard's capture, it would secure 
 me financially and would cost you nothing." 
 
 Tryon laughed quietly. "The hundred pounds 
 sterling is not enough, then ? No matter. As you say, 
 it will cost us nothing, and would add tliat mu;:h to 
 the enemy's disbursements. I will send you a corporal 
 and twenty men, to be posted in the woods as you may 
 direct. At some signal, which you and the officer may 
 adopt, the men can seize Maynard and such others as 
 may be with him." 
 
 "One thing, particularly, your Excellency. I want 
 the corporal to capture me also, to mislead Maynard 
 and to clear me of suspicion. Otherwise our success 
 might come back to my detriment." 
 
 "You are deep, my good sir. Let it be as you will. 
 The corporal will report to you between ten and 
 eleven. Make your own arrangements. But take them 
 all ; do not let a man escape. Now, one question more : 
 does Maynard wear a slouched hat ?" 
 
 "He does, sir." 
 
 "And he rides a black horse?'* 
 
 "Yes, your Excellency." 
 
 "Hm!" he muttered, to himself. Then, rising, 
 "That is all now. If you succeed — and you have the 
 game in your own hands — I myself will add 
 
 130 
 
The Governor Does Some Plotting 
 
 something to your reward. Such patriotism as yours 
 deserves encouragement. Good afternoon; and — be 
 cautious !" 
 
 Simon went out, his face wreathed in smiles. 
 
 After Fawn's departure a messenger brought word 
 to the executive that the council waited in the anteroom. 
 He summoned them to the Hall of Audience, and there 
 secured their sanction for the carrying out of a 
 multitude of his plans. 
 
 A short time after the council had left, Motier 
 Du Val, who had been liberated by the apologetic 
 'Squire Cantwell, entered the hall. 
 
 "Ah !" exclaimed the governor, rising and 
 advancing to meet him, "Mon jeune ami! On vous a 
 fait mal, n'est ce pas? et j'en suis bien fache. But 
 come: we will discuss that later. Les dames nous 
 attendant. We must not keep the ladies waiting, mon 
 cher Motier. Allons !" Without waiting for Du Val's 
 reply, the governor, heartily tired of official duties, led 
 the way to the parlor and to Esther's promised feast. 
 
 No sooner was the hall vacant than Tonta emerged 
 stealthily from the governor's study. " Take him 
 Cap'n Maynie!" he said, with flashing eyes. "Take 
 bobbasheela! Tonta see!" And slipping through a 
 half-opened window at the far end of the hall, he darted 
 across the lawn and was lost to view amid the 
 shrubbery. 
 
 For Captain Maynard's life hung by a single 
 thread, and that thread was what the Indian had heard 
 when Fawn and the governor talked together in the 
 Grand Hall of Audience. 
 
 131 
 
Wallannah 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Conscience and a Failure 
 
 |IMON FAWN, alone in his counting-room 
 on Pollock Street, sat waiting. It was early 
 in the night; the clock's stroke of nine still 
 rang in his ears ; and the corporal's guard 
 was not to come until half-past ten. Yet Fawn, nervous 
 and anxious, was waiting, as he knew that he must 
 wait through the ninety long minutes that stretched 
 before him like the years that have no end. 
 
 A wax candle burned on the mantel close by the 
 Swiss clock which ticked loudly in the silence. But 
 the light was bad, thought Simon, and he snuffed it. 
 The improvement seemed so slight that he lit another 
 candle and placed it on the opposite end of the shelf. 
 
 "Now," he muttered, "the room will be brighter." 
 
 Vain imagining ! The gloom was in Simon's heart, 
 where the light of candles could not shine. 
 
 He sat down before the open fire (the night was 
 damp and chilly), and bending forward with elbov/s 
 upon his knees, he gazed musingly into the glowing 
 coals. His smoothly-shaven chin rested in his hands, 
 and for once his light eyes ceased their restless shifting. 
 The candle beams fell upon his grey head, and the fire's 
 fitful blazing cast queer lights and shadows across his 
 troubled face. 
 
 132 
 
Conscience and a Failure 
 
 Strange things did Simon see in that fire, visions 
 such as come to some men when, hopeless, they sit in 
 the darkness of the shadow of death. For he had 
 betrayed a man whose confidence was his; and 
 treachery goes hand in hand with murder, so that no 
 man can tell when the one will come to be the other. 
 
 In his bitterness of spirit Fawn.grasped at the straw 
 that ever floats within the reach of the betrayer and 
 the assassin. "I am right," he whispered to himself, 
 "for I serve the king against his enemies. Who has 
 better cause?" But the words stuck in his throat, for 
 Maynard's face seemed to look at him from the fire, 
 and Maynard's eyes, dark and reproachful, glowed in 
 the flickering coals. 
 
 With a hard-flung oath Simon rose to his feet and 
 kicked the fire savagely with his boot. Then, standing 
 with his back to the grate, he looked about the room. 
 
 "Pshaw!" he said, finally. "I'm a child, scared at 
 a dream, I risk my reputation, perhaps my life, 
 probably Maynard's esteem ; but what are these ! 
 Nothing, as it nov/ stands. I've hedged my way, 
 disclosures are impossible, and I'll have the hundred 
 pounds and 'the gracious approbation of the king.' " 
 With a smale and a shrug of the shoulders he crossed to 
 his book-case. Pushing aside the crimson curtain he 
 reached within; there was a tinkle of glass against 
 glass ; he turned back, and in one hand glistened a 
 frail, thin-stemmed wine-glass, while in the other 
 rested a bottle, dark and dusty. 
 
 He walked back to the mantel, the floor creaking 
 beneath his weight. Setting the glass in the centre of 
 the shelf he drew the cork from the bottle. With a 
 
 133 
 
Wallannah 
 
 low chuckle he rested the cob-webbed neck upon the 
 glass's crystal brim. 
 
 But the hght was still bad. He raised the bottle a 
 moment, and with his left hand placed the candles close 
 together, one to the right, the other to the left of the 
 little glass. The light shone strongly upon his face, 
 gleaming on the low, unfurrowed forehead ; throwing 
 the shadow of his long, sharp nose across the skin of 
 his flaccid cheek ; and playing with ruthless brightness 
 about the loosely-cut lines of his weak, smiling mouth. 
 Again resting the bottle on the edge of the glass, he 
 tipped it upward. With a low, hesitant gurgle the 
 red wine began to pour. The little stream sparkled 
 down the inside of the glass and the blood-red tide rose 
 slowly toward the top; a final stifled gurgle, and the 
 wine, sparkling like a monarch's ruby, stirred in a 
 shallowing whirlpool beneath the light of the candles. 
 
 With a grunt of satisfaction Fawn pushed in the 
 cork and stood the bottle on the shelf. Then, taking 
 the glass in his hand he held it between the light and 
 his eyes. "Fairer than the sard-stone of Babylon!" he 
 said, slowly, turning the stem between his fingers. 
 "Brighter than a woman's eyes !" 
 
 He raised the glass higher. 'Tn the king's service !" 
 he said, gayly; for the man was drunk with his own 
 thoughts. "All is well when done for the king. The 
 king's vintage ! To the health of the king ! Long live 
 the — " 
 
 The words froze upon his lips. . 
 
 A thundering rap sounded on the door. The glass 
 fell from Simon's hand and was shattered on the 
 hearth. The untasted wine, like a ruddy serpent, 
 
 134 
 
The glass fell from Simon's hand and was shattered 
 on the hearth. 
 
Conscience and a Failure 
 
 writhed across the stone. Trembling, white, his eyes 
 staring with sudden terror, Fawn stood in the Hght of 
 the flickering candles, his shaking hand still uplifted, 
 the pallor of death upon his parted lips. ' 
 
 Again came the deafening knock. 
 
 Simon started toward the door. His knees gave 
 way beneath him, and he sank into his chair. "Come 
 in," he cried, hoarsely. 
 
 The door swung open, and Cantwell crossed the 
 threshold. 
 
 Fawn sighed with a great relief. 
 
 "What's up, my friend?" asked Cantwell, sharply. 
 "Sick?" 
 
 "Rather," was the hesitating response. 
 
 The 'Squire crossed to the fire, drawing off his 
 gloves as he went. His keen eyes fell upon the 
 fragments of the glass and the little stream of wine 
 that, smoking with the heat, gleamed upon the 
 hearth-stone. A sudden smile crossed his face. 
 
 "Aha! my boy," he said, with a ring of satire in 
 his voice. "Gone to the bottle, eh ! Remember, Simon, 
 that Solomon, a far wiser man than Fawn, once said, 
 'Look not upon the wine when it is red.' " 
 
 Simon looked up helplessly. "It was the only 
 glass, John," he said. "I was seized with a vertigo 
 and dropped it in the pouring." 
 
 Cantwell's eyes gleamed with mockery. "Dropped 
 the glass, yet placed the bottle carefully on the shelf ! 
 Tut ! tut ! Simon ! That is child's talk." 
 
 Fawn groaned. "I cannot explain it, John," he said, 
 weakly, "everything was black before me." 
 
 Cantwell, slapping his boot-top with his gloves, 
 
 135 
 
Wallannah 
 
 gave a short laugh. "A vertigo it was, then. You 
 need bleeding. I hope you won't get it to-night." 
 
 "To-night!" shouted Fawn, arousing with a start. 
 "What do 3^ou know about to-night?" 
 
 Cantwell laughed. "Why, nothing, dear Fawn," he 
 said, indifferently. "Don't start up like that ; remember 
 the vertigo. I said 'to-night' simply to round out my 
 sentence. What's to pay to-night?" 
 
 "The devil's to pay, that's what," growled Simon, 
 clasping one knee with his hands. "And you know it, 
 too," he added, savagely. 
 
 The 'Squire smiled, and stepping to the side of 
 Simon's chair, rested his hand upon the merchant's 
 shoulder. "Brace up, good fellow," he said, cheerily. 
 "You can't carry out your plans with an inverted 
 nervous system. Let me, like Isaiah the prophet, 'Say 
 unto them that are of a fearful heart. Be strong, fear 
 not.' " 
 
 Simon looked up. "Confound your ready-made 
 quotations!" Then he laughed. "But tell me, John, 
 what do you know; and why do you come here 
 to-night ?" 
 
 Cantwell drew up a chair and sitting in it, moved 
 about until he faced Fawn. "I saw the governor this 
 afternoon, as you know ; and, having an inkling of your 
 plans, thought to come and keep you company. Your 
 loyalty is praiseworthy, Simon. I shall do nothing to 
 spoil your program. But, faith, you would have spoiled 
 it yourself had you clung to yonder solace." And he 
 pointed to the bottle on the mantel-shelf. 
 
 "I am glad that you have come," was Simon's 
 response, though his eyes disagreed with his words. 
 
 136 
 
Conscience and a Failure 
 
 "You won't spoil my program," he added, "because 
 you love the other party as little as I do. But there's 
 no secret in that." 
 
 "Secret ? Oh ! no. But we have the secrets, haven't 
 we, Simon? Magnificent, superb secrets!" 
 
 "True enough," answered the other, with a smile. 
 "But they're all yours, not mine. But, going past that, 
 it seems unusual to see you prowling about at this hour 
 with a great cloak muffled about your ears. What's in 
 the wind ?" 
 
 "Some of the old business," the 'Squire said, with a 
 constrained laugh. "John Ross, Mary's brother, is in 
 town. Worse even than that, he is at my house, and 
 I must walk the streets until he goes." 
 
 "You have not met him?" 
 
 "No; nor will I. He'd know me in the moment." 
 
 "My house is yours. Stay here until he is gone." 
 
 "I am grateful, Simon ; and I must. Otherwise I 
 could hardly avoid him. He is lodging under my roof 
 as a friend of Rednap Howell, whom the governor — 
 I'd like to thrash him for it — has imposed upon me as 
 a guest to be watched until this infernal embassy is 
 disposed of. My promise was to strive to detect this 
 Howell and his friends in some treasonable act. But 
 treasonable acts can go to thunder! I'm exiled until 
 the town is clear of these pestilential Regulators. It's 
 maddening, too, for I had a beautiful trap set for 
 Howell. But John Ross protects him from me better 
 than a battery of artillery. The boy must not 
 see me." 
 
 "A bad case, John," said Simon, shaking his head. 
 His composure had returned and the red shone again 
 
 137 
 
Wallannah 
 
 upon his cheeks. "I will help you to keep dark until 
 this unsuspecting brother of yours leaves New 
 Bern." 
 
 "Tell me one thing, Simon. Is that man my 
 brother? Tell the truth, good friend. Only tell me 
 that he is not my brother; that the marriage with 
 Mary Ross was, as I first thought it, a sham ; and all 
 that you have drained me of these years shall still be 
 yours, to preserve the secret. Yes, and more too, if 
 you demand it." 
 
 "How much more?" asked Simon, shrewdly. 
 
 "As much as I can pay — enough for any reasonable 
 man — to be paid at one time, and to close this terrible 
 account in full and forever." 
 
 Fawn's head shook with a plain negative. "Nay, 
 John," he answered, "I cannot kill the goose that lays 
 the golden eggs. Besides, I must not tamper with the 
 truth. You have taught me that lesson. Remember, 
 friend John, the new motto you hung upon your wall 
 last week reads : Magna est Veritas, et prevalebif. It 
 is a wise maxim, good John, and does equal credit to 
 your head and to your heart. So, let the truth prevail. 
 I am bad enough, it's true ; but when I acted as priest 
 at your marriage with Mary Ross, I was provided with 
 a proper license to legalize the ceremony. This I did," 
 he continued, coolly, "not only as a protection to 
 myself, but also to have a hold on you to help me in the 
 time of need. I gave you a good, honest wife, man; 
 you should have thanked me for it. If you failed to 
 appreciate her, it was your fault, and yours alone. I 
 knew nothing then of your other schemes." 
 
 "But I married her as John Matthews." 
 
 138 
 
Conscience and a Failure 
 
 "Well, what if you did ? You are John Matthews, 
 the John Matthews who married her. Bill Jones would 
 have done as well. Names simply establish identities. 
 Your identity is easily proved without the 'Cantwell.' 
 Besides, good friend, I have procured certain affidavits 
 which you would scarcely care to contest in the courts. 
 No, no, John ; I was bad enough for some things, but 
 not so far down as to ruin a poor girl for nothing. 
 You'd better let the legality of that ceremony rest. 
 She spares you; you have nothing to fear from me. 
 The first register wrote John Matthews ; the second, 
 John M. Cantwell. The alias, if discovered, might 
 embarrass such a spotless gentleman as yourself; but 
 you are safe from me, as long — " 
 
 "As long as I pay for your silence ?" 
 
 "Exactly, friend John. But, dropping that, there's 
 one thing you never told me. When you went up the 
 river before your marriage to this Ross girl, why did 
 you pass as John Matthews? A mere romantic whim, 
 you told me at the time ; but there's precious little 
 romance in your composition. Why was it?" 
 
 "The secret is not worth your knowing. There's 
 no money in it." 
 
 "Very well ; we're even on that. John Ross may be 
 able to help me, if I ever wish to find it out." 
 
 "Fawn, you're a — " 
 
 "Spare the compliment, John; and change the 
 subject. You wish to elude this boy, as you called 
 him. Pretty old boy, now. Thirty, if he's a day. He 
 has sharp eyes, too. He was in the store to-day and 
 came so close to recognizing me that I feared for you 
 and your secret. He surely would not forget you." 
 
 139 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Cantvvell paled a little. "He must not see me," he 
 said, with ill-concealed agitation. "I wonder what 
 brought him here. Can he have found some — " 
 Cantwell stopped short and looked into the fire. His 
 face looked pinched and old. Then he threw back his 
 head with a harsh laugh. "He's harmless, I think ; but 
 he comes inconveniently. I must risk incurring Tryon's 
 disfavor, and face the wonder and scandal to result 
 from my sudden disappearance; all of this to keep 
 from the recognition of this John Ross. I feel like a 
 fugitive — " 
 
 " 'The wicked flee when no man pursueth !' " The 
 words, in deep, sonorous tones, came from the outside 
 of the house. 
 
 Fawn and Cantwell sprang to their feet with looks 
 of blank amazement. Simon went to the door, opened 
 it cautiously, peered into the darkness for a moment, 
 then went into the street. He returned a moment later, 
 but without a clue to point to the identity of the man 
 who had thundered the Scripture into their ears. In 
 the meantime the 'Squire, his face bearing a look of 
 alarm, had sunk back into his chair. 
 
 "The street is a public thoroughfare," said Fawn, 
 after a long and nervous silence. *Tt must have been 
 the chance remark of some passer-by." 
 
 A quick rap at the door brought both men again to 
 their feet. 
 
 "Who's there?" called Fawn, facing the door. 
 
 "A detail from Captain Neale." 
 
 Fawn drew a long breath. "Come in," he answered. 
 
 The door opened and a large man with heavy 
 brown whiskers stepped forward. He wore a 
 
 140 
 
Conscience and a Failure 
 
 corporal's uniform and saluted with military precision. 
 "I have orders from the governor, through Captain 
 Neale, to report to Mr. Fawn with twenty men." 
 
 "You are early. Why did you come so soon?" 
 
 "His Excellency suggested that we come early, 
 that you might post us properly before the arrival of 
 the other party." 
 
 "Not a bad idea," remarked Fawn, reflectively. 
 "But still, it is a departure from the program." 
 
 "The governor is very exact in his arrangements," 
 whispered Cantwell. "We do not know this man. Be 
 careful." 
 
 The corporal did not move a muscle of his face. 
 
 Fawn looked at him closely. "I am Mr. Fawn," he 
 said, coldly. "Did the governor write?" 
 
 "He did not; but he sent this as a safeguard." 
 And he showed a heavy signet ring. 
 
 Fawn turned to Cantwell. "Do you know this 
 ring?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, it is Governor Tryon's. I saw it on the table 
 in his study this afternoon." 
 
 "All right, corporal," said Fawn, with a smile. 
 "Pardon my prudence; but this is a little out of my 
 usual line. Make ready your men and I will meet you 
 outside in a moment." 
 
 Hurriedly wrapping himself in a cloak and pressing 
 a broad-brimmed hat upon his head Fawn started for 
 the door. Checking himself a moment he turned to 
 Cantwell. 
 
 "Shall I leave you here, John?'* 
 
 "It would be better. Yes." 
 
 "Wait for me then. I'll be back in an hour." And 
 
 141 
 
Wallannah 
 
 the merchant slammed the door behind him and went 
 into the night. 
 
 The great woods were silent save for the answering 
 calls of a pair of night-owls perched in wide-apart tree 
 tops. Seated upon his cart Simon Fawn waited 
 anxiously for the coming of Captain Maynard. How 
 long the time was he never knew; it seemed hours, 
 though it could not have been a score of minutes. 
 
 At last the bushes parted and a dark figure loomed 
 up beside the merchant's horse. 
 
 Fawn gave a start. "Ah! Captain, you surprised 
 me." 
 
 "Is the ammunition here?" asked Maynard, curtly. 
 
 "Yes, in the cart. How will you carry it?" 
 
 "Leave that to me. Here is your money. You 
 cannot count it in the dark ; but I think you can trust 
 me for its correctness." 
 
 "Certainly, Captain. My coming here proves my 
 confidence in you." He carefully put the money in his 
 pocket. 
 
 "Your honesty is equally apparent," was Maynard's 
 answer. "Your devotion to the good cause shall have 
 its reward. Come, and help me get the ammunition to 
 the ground." 
 
 For several moments they worked in silence. 
 
 Then Maynard spoke. "There, we've finished. 
 And, good night. Remember us and our cause in your 
 prayers, good friend. 'The effectual fervent prayer of 
 a righteous man availeth much.' " 
 
 Simon felt the blood rush to his face. But, as the 
 captain started away. Fawn coughed three times. The 
 thickets round about them rustled with the rush of men. 
 
 142 
 
Conscience and a Failure 
 
 "Quick work, boys !" cried the corporal. 
 
 A pair of strong arms encircled Simon from behind, 
 and a cord drew tight about his arms. 
 
 "Easy, easy," whispered Fawn, confidentially, "not 
 so tight. I'm Simon Fawn." 
 
 "Who cares a cuss who you are?" retorted the 
 taunting voice of his captor ; and the cord cut into the 
 flesh with the strength of the next pull. 
 
 Simon, in wild astonishment, tried to rise to his 
 feet. Some one rolled him over and sat upon his 
 heaving chest. "What's the matter?" the merchant 
 gasped. 
 
 " 'He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it.' " 
 
 It was the corporal who spoke ; but the voice was 
 changed. To Simon's ears the deep tones were like 
 those of the Quaker who had smoked his pipe in Fawn's 
 store that afternoon. 
 
 Half an hour later Governor Tryon and a dozen 
 men rode down the lane to the spot marked out for 
 Maynard's capture. For the governor, fond of setting 
 traps, was even more fond of watching them. The 
 horsemen halted in the glade where the deed was to 
 have been done. A groan came from the woods beside 
 the road. One of the men held a lantern toward the 
 sound. Fawn's round face loomed out of the darkness. 
 He was fastened to a tree with a dozen ropes. 
 
 The governor's rage knew no bounds. "Treachery !" 
 he shouted, hoarsely. "Damnable treachery! Cut the 
 fellow's bonds and see what the idiot can tell of this." 
 
 The story of the crestfallen merchant was lucid 
 enough even for Governor Tryon. 
 
 The executive turned his horse sharply. "Fool!" 
 
 143 
 
Wallannah 
 
 be hissed in Simon's ear. "You've made a mess of a 
 child's task." Then, to a man at his side, "Go to 
 Cantwell's house and arrest Rednap Howell and James 
 Hunter. Ride like the devil !" 
 
 Then the little party slowly filed back as it had 
 come; and Fawn, bruised and sore, his thoughts as 
 black as the night about him, was left alone to walk his 
 homeward way. 
 
 The officer who went to Cantwell's house found 
 neither Howell nor Hunter; but one of the 'Squire's 
 servants handed him a paper. Hastily he held it to the 
 candle-light, and scanned its roughly-written words. 
 
 "For the governor," it read. "Try on, Tryon, my 
 boy. You and your Fawn could learn wisdom from an 
 ass. We bear you in our remembrance." 
 
 The paper was not signed; but the officer knew 
 the handwriting. A smile forced itself to his lips, but 
 gave place to a look of perplexity. "I can't give this 
 thing to the governor," he muttered to himself. "He'd 
 go mad and rage forever." 
 
 While he thought, his hand drew too close to the 
 candle. A little flame, a cloud of smoke, and Howell's 
 letter lay in ashes on the floor. 
 
 It was an accident; but the officer thanked God 
 for it. 
 
 144 
 
Beauty, Love and Remorse 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Beauty, Love and Remorse 
 
 N the night that Simon Fawn fell victim to 
 his own snare Motier Du Val, after reading 
 a few pages of Folard's Strategy, went 
 down to the parlor to seek Lord Durham. 
 The viscount, not yet returned from the De Vere 
 mansion, was, of course, not to be found; but Lucille 
 Creighton was. 
 
 The parlor was dark save for the ruddy light that 
 came from the logs burning in the wide fireplace. 
 Within the circle of this glow, dressed in soft amber 
 silk, the dark-haired girl, seated in a great carved 
 chair, watched the tongues of flame that curled upward 
 and lost themselves in the chimney. 
 
 Motier, advancing toward her, thought that woman 
 could never be lovelier than this. Indeed, many men 
 had thought the same; but the women — why, the 
 women all said that Miss Creighton was forward and 
 designing, that her beauty was due more to art than 
 to nature, and that she dressed disgustingly, dressed 
 to look well in the eyes of men, with gowns that fitted 
 too closely to her figure and that showed too much 
 bare shoulder; that was what the women said. But 
 Lucille, hearing of all this, laughed, and straightway 
 cut her gowns lower and had them shaped more 
 closely to the full curves of her waist and hips. 
 
 145 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Motier, as has been said, thought her lovely as she 
 sat before the fire, the lines of her yellow-clad figure 
 standing out in vivid relief against the dark mahogany 
 background of her gothic chair. The face which she 
 turned toward him was aglow with pleasure, her lips 
 parting in a smile of singular sweetness, her dark eyes 
 meeting his with a marvelous tenderness in their 
 depths. A long lace scarf was thrown negligently 
 about her, and through its interstices gleamed the soft, 
 warm tones of her faultless neck and shoulders. Her 
 arms, full and round and firm, were bare to the little 
 velvet strap that circled each shoulder, and her hands 
 resting on the widely parted arms of the chair, were 
 small and soft and white. 
 
 Without a word she followed him with her gaze 
 until he bent over her chair. "You have come in good 
 time, Motier, mon cher," she said, as they clasped 
 hands in greeting. "I wanted to see you, but feared 
 that you and the captain-general would talk with 
 Esther until daybreak." 
 
 "Daybreak !" laughed Du Val, drawing up a chair 
 and taking his place beside her. "I must be up at 
 daybreak, booted and spurred; for Tonta and I are 
 going after a bear." 
 
 Lucille's smile faded away and a serious look came 
 into her eyes. "A bear, Motier ? Haven't you enemies 
 enough without seeking them in the forests?" 
 
 Du Val looked at her quickly. "Enemies!" he 
 repeated, with a puzzled look. "Who are my 
 enemies ?" 
 
 "I know but one, and he is enough — the man 
 whom you taught so good a lesson to-day." 
 
 146 
 
ThK pack which she turned TOWAKli HIM WAS ACJLOW WITH PLEASURE. 
 
Beauty, Love and Remorse 
 
 "Cantwell?" said Metier, laughing quietly. "He 
 can do no harm." 
 
 Lucille took a slip of paper from a fold of her dress. 
 "Read that," she said, handing it toward him. "It was 
 given to me while you men were having tea with 
 Esther." 
 
 Motier took the note, and holding it to the firelight 
 read it. Rudely scrawled though it was, its meaning 
 was clear and pointed. "Estiemed Ladey," it started, 
 "Tell the young Man they calls a frencher too look owt 
 fer that air feller Jake cantwell. He is a badd Man to 
 runn aginst and he can handel a Sord better than enny 
 Man in north carlina. Jake sed when he went owt the 
 prade groun, im going to fix that feller if i hang fer it." 
 The letter bore no signature. 
 
 Du Val's smile was a little grim as he handed the 
 missive back to Lucille. "At least," he said, "I 
 have a friend, or you an admirer, who offsets this 
 enemy." 
 
 "Who is he?" she asked, her anxiety unabated. "He 
 signed no name." 
 
 "I do not know. Some day I must thank him. 
 Who handed you his letter?" 
 
 "Henry, his Excellency's valet de chambre." 
 
 "Where did Henry get it?" 
 
 "From a messenger whom he did not know." 
 
 "Well, I'm glad he wrote the thing; a friend in 
 need, you know." Then, crossing his knees, he sat 
 staring into the fire. 
 
 Lucille, watching him closely, saw that his eyes 
 were cold and that they glittered like polished steel. 
 "What think you, Motier?" she asked, lightly. "Your 
 
 147 
 
Wallannah 
 
 eyes gleam as do the governor's when some one says 
 'Herman Husbands.' " 
 
 Du Val laughed. "I was thinking," he answered, 
 easily, "of our friend's statement that Cantwell can 
 handle the sword. I cannot imagine the man with 
 anything of higher grade than a club in his hands." 
 
 "But, mon ami, were he to attack you with a sword, 
 what would you do ? You have not been trained to the 
 blade." 
 
 He looked at her with an amused smile. "You lived 
 in Paris something like five years," he said. "Did you 
 not hear of Louis La Bretonne, once captain in the 
 guard and later master of fence in the court of Charles 
 HI of Spain?" 
 
 "He who the Marquise de Pompadour said had no 
 enemies because he had no peer with the rapier?" 
 
 "The same." 
 
 "Did you know him ?" 
 
 "I crossed blades with him twice a week for three 
 years." 
 
 "As a pupil?" 
 
 "As a pupil." 
 
 Lucille clasped her hands together and laughed. 
 "Ma foi, Motier ! Cantwell cannot fight you." 
 
 "Cantwell must not fight me," Du Val rejoined, 
 with a short laugh. "It would be murder for me to 
 have an encounter with that fellow. Some one must 
 tell him." 
 
 "Y-yes," she answered, doubtfully, "but who?" 
 
 "I will, to-morrow afternoon. Now, my fair one, 
 let us lay these matters aside. Truly, Lucille, you're 
 magnificent to-night!" 
 
 148 
 
Beauty, Love and Remorse 
 
 Smiling, she looked at him through her long lashes. 
 "Say less and mean more," she cautioned. "You have 
 flattered so long and so relentlessly, Motier, that now 
 you cannot tell when you have passed the line between 
 fact and fiction." 
 
 Motier leaned back, his head resting against the top 
 of his chair. "The line between them?" he said, 
 turning his gaze upon her. "When applied to you, ma 
 chere, there is no line ; all is fact." 
 
 "There, I told you so ! You're blind even to that 
 plain, straight line. What can one do with such a man 
 as you?" Her question ended with a laugh, and 
 Motier, had he been a few years older, would have 
 passed it by with another laugh. 
 
 He stood for a moment at the parting of two ways ; 
 then took the wrong path. "What can one do?" he 
 asked, slowly, looking toward the fire. "What can one 
 do?" he repeated. "One can do much. Is it not so?" 
 
 She did not answer, but looking down, played with 
 the ring upon her finger. 
 
 Motier leaned slowly forward, one cheek resting 
 upon his hand, his lips formed in a half-smile. The 
 fingers of his other hand played a little tattoo on the 
 arm of his chair. She, wondering, watched him until, 
 after a long minute, he turned his face toward her. 
 
 "You asked," he said, with his eyes fixed upon her 
 face, "what one could do with such a man as I. Let me 
 answer that it all lies with the 'one.' In general I 
 should say very little — perhaps nothing ; but to 
 particularize, there is 'one' who might do much." 
 
 "And who?" she asked, raising her dark eyes and 
 meeting his gaze. 
 
 149 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "You would not believe me if I told you." 
 
 "Well," she said, laughing a response to his smile. 
 "Let me guess. You mean Esther?" 
 
 "Esther? No, Esther is a politician." 
 
 "Miss De Vere?" A quick flash came to her eyes 
 as she spoke the name. 
 
 "I do not know her." 
 
 "Madamoiselle in France?" 
 
 "She is married." 
 
 "Then let me amend, and say Madame in France." 
 
 "No, she uses hair-dye." 
 
 "Well, let me see. Sonora, the beautiful, in 
 Madrid?" 
 
 "She is dead." 
 
 "The girl in Charleston?" 
 
 "A gay deceiver; she marries within the month." 
 
 "Fve gone through the list," she said, with a pretty 
 shrug. Then, leaning forward and resting one elbow 
 on the mahogany chair-arm, "I give up, Motier ; who 
 is she?" 
 
 "The girl in the amber silk," he said. 
 
 Lucille's eyes, unwavering, still looked into his. 
 She gave a low, pleased laugh. "But she's ineligible," 
 she protested. Their faces were not two hand breadths 
 apart, and he felt her warm breath upon his cheek. 
 "She," Lucille continued, "is a royalist ; you are a — " 
 
 "Royalist, too, if she is." 
 
 Whitening a little, she dropped back into her chair 
 and looked down at the floor. Then, after a brief 
 moment she bent forward and raising her eyes to the 
 fire clasped one rounded knee with her hands. The 
 change of pose lifted her silken skirt the veriest trifle, 
 
 150 
 
Beauty, Love and Remorse 
 
 but still enough to reveal her jeweled yellow slipper, 
 and above that the round full lines of her perfectly 
 modeled ankle. The lace scarf fell back from her 
 shoulders and dropped, forgotten, to the floor, leaving 
 her shoulders gleaming white in the firelight. 
 
 Motier, startled for the moment by her wondrous 
 beauty, drew a quick breath. A soft Spanish 
 exclamation came from his lips. 
 
 Lucille heard him. She turned her head slowly 
 until their eyes met. He smiled, and his answer came 
 in a swift gleam that swept across her face. The look 
 died away and left her regarding him gravely and 
 questioningly. 
 
 "Lucille, ma chere," he said, bending toward her 
 and resting his hand on the arm of her chair, "what 
 troubles the girl in the amber silk?" 
 
 "Much, IMotier, much," was the slow answer. Then 
 with a sad little smile, "More than you can ever know, 
 my knight." 
 
 IMotier flushed a little as she called him that which 
 she had called him but once before, that day in 
 Versailles, two years back, when he had led her 
 through the rioting rabble safe to her uncle's house. 
 
 "Beauteous lady," he responded, with playful 
 mockery, "can thy knight do nothing for thee now ?" 
 
 "Tell me, Motier," and her voice sounded strained 
 and distant. "You did not mean it when you said, a 
 'royalist, too, if she is,' did you?" 
 
 He looked at her with a puzzled smile. "Mean it, 
 fair one! I said it, did I not?" 
 
 "Yes, but you say so much that you do not mean. 
 Did you mean, deep in your heart, that you would be a 
 
 151 ' 
 
Wallannah 
 
 royalist if I were one too? Tell me that it was only 
 gallantry, that you did not mean it!" 
 
 Motier saw nothing but her witching beauty, heard 
 nothing but a soft sweet voice that made siren music 
 in his ears. "I will repeat what I said before," he 
 insisted, "and will say more than that, Lucille." And 
 reaching out his hand, he laid it upon her arm, "I will 
 say, princess mine, that royaHst or insurgent, I will be 
 what you may be — anything from king to slave, so 
 long as I know you to stand upon the same ground 
 with me." 
 
 She turned her head away from him and looked 
 again into the fire. Spirit and self-possession were 
 slowly coming back to her face. "You were not a 
 royalist in France, mon cher," she said. "Had you 
 been one you would never have come to America." 
 
 "I am not in France now, chere." 
 
 "But the cause of the Regulators? You lean that 
 way." 
 
 "My cause is yours and — the king's." 
 
 "You say it earnestly?" She was looking at him 
 now, and the old smile was creeping back to her lips. 
 
 "Solemnly," he answered, unclasping her hands and 
 taking one of them in his. "Earnestly and solemnly," 
 he said, as he saw the strange, glad light in the depths 
 of her eyes. And he raised her hand to his lips and 
 kissed it. 
 
 She let her hand lie within his grasp for a moment, 
 then slowly withdrew it. "It is well, Motier! A 
 royalist you are from this moment !" She gave a soft 
 musical laugh and her face flushed with excitement. 
 "The king's cause is a righteous cause," she cried, 
 
 152 
 
Beauty, Love and Remorse 
 
 merrily. Then, raising her hand as though holding a 
 glass between her fingers, she added, "Gentlemen, the 
 king!" 
 
 "Long live the king!" echoed Du Val; and, 
 although they in the parlor did not know it, on the 
 self-same tick of the clock those very words had died 
 on the lips of Simon Fawn. 
 
 They sat there silent and motionless, both looking 
 into the fire. Motier still held her unresisting hand, 
 and Lucille still seemed to feel the touch of his lips 
 upon it. After a time Motier began talking of the old 
 days in Versailles, when boy and girl together, they 
 thought each other all in all. From Versailles the 
 conversation turned to the one day they had spent 
 together in London, then by almost imperceptible 
 degrees they came back to the present. 
 
 When they had finished, the hour was late and the 
 fire had died down to a mass of whitening embers. 
 
 "Come," said Lucille, rising to her feet. "Let us go. 
 We can say good-night in the hall." 
 
 Together they ascended the broad stairway, hand 
 in hand, she regal and stately in her perfect grace, he 
 proud of mien, with latent power in his every move, 
 both of an equal height and both good to look upon. 
 William Tryon, governor of North Carolina, watched 
 them as they passed from sight, although they knew it 
 not, and he thought that he had never seen a fairer 
 picture than those two made as they stood together on 
 the first landing. Yet, pleasure was not in William's 
 eye as he turned away from that scene. 
 
 Passing down the long hallway the couple stopped 
 before her door. Motier bent his head and whispered 
 
 153 
 
Wallannah 
 
 his gfood-night into her ear. As he spoke his cheek 
 touched hers. It was only for a brief second, but in 
 that second Motier's arm had circled her shoulders and 
 his hand rested upon her further arm just below the 
 little velvet strap. The light from the sconce on the 
 wall shone dimly upon them, but still brightly enough 
 for him to see the soft color that rose to her cheeks. 
 Her head drooped until her brow reached his shoulder. 
 Keeping his one arm about her, he raised her face with 
 his free hand until with a sudden move she looked up. 
 
 She saw that he was smiling tenderly, more tenderly 
 than she had ever seen him smile before, and with a 
 half-whispered word she threw her arms about his neck 
 and kissed him once, twice, thrice. Then with 
 something that sounded like a sob she turned swiftly 
 and disappeared into her room. 
 
 Lucille stood for a moment in the bright light of 
 her room, her face pale and her lips trembling ; then a 
 low quivering moan came to her lips. "Motier," she 
 sobbed, "what have I done ? — oh ! Motier, my knight ! 
 I loved you and I did not know it ! Why have I done 
 this ! Motier, Motier, God forgive me ! I've made you 
 call the king's cause yours !" 
 
 She looked at the cold, portrayed features of the 
 governor, high above her mantel, and frenziedly wrung 
 her hands together. "He forced me to it !" she cried ; 
 *'William made me do it ! But," and she staggered into 
 the middle of the room, her face buried in her hands 
 and her shoulders shaking with her hard-drawn sobs, 
 "God knows, I did not know I loved you !" 
 
 She raised her head and stared with great unseeing 
 eyes at her image in the mirror. "Against his reason 
 
 154 
 
Beauty, Love and Remorse 
 
 and against his honor," she said, slowly. Then with a 
 low, choking cry she threw herself face down across 
 her canopied bed. "Darling," she sobbed, "forgive me, 
 for I knew not what I did !" 
 
 But the face of William Tryon looked down from 
 its canvas with hard, exultant eyes. 
 
 fi5S 
 
Wallannah 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A Hunter Hunted 
 
 HE sky was reddening with the glow of the 
 coming sun when Motier and Tonta went 
 down to the stables. John, the hostler, was 
 already there, and Du Val's blooded hunter 
 and the Indian's pony were waiting outside the door. 
 Motier had been blessed with a good night's sleep, 
 and, naturally, appeared in high spirits. The cool 
 morning air set the blood to tingling in his veins, and, 
 exuberant with strength and vitality, he wasted half an 
 hour playing about the palace grounds with the 
 governor's deer-hounds. Once they had him down in 
 the grass, and when he rose with four of the great 
 fellows clinging to him he laughed and laughed again 
 as, matching his own strength against theirs, he pushed 
 them backward and forward across the ground, and at 
 last threw them in a writhing, growling heap on one 
 of his Excellency's newly-spaded flowerbeds. 
 
 But Tonta, Indian though he was, heard something 
 in Motier's ringing tones that made him shake his 
 head. "Caiheek no laugh good," he said to himself; 
 then with a French oath that came awkwardly from his 
 untutored lips, "Caiheek see too much Dark-Eyes. No 
 do Caiheek good." Tonta may have been right, there 
 was the even chance that he might be wrong;, vet not 
 
 156 
 
A Hunter Hunted 
 
 only then, but throughout the day, he saw that Motier's 
 mind was often far away from the hunt, and that his 
 eyes were more than once fixed upon the ground when 
 they should have been scanning the woods about them. 
 Tonta did not Hke this; for had he not seen Caiheek 
 Lieutenant in Charleston look that way one night a 
 year ago, and was not Caiheek Lieutenant found across 
 his bed the next morning with a little blue spot on his 
 temple and a silver-mounted pistol grasped in his 
 hand ? And the girl — But that was Tonta's secret. 
 He looked again at Motier. 'Too much think," he 
 muttered under his breath. " Dark-Eyes bad for 
 lieuten't; bad for Caiheek." 
 
 About the middle of the afternoon Motier and 
 Tonta, homeward bound, rode side by side along the 
 bed of a dried-up forest stream, the Frenchman sitting 
 easily in his saddle, the Indian bobbing up and down 
 on his stiff-legged pony. They had found their bear, 
 and its scalp hung from Motier's belt, where it well 
 belonged; for Du Val had fought the greatest fight 
 of his life in mastering Bruin, having brought the brute 
 to his death after a rough and tumble conflict in which 
 the hunter's knife and the bear's teeth and claws were 
 the only weapons used. Motier had placed himself 
 in this unpleasant position by letting fly with both his 
 rifle and his pistol at a buck that swept past them as 
 they sat by their fire cooking a rabbit. Before the 
 weapons were reloaded the bear had come upon the 
 scene, chasing Tonta up a tree and waiting, with 
 flaming eyes and mouth afoam, for Motier's welcome. 
 In this the bear made a grievous error, for Du Val was 
 over-cordial and his knife-blade was keener even than 
 
 157 
 
Wallannah 
 
 the little shafts of wit which he shot at the bear when a 
 lull in the fight gave him breath. Tonta, sitting 
 astride a shaking limb, cried repeatedly for Motier's 
 permission to take a hand in the fracas, but each time 
 met with the injunction, "Stay where you are : this is 
 my guest." But, nevertheless, when the time came, the 
 Indian removed the scalp and made a post-mortem 
 examination of the knife thrusts. Then with something 
 like a smile, he looked first at the shaggy body, then at 
 Motier's athletic figure and at the keen-edged knife 
 which the young man held in his hand. 
 
 "Ugh!" he grunted, thrusting his finger into one 
 of the jagged cuts, "Bear fool!" And that was his 
 only comment on the fight. 
 
 Motier shook off the preoccupied air which had 
 secretly annoyed the Indian, and the two, riding back 
 toward town, laughed and talked with one another as 
 master and servant seldom do. For Tonta, although a 
 valet in the pay of Motier and his father, had given 
 proof of such loyalty that their relations were those of 
 the warmest friendship. Tonta was the guide who had 
 led the two Frenchmen through the forests from 
 Charleston to New Bern; he had saved the elder 
 Du Val's life at the fording of the Cape Fear River; 
 and he had rescued them both from a threatened attack 
 by a marauding band of Sinnegar warriors. 
 
 But despite all these things Tonta frequently 
 imperilled his position with the Du Vals by his 
 wholesale taking of other people's property. The 
 Indian was a thief of unparalleled ability. He stole 
 for the love of stealing, and the greater the obstacles 
 in his way the more ingenious were his efforts to 
 
 158 
 
A Hunter Hunted 
 
 surmount them. Of this flaw in Tonta's heathen 
 nature Motier was tallying as they wound down the 
 course of the dry stream-bed. 
 
 "Tonta, you'll ruin me yet," Du Val was saying, 
 with a half-repressed smile. "What imp of Satan 
 possesses you to do these things?" 
 
 "White man cheat, Indian steal," was the stolid 
 reply. 
 
 "Do I cheat, Tonta?" 
 
 "Tonta no steal from Caiheek." 
 
 "No; but what is just as bad, you bring your 
 stolen goods to my room." 
 
 "Tonta sorry. Tonta love Caiheek ; try be good." 
 
 "You're always saying that — and always forgetting 
 it. But now Tonta, you've carried this thing too far. 
 If you don't stop it, we'll have to part." 
 
 "Sinnegars try catch Caiheek — want kill — Tonta 
 save Caiheek." 
 
 "I. remember that, Tonta; and I'm grateful for it; 
 but why can't you stop stealing?" 
 
 "Great Spirit make Tonta steal." 
 
 "How do you prove that?" 
 
 "Great Spirit make Indian?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Indian die?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Great Spirit make him die?" 
 
 "Y-yes." Motier began to see the drift of the 
 argument. 
 
 Tonta smiled. "Same way," he said. "Great Spirit 
 make Indian ; Indian steal ; Great Spirit make Indian 
 steal. Good ?" 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Not bad," muttered Du Val; for he saw that 
 Tonta's theology was better than that of eight-tenths 
 of the world's theologians. It was simple, it was 
 plausible, and, more than these, its author believed it 
 himself. 
 
 Still, Tonta was a thief ; and Motier went on with 
 his arraignment. "Let's drop the Great Spirit for the 
 present," he said, "if he makes you steal he can make 
 you stop stealing. You can't understand that; but 
 you can understand that you'll get into trouble if some 
 one catches you taking these things. Suppose Mr. 
 Fawn had caught you with that knife yesterday; you 
 would have been in jail now. And the watch? 
 Suppose the governor had found it in my room ; what 
 would he have done? As it was, I found it hard to 
 explain." 
 
 Tonta lifted his eyebrows, but did not answer. 
 
 "And the governor's bootjack? You wear 
 moccasins; what do you want with a bootjack?" 
 
 "Me no want it — me took it." 
 
 "Then, what of the money you took from Lord 
 Durham ? You like him ; why did you steal from 
 him?" 
 
 "Great Heart give Tonta money — Tonta no want 
 it ; Great Heart put away — Tonta steal it. All good 
 now — Caiheek take back." 
 
 "Yes; right enough there, for Lord Durham 
 happens to be your friend. But how about those other 
 things: ten or twelve handkerchiefs, and a drawerful 
 of combs, and books, and a razor — What can you do 
 with a razor? No more than you could with a bootjack. 
 All these things must be returned; but how?" 
 
 i6o 
 
5J> 
 
 5'> 
 
 A Hunter Hunted 
 
 "Tonta took 'em ; Tonta put back." 
 
 "Brief enough, and to the point ; but — And, say, 
 worst of all, how on earth did you get Lady Tryon's 
 garter?" 
 
 "Lady on horse — Tonta hold stirrup ; Lady smile 
 Tonta — garter come down — Tonta get it." 
 
 Motier's look of astonishment had in it something 
 of admiration at Tonta's boldness. "Well, I swear !" he 
 exclaimed. "But I can't return that for you. What 
 have you done with it ? 
 
 "Took him back." 
 
 "You did! How? 
 
 "Door open — look in — see nobody. Put garter 
 on table." 
 
 "I'll wager half my income you stole something else 
 before you came out." 
 
 "Lady come — Tonta hide — heap 'fraid. Lady 
 stay long time — 'fraid catch Tonta — hang like 
 Yawhauk. Bye bye lady sleep — Tonta take scalp — " 
 
 "What!" thundered Du Val, reining in his horse. 
 "You did what?" 
 
 "Me take scalp," repeated Tonta, quietly. "See." 
 And, reaching into his hunting pouch, he produced a 
 bunch of dark false hair. 
 
 "Well, Tonta," said Motier, with a tone of hopeless 
 resignation. "I don't know what to do with you. Take 
 the scalp back yourself. No one else can do it for you. 
 Now, have you taken anything else besides all this 
 stuff?" 
 
 "No much — gov'nor ring." 
 
 "The governor's ring? Which one, the big signet 
 ring?" 
 
 l6i 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Caiheek say right." 
 
 "H'm !" Motier looked grave. "What did you do 
 with the ring?" 
 
 "Me save Cap'n. Cap'n good man — Tonta love 
 Cap'n." 
 
 "But how did the ring save him ?" 
 
 "Tonta give ring to Great Heart. Great Heart fix 
 Cap'n." 
 
 Motier was puzzled, but he asked no more questions 
 of Tonta. How could Lord Durham, a recent arrival 
 from England, be entangled with Captain Maynard, a 
 fugitive from justice hiding in the woods of North 
 Carolina? Knowing nothing of the viscount's previous 
 residence in the province Du Val could not penetrate 
 the mystery of Durham's use of the governor's signet 
 ring. But he stowed the thought away in his mind 
 for safe keeping. 
 
 They cantered down the brook-bed, until, rounding 
 a bend, they rode between two high wooded banks. 
 Before them opened a broad sunny glade with bright 
 plumaged birds darting hither and thither across the 
 open. Motier, riding a little ahead, turned back to 
 Tonta. "Pretty, isn't it?" he called, pointing to the 
 space ahead of them. 
 
 Tonta turned his eyes in the direction of Motier's 
 finger. Suddenly he gave a start and pulled back his 
 pony. "Shoot, Caiheek! Yawhauk!" 
 
 With a quick move Du Val pulled his horse upon 
 his haunches. In the same instant, jerking his pistol 
 from its holster, he fired point-blank at a head that 
 peered from behind a tree. As he fired, a rifle ball 
 clipped his bridle rein and passed under his left arm. 
 
 162 
 
A Hunter Hunted 
 
 Motier laughed. His horse had bolted ; but dropping 
 the parted bridle he bent forward and tried to catch 
 the rings on the bit before the horse could shake the 
 iron from his mouth. Here, for once, Motier's careless 
 confidence played against him. Looking down at the 
 horse's head he failed to see the low-limbed tree which 
 stood in their course. The frightened animal passed 
 safely beneath it; but Motier, raising his head as he 
 caught the bit-rings in his fingers, struck a great 
 knotted limb with his forehead and was thrown heavily 
 to the ground. The horse dashed on thrpugh the 
 forest. 
 
 Tonta, riding close behind, pulled back his pony 
 and, tumbling to the ground, bent over the senseless 
 Frenchman. He saw the cut across his forehead, saw 
 the blood oozing from it, held his hand over Motier's 
 mouth and felt no breath from it, then sitting 
 cross-legged beside his Caiheek he began rocking 
 backward and forward and wailing with grief. 
 
 "Stop your noise, boy !" sounded a deep voice at his 
 side. "Let me see your master." 
 
 Tonta sprang to his feet. 
 
 He who had spoken was a tall man, his features 
 half hidden by a broad slouched hat and his form 
 enveloped in a light grey cloak that nearly swept the 
 ground. 
 
 Tonta held out a greasy hand. "Bobbasheelah save 
 him Caiheek," he said, joyfully. "Cap'n say Caiheek 
 no dead?" 
 
 Maynard bent over Du Val's prostrate figure. His 
 fingers slipped about his wrist and his other hand felt 
 the cut upon the forehead. "Your Caiheek is alive," 
 
 163 
 
Wallannah 
 
 he said, at last; "but take your cup and bring some 
 water." ' 
 
 Taking Motier's rifle Tonta ran back to the spring 
 which bubbled from the ground near the spot where 
 the rifleman had ambushed Du Val. When he returned 
 he handed the filled cup to Maynard. 
 
 After the captain had forced some water between 
 Motier's lip and had bathed his gaping wound he 
 turned to the Indian. "Now, Tonta," he said, "you — 
 But what's that ?" 
 
 Tonta held out a blood-stained handkerchief. 
 
 Captain Maynard took it in his hand. "Where did 
 you get this ?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 "By tree — Yawhauk shoot Caiheek." 
 
 Maynard turned the handkerchief until the initials 
 on its border were right side up. Then a quick, fierce 
 light came into his eyes. The letters were J. C. C, and 
 he knew that J. C. C. — He looked up. "From what 
 I have heard of this Du Val," he said, under his breath, 
 "if he lives through this I should hate to give a farthing 
 for the life of J. C. C. And if the boy dies — " 
 Maynard laughed, but the sound seemed to Tonta like 
 the growl of an angry panther. Maynard's eyes were 
 merciless and his lips curled as had Motier's when he 
 smiled into J. C. C.'s rifle-barrel. 
 
 But the fates were spinning their threads; for 
 J. C. C. might well have stood for Jacob Creamly 
 Cantwell. 
 
 164 
 
A Cracked Skull and a Victory 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A Cracked Skull, and a Victory 
 
 N the broad veranda of the De Vere mansion 
 at Beechwood stood Captain Maynard and 
 Mr, De Vere. The officer's horse, tied to a 
 tree on the front lawn, was breathing 
 heavily, and Maynard's face was still flushed with his 
 hard riding. Back of the house, browsing in the long 
 grass, were Tonta's pony and Doctor Ignatius Boggs' 
 bay mare. Somewhere between Beechwood and the 
 governor's palace Du Val's Fleetfoot with Tonta on his 
 back was tearing over the road with a summons for the 
 senior Du Val to hasten to his son's bedside, and for 
 Lord Durham to come to the De Vere house to meet 
 Captain Maynard. 
 
 Mr. De Vere, a man with refinement in every line 
 of his delicate features, turned the conversation to 
 Motier, whom Maynard and Dr, Boggs had brought to 
 the house but a few minutes before. 'T fear," he said, 
 concernedly, "that the boy is dangerously injured. 
 Boggs seems much disturbed at his present symptoms 
 and for some reason is withholding his opinion. But 
 what shall we tell M'sieur Du Val about the accident ?" 
 "Tell him all about the accident," answered 
 Maynard, "except its indirect cause. He could do no 
 good with Jacob Cantwell, and his peace of mind would 
 
 ;i65 
 
Wallannah 
 
 be secured far better if he knew nothing of his son's 
 enemy. If the young man Hves, Cantwell's chances 
 are very sHght ; if he dies, the situation will still be the 
 same." 
 
 De Vere's face was troubled. "But the law, my 
 dear Captain?" he said, rather weakly. "Why not 
 arrest this Cantwell and hold him pending young 
 Du Val's recovery? That seems the proper way." 
 
 "Do you know Cantwell's father — the magistrate?" 
 
 "No ; but I have heard that he is a good man, true 
 to the law and to his judgment of the right and the 
 wrong." 
 
 "If you have heard these things," responded 
 Maynard, with some bitterness, "apply them in the 
 negative and act accordingly." 
 
 De Vere looked puzzled. "But," he pleaded, 
 anxiously, "you don't mean to carry on this matter 
 outside of the law?" 
 
 "I do," was the quiet response, 
 
 "And punish the man yourself?" 
 
 "Unless Motier Du Val lives to relieve me of the 
 trouble." 
 
 "But what could he do ?" , 
 
 "I know this Du Val as little as you do ; but if his 
 face does not belie him, Cantwell will have to pay the 
 bill in full." 
 
 Mr. De Vere caught the significance of Maynard's 
 words, and he gave a little shudder. "I'm afraid," he 
 said, helplessly, "that these things are a little out of 
 my sphere. The law seems to me to — " 
 
 "But you are not Motier Du Val," interrupted the 
 captain, smiling; "neither are you William Maynard. 
 
 i66 
 
A Cracked Skull and a Victory 
 
 When we know we are right we act first and consult 
 the king's law afterward." 
 
 "Well, please don't discuss that with me any more," 
 answered De Vere, nervously. "I am not a man of 
 action and I don't care to be drawn into such bold 
 undertakings as you younger men devise." 
 
 "Don't worry, my good friend," returned Maynard, 
 placing his hand on the other's frail shoulder. "We 
 won't involve you in any of our plots. We'll reserve 
 you for our diplomatic service." 
 
 Mr. De Vere smiled, for his hobby was diplomacy, 
 which he imagined he had mastered. True, he 
 possessed some such talent, but this, like his physique, 
 was weak and nervous. He kept his adversaries in 
 good humor by a system of lavish flattery and frequent 
 apology. Dreading friction, he avoided quarrels, even 
 when his attitude was self-abasing and detrimental to 
 his best interests. In other words, he feared men's 
 anger more than he respected his own opinions, 
 deferring and conciliating when one stronger than he 
 would have resented and fought to the death. 
 
 Maynard looked at his watch. "Tonta has just 
 reached the palace," he said. "If he can find Durham 
 and bring him here I can leave at seven. But Ross — " 
 
 A servant came from the house. "Mr. Ross, in the 
 reception-room," he announced. 
 
 "Excuse me, De Vere," the captain said, bowing to 
 the older man. "My friend awaits me. See if you can 
 extort some opinion from the doctor before the senior 
 Du Val comes." 
 
 Ross arose as Maynard entered the room. The 
 captain extended his hand. "Sit down, Ross," he said, 
 
 167 
 
Wallannah 
 in a low tone, "and tell me where Husbands and the 
 
 men are." 
 
 "Husbands, with twenty men, is in the woods 
 beyond the road," answered Ross, "Hunter and 
 Howell are between here and Hillsborough, and have 
 communicated with Husbands as late as last night." 
 
 "Does Husbands expect to stay in his present 
 position until I join him?" 
 
 "He will wait until nightfall for you." 
 
 "What are your plans?" 
 
 "I expect to go home to-night, unless — " He 
 hesitated a moment, and looked at Maynard. "Unless 
 something happens to keep me in New Bern." he 
 continued. 
 
 "Something personal ?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 Maynard smiled a little. "Well," he said, rising to 
 his feet, "tell Husbands to keep within earshot. If I 
 need help I'll give the owl call." 
 
 John, leaving the reception-room, sent word to his 
 sister Mary, who for years past had been a member of 
 the De Vere household, and asked for an interview 
 with her. 
 
 Mary came down as soon as Mrs. De Vere could 
 relieve her from attendance upon Motier. Taking 
 John to her room, Mary opened the conversation. 
 "John," she asked, anxiously, "you're not involved 
 with those Regulators, are you? I heard the footman 
 say that you and Captain Maynard were having a 
 consultation in the parlor." 
 
 "So we were, sister — in the reception-room," was 
 John's good-humored answer; "and to take up your 
 
 i68 
 
A Cracked Skull and a Victory- 
 question, perhaps I am 'involved with those 
 Regulators.' It looks like it, anyway. I helped them 
 to capture some of the governor's powder last night, 
 and I'm here this afternoon to keep Captain Maynard 
 from being gobbled up by the royal troops. He seems 
 to like hanging around the lions' den ; and he keeps 
 us on pins and needles half the time. But," he 
 continued, more seriously, "there's another matter I 
 want to ask you about. While we were beating around 
 the woods last night Herman Husbands asked me if I 
 knew 'Squire Cantwell. I said, 'No.' Husbands 
 laughed and said that Cantwell knew me ; that passing 
 by Fawn's store at ten o'clock last night he heard 
 Cantwell say that he didn't want me to meet him. 
 Now, you've lived down here nearly fifteen years and 
 know the New Bern people better than I do. Is there 
 any reason why Cantwell should wish to avoid 
 me?" 
 
 Mary, her face pale and drawn, looked out of the 
 window. "It is hard to tell, John," she answered. 
 " 'Squire Cantwell is a very peculiar man : he may 
 have some little dislike, some fancied reason for not 
 caring to meet you. I really would pay no attention 
 to him." 
 
 John laughed. "Well," he said, "perhaps you're 
 right; but I'll hunt him up to-night and see." 
 
 Mary turned quickly. "Oh ! John," she cried, with 
 visible excitement, "don't go! Don't go near that 
 man ! He — " She stopped suddenly, and her glance 
 fell to her apron. 
 
 "He — what?" asked John curiously ; for he could 
 not understand Mary's agitation. 
 
 169 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "He — I cannot tell you, John ; but you must not 
 go near him!" 
 
 John gave a low whistle. "I can't see why this 
 business should disturb you, sister," he said, kindly. 
 "I want to please you ; but, honestly, I don't see why 
 you ask me to keep away from this fellow. What is he 
 to you?" 
 
 "It is nothing, John," she said, with an effort at 
 self-control. "But I have a presentiment that you and 
 he ought not to meet. Won't you promise me to leave 
 him alone?" 
 
 John shook his head. "No," he answered, firmly. 
 "I can't let a presentiment come in my way in this 
 matter. There's a mystery in it somewhere. I will 
 fathom it to-night." Then, kissing her good-bye, he 
 left the house and, making a long detour, was 
 swallowed up by the woods. 
 
 Mary, alone in her room, prayed that Cantwell and 
 her brother might never meet. She had made a 
 misstep when she withheld her secret from John. Had 
 she told her brother that Cantwell was the John 
 Matthews who had deserted her seventeen years before, 
 the situation would have been greatly improved. For 
 John would then have gone to Cantwell in hot blood 
 and would have shot him without the formality of 
 argument. This would have ended the matter with 
 more satisfaction to Ross, and with less future trouble 
 for Cantwell. 
 
 When Captain Maynard returned to the veranda he 
 found that Ahce De Vere had joined her father and 
 that the two sat together on a rustic bench where the 
 sun's parting rays shone upon them. 
 
 170 
 
A Cracked Skull and a Victory 
 
 "Ah! Alice," said the captain, drawing up a chair 
 and seating himself in front of them. "You're a good 
 angel to come to us old fellows and brighten our 
 moss-grown hearts. How is your patient now?" 
 
 "Dr. Boggs says that reaction will have to set in 
 before he can tell," said Alice, a far-away look in her 
 blue eyes. "He says — What did he say, father? I 
 can't remember those hideous words." 
 
 De Vere smiled. "He said, Maynard, that he 
 cannot tell how the boy is until he rallies from the 
 comatose state in which he now is. He speaks of a 
 depression of the skull at the upper suture of the 
 temporal bone, and fears pressure on the brain," 
 
 "H'm!" muttered Maynard. "Bad case, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes. Boggs expects to operate to-morrow." 
 
 They were silent for several minutes. 
 
 "Alice," said Maynard, at last. "I heard that you 
 saw the governor's grand review yesterday. What did 
 you think of it?" 
 
 Miss De Vere, brushing back a golden ringlet from 
 her temple, laughed. "Magnificent," she answered, 
 sarcastically. "It gave his Excellency a splendid 
 opportunity for self-display. King George could have 
 carried no higher head." 
 
 "True enough," assented the officer, with a smile. 
 "But how did you like the after-play?" 
 
 "The after-play ? Oh ! yes. You mean the fight ? 
 That was grand ! Poor fellow !" 
 
 "Which one?" laughed Maynard. 
 
 "Ours — Mr. Du Val, I mean." 
 
 "Ah! 'ours' already, eh? Well, Alice, he seems 
 well fitted for a beau ideal. Think so?" 
 
 171 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Why, Captain! You talk so lightly: the poor 
 man may die before night." 
 
 "No, indeed, my child. He won't die — at least, 
 not yet; he has too much to live for." 
 
 "Too much to live for?" repeated Alice, looking 
 closely at him. "Has he more than any one else ?" 
 
 "Why, yes ! Golden Head," he answered, playfully. 
 "He has yet to meet you." 
 
 "Oh! Captain." Alice's face had flushed a little. 
 "You do say such ridiculous things. I thought you 
 were speaking of Miss Creighton." 
 
 The captain looked up. "Miss Creighton?" he 
 repeated, quickly. "Who is Miss Creighton?" 
 
 "A guest at the palace, and a distant relative of 
 the governor. She came here from the South, but 
 originally from England." 
 
 "Her first name?" 
 
 "Lucille." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 Alice looked at Maynard with a queer little smile. 
 "Do you know her?" she asked, innocently enough — to 
 all appearances. 
 
 "I knew her in Charleston," he answered, slowly. 
 "She is beautiful, as I remember; tall and dark, with 
 wonderful personal magnetism." 
 
 Alice nodded. "Yes," she said, coldly. "She's the 
 one. Mr. Du Val is said to be greatly attached to her." 
 
 Maynard said something under his breath, "He is, 
 eh?" he said, a queer look crossing his face. "Mr. 
 De Vere, you've heard of Lieutenant John — " The 
 captain gave a quick jerk of the head. The hoot of an 
 owl came faintly from the woods to the rear of the 
 
 172 
 
A Cracked Skull and a Victory- 
 house. "Excuse me," said Maynard, quickly. And 
 rushing past them he darted into the hall. 
 
 But Alice wanted to hear what the name of 
 Lieutenant John — whoever-he-was — had to do with 
 Lucille Creighton. 
 
 Captain Maynard ran through the long hallway to 
 the back of the house. Nearing the door, he heard the 
 tramp of horses' hoofs. "My men !" he muttered with 
 a frown. "Why in thunder didn't they stay where they 
 were ?" 
 
 He reached for the knob, but the door opened in his 
 face. "What does this — Ah! Captain," he said, 
 gayly. "Pray walk in!" For Captain Neale, of the 
 governor's Rangers, stood in the doorway, and Captain 
 Neale's great horse-pistol was thrust under Maynard's 
 nose. 
 
 The intruder smiled grimly. "Captain Maynard," 
 he said, "I arrest you in the king's name." 
 
 Maynard smiled into the muzzle of the pistol. 
 "What's in a name?" he laughed. "This artillery does 
 the work; the king's name scares me as little as 
 anything on earth." 
 
 "We won't argue that," was the curt response. 
 "My orders are to take you — " 
 
 "Dead or alive?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And if I don't surrender?" 
 
 "I must shoot." 
 
 "Well said, Captain ; but I doubt if a brave officer 
 would disgrace his epaulettes by shooting even an 
 enemy in cold blood. It shows a lack of principle, 
 you — " 
 
 173 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Do you surrender?" shouted Neale, pushing his 
 pistol closer to Maynard's face; for he saw that the 
 prisoner was playing desperately for time. 
 
 "Bah! Captain," said the other, with a shrug. 
 "Your pistol has a vile smell. Why don't you take it 
 down to the river and scrub out the barrel ?" 
 
 "Do you surrender ?" roared out Neale. 
 
 "Well, seeing I have you to deal with, I might 
 consider it." 
 
 "Here, here! What does this mean?" sounded 
 De Vere's querulous voice through the hall. "Officer, 
 you entered my house unannounced ! Apologize, sir !" 
 But, De Vere, catching a glimpse of the captain's 
 pistol, scurried back to his lair ; for he was not a man 
 of action. 
 
 The door at IMaynard's side opened a scant two 
 inches. The end of a pistol barrel poked through the 
 opening. 
 
 Neale's hand began to tremble. "Surrender! Or, 
 by — " 
 
 "Oh ! no you won't. Move a finger and the pistol 
 you see in this door will blow your soul to — to — 
 Hillsborough ! Tonta, come out and see the gentleman ; 
 but keep your pistol at his ear. Now, Captain, your 
 weapons, please. Thanks! No, no, don't call your 
 men. You have ten and I a hundred. Hear them ?" 
 
 A thunder of shouts intermingled with a few 
 scattered shots told what was happening outside. It 
 ended in a babble of many voices, all talking at once. 
 
 Neale, utterly discomfited, maintained a surly 
 silence. 
 
 'Come on, Captain," said Maynard, linking his 
 
 174 
 
 *'t 
 
A Cracked Skull and a Victory 
 
 left arm in the captain's right. "Give me your pistol, 
 Tonta. Now, Captain mine, let's step outside and look 
 at the weather." 
 
 They went through the doorway. The twilight 
 was close into the night, but the grey afterglow was 
 bright enough for Neale to see his men, disarmed and 
 disheartened, in the enemy's gracious hands. 
 
 "Now, Captain," said Maynard, as, still arm in arm, 
 they entered the house. "Let's go into this little room. 
 Tonta, boy, light a candle. There, that's better. Now, 
 Captain, here's a table, and pen and ink and paper. 
 Let me tell you what I'll do. I will release you now 
 and give you a pass through my lines" — all Maynard's 
 lines were congregated in the backyard ; but Neale did 
 not know it — "if you promise to delay your report to 
 the governor until to-morrow night. Mind you, I'm 
 not asking a favor : I'm granting one. What do you 
 say?" 
 
 Neale raised his head stiffly. "No," he answered, 
 shortly. "A king's officer cannot recognize any offer 
 made by an outlaw." 
 
 "As you will," retorted Maynard, with an easy 
 laugh. "Husbands !" he called. 
 
 "Sir !" answered the deep voice of the Quaker. 
 
 "Captain Neale is our prisoner. Take him." 
 
 Husbands came forward, a long rope in his hands. 
 "Fast bind, fast find," he said, with a chuckle. "Iveep 
 your protests to yourself, Captain dear." And with 
 a few deft turns he bound the captive's hands behind 
 him. 
 
 As Husbands dragged him to the door Neale 
 turned his head toward Maynard. "You'll regret this," 
 
 175 
 
Wallannah 
 
 he cried, hotly. "You've turned the tables on me this 
 time, but you won't do it again." 
 
 Maynard, laughing quietly, sat down in a chair 
 and raised his feet to the table. "Be calm, dear boy !" 
 he said, very sweetly, as he drew his pipe from his 
 pocket and filled it. "These little things are only 
 preliminary: wait till we settle down to business. 
 Good-night, Captain, good-night ! And say. Captain !" 
 he called, as an afterthought. Neale, standing with 
 Husbands in the doorway, turned his head. His face 
 was white and he bit furiously at his mustache. 
 
 Maynard, wreathed in tobacco-smoke, waved one 
 hand with a graceful gesture. "Pleasant dreams, 
 Captain!" he said, with a sparkle in his dark eyes, 
 "Breakfast at six, you know." 
 
 With a ripping curse Neale turned his back and 
 was dragged into the gloom. 
 
 lyh 
 
Motier Receives Company 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 ^,y ate- 
 
 Motier Receives Company 
 
 OHN ROSS reached Cantwell's house at 
 ten o'clock that night. He had thought 
 much of Mary's unaccountable agitation 
 and of her effort to keep him away from 
 the 'Squire. These things were in his mind when 
 he stood before Cantwell's door; and with a 
 sudden resolve he dropped his hand from the knocker, 
 and turning the knob entered the house, passing 
 unannounced into the 'Squire's reception-parlor. 
 
 'Squire Cantwell looked up in surprise at the 
 unexpected entrance of his visitor, whom, at first 
 glance, he failed to recognize. "You should have 
 knocked," he said, sharply, glaring across the table at 
 the intruder. 
 
 John pushed his hat-brim from his forehead. 
 "Think so?" he said, coolly, fixing his eyes upon 
 Cantwell's face. 
 
 The 'Squire sank back into his chair, his jaw 
 dropped and his eyes seemed bursting from their 
 sockets. "John Ross !" he said, at last. "What do you 
 want with me?" 
 
 John still looked at him. His face w^as set like 
 stone and his eyes were cold and hard. "Had I thought 
 that 'Squire Cantwell and John IMatthews were one 
 
 177 
 
Wallannah 
 
 and the same," he said, "I should have adopted a 
 different course. You ask what I want with you: I 
 want you to write an open letter over your own 
 signature and to print it in the New Bern Gazette, 
 acknowledging your marriage to my sister in 1754 
 and your desertion of her three years later. That is 
 what I want with you." 
 
 "But I have adjusted this matter with your sister," 
 protested Cantwell. 
 
 ''Perhaps you have. But you're talking with me 
 now." 
 
 "You're meddhng in other people's affairs." 
 
 "Perhaps I am ; but you can't keep me from it. I 
 expect — " 
 
 Cantwell rose to his feet. "I decline to discuss 
 this matter any further," he said, with a show of 
 austerity. 
 
 John shrugged his shoulders. "Decline all you 
 please," he answered, coolly, "but you'll listen first to 
 all I have to say. Sit down." 
 
 "Get out of — " 
 
 "Sit down!" 
 
 "You dirty — " 
 
 John made a step toward him. 
 
 Cantwell dropped into his chair. "If you threaten 
 me," he blustered, "you'll go to the jail — and stay 
 there." 
 
 'Will you write that letter ?" asked John, sternly. 
 
 'No; I won't." 
 
 Ross turned on his heel. "Very well," he said, 
 moving toward the door. "I will." 
 
 Cantwell rubbed his hands together and laughed 
 
 178 
 
 (If 
 
Motier Receives Company 
 
 satirically. "But your proofs, my dear fellow, your 
 proofs !" 
 
 "I have the proofs," was the quick retort; "and 
 Simon Fawn can supply the further evidence. I give 
 you until to-morrow at noon to place your statement 
 in the hands of the editor of the Gazette. If you fail, 
 I'll make the statement myself, and suit will be entered 
 against you in the superior court." Without another 
 word he turned and left the house. 
 
 At nine o'clock the next morning Doctor Boggs, 
 M. Du Val and Mary Ross were in Motier's room. 
 The young Frenchman was in a critical condition, and 
 Boggs was preparing to operate, before noon, on the 
 indented skull. Motier was slowly awakening from 
 the stupor in which he had lain for over sixteen hours ; 
 but his speech was thick and disconnected. He spoke 
 entirely in French, but at intervals the watchers caught 
 the name of Lucille. 
 
 Doctor Boggs, noticing these repetitions, turned to 
 M. Du Val. "Who is this Lucille?" he asked. 
 
 "Lucille Creighton," the father answered, "a 
 relative of the governor, and one of Motier's warmest 
 friends." 
 
 "Yes, I see," responded the doctor. Then, under 
 his breath, "Lucille Creighton ! Where have I — Aha !" 
 And he bent lower and fumbled with the bandage on 
 his patient's head. 
 
 Doctor Boggs was an elderly man of slight build, 
 but vigorous and active. His eyes were large and 
 dark and shone with frank kindliness under his shaggy 
 grey brows. He was well-read in his profession, 
 inclined a little to the dogmatic, but was, withal, an 
 
 179 
 
Wallannah 
 
 entertaining and an untiring talker. When dressed 
 for the street Boggs was a fashion-plate model of the 
 period, and his snuff-box and his gold-headed cane 
 were his invariable companions. 
 
 The senoir Du Val, who sat near the foot of the 
 bed, had lived a full three-score years. His features 
 were regular and his face was particularly noticeable 
 from the startling contrast of his snowy white hair 
 with the deep black of his eyebrows and mustache. 
 His expression was peculiarly placid, emotion never 
 showing in any of its lines, his eyes always meeting 
 with calm and candor those who looked into his face. 
 His figure, although not muscular, was graceful and 
 well-knit. Doctor Boggs, looking from the father to 
 the son, could see no point of resemblance between the 
 two. 
 
 After Motier's longest effort at speech Boggs 
 looked up. "Monsieur Du Val," he said, "your son's 
 talk seems a little rambling to my ears ; but he speaks 
 in French, which I cannot understand. Would you 
 mind being my interpreter when he starts again?" 
 
 M. Du Val drew his chair nearer. Ten minutes of 
 silence ensued ; then Motier, turning his head slightly, 
 began to speak, slowly and with evident effort. M. 
 Du Val's voice, in English, followed his son's. "Lucille, 
 fair one, it is too late now — too late. You have my 
 word, and I will keep it. Even though I loved you 
 less — " 
 
 "Enough, Monsieur," said the doctor. 
 
 The interpreter stopped, but Motier continued for 
 several minutes more. 
 
 Boggs shook his head. "Some things are worse 
 
 1 80 
 
Motier Receives Company 
 
 than a cracked skull," he muttered to himself, as he 
 mixed some medicine in a glass ; "and Lucille 
 Creighton is one of those things." 
 
 Thus it appears that with Tonta's memory of 
 "Caiheek Lieuten't," Captain Maynard's reference to 
 Lieutenant John somebody in Charleston, and, lastly, 
 Doctor Boggs' caustic comment upon Lucille, the path 
 of Motier's romance looked like a mountain road 
 leading up to a grey bank of cloud. Who could tell 
 what lay beyond the mist? 
 
 A few minutes later Mrs. De Vere came to the door 
 and called Mary. Together they went down the stairs 
 to meet the messenger who had come from New Bern. 
 The words of his letter were simple, and their meaning 
 so clear that Mary grasped it all as she read the first 
 words. 
 
 John Ross had been found at daybreak, dead, with 
 a knife-thrust in his back, lying in a path on the 
 outskirts of the town. 
 
 The circumstances of the murder were cloaked in 
 mystery. Ross, having spent the most of his time on 
 the farm up the river, had few acquaintances in New 
 Bern ; and he had never known of the existence of an 
 enemy. Although Mary knew that John had left her 
 with the avowed intention of calling upon Cantwell, 
 she did not associate the 'Squire with the murder. Bad 
 though the man was, she did not think him capable of 
 taking a human life. So she ascribed her brother's 
 death to his association with the Regulators, whose 
 lives were ever threatened by a thousand dangers. 
 
 At one o'clock in the afternoon M. Du Val came 
 down to the parlor and announced that the doctor had 
 
 i8i 
 
Wallannah 
 
 operated successfully upon Motier's skull, had relieved 
 the pressure on the brain, and thatthe patient had fallen 
 into a quiet sleep. The news brought gladness to the 
 hearts of all who heard it, although the gloom of 
 Mary's new misfortune 'had touched the entire 
 household. 
 
 As the days went by Motier improved rapidly. 
 M. Du Val remained with him, and Lord Durham, the 
 De Vere's nearest friend, was a frequent visitor. 
 Captain Maynard stole to the house one evening at 
 sundown and left Motier's room with a cheerful smile ; 
 ' for something had drawn the two men together, and, 
 though one was forty-five and the other but twenty-one, 
 they had found many common interests. 
 
 John Ross was buried beside his mother on the 
 river shore near the log cabin which had been his 
 life-long home. Lord Durham had expected to attend 
 the funeral, but a hasty summons to Hillsborough 
 prevented. Thus it was that Mary could not carry out 
 her long cherished plan of telling Durham, or Mr. Noel, 
 as she still called him, that his wife and child had not 
 been killed when the hostile Indians raided the village 
 of the Neusiocs, but that Mrs. Noel had died in Mary's 
 own house and that her grave was close by the one in 
 which they had laid Ross. Perhaps it was as well that 
 she could not tell this; for Durham's question would 
 have been, "My wife lies here ; but where is the little 
 girl?" And this Mary was not prepared to answer. 
 
 Of the six who had once eaten of their daily bread 
 in the cabin by the Neuse — the widow Ross, her son 
 John, Matthews and Mary his wife, and the little boy 
 and the baby girl — all were gone but Mary. So it was 
 
 182 
 
Motier Receives Company 
 
 that after closing the little cabin she went back to the 
 place which she called home — the mansion of the 
 De Veres. 
 
 A week after Doctor Boggs had lifted Motier's 
 mind from its shadow he sent the young man out of 
 doors. Mrs. De Vere, handsome and gracious, walked 
 with him through the garden, and talking in Madame's 
 native tongue — for she, too, was a child of France — 
 they laughed away a happy hour. Mrs. De Vere, with 
 a mother's art, said little of her daughter Alice, but 
 what she did say was enough to inspire Motier with 
 some interest ; but again, with a mother's art, she said, 
 "Wait until to-morrow." 
 
 The next day young Du Val breakfasted with the 
 family, excepting only Alice, who had driven to New 
 Bern to buy some silks. Motier charmed his auditors 
 with his ease of manner and his graceful conversation, 
 and, parrying with the keen wit of Mrs. De Vere, he 
 kept that woman's worthy husband with mouth agape 
 and eyes that expanded with every shaft of repartee. 
 For De Vere, although a diplomat, could but marvel at 
 any man who would argue a point with Mrs. De Vere. 
 
 Later in the morning, as Motier sat in the garden 
 awaiting his father's coming, he heard a footfall on 
 the gravel path, and raised his eyes. There, lovely and 
 queenly, her eyes and her lips joining in a radiant smile, 
 with her arms outstretched toward him, stood Lucille 
 Creighton. 
 
 "Motier!" 
 
 "Lucille!" 
 
 That was all that Alice De Vere heard as, returning 
 from her drive, she left her carriage at the garden gate 
 
 183 
 
Wallannah 
 
 and passed down the path behind the rose trees. But 
 the "Motier!" had beneath its music such love as she 
 had never heard in the voice of woman, and the 
 "Lucille !" — Alice felt as though something had gone 
 wrong with the universe. She passed on quickly and 
 left them together in the garden. If she only could 
 find some clue to the story of Lieutenant John 
 whoever-he-was ! 
 
 After Lucille had done with telling Motier how she 
 had suffered with him, how well he was looking and 
 how glad she was to see him again ; and after Motier 
 had finished telling how he had thought and had 
 dreamed of her, how beautiful she was and what 
 happiness her presence gave, she took a letter from 
 some hidden pocket and handed it to him. 
 
 He opened it, and a commission as aide-de-camp on 
 the captain-general's staff stared him in the face. He 
 laughed as he looked up at Lucille. "Lucille, chere," 
 he said, folding the paper and slipping it into his 
 pocket, "you are holding me to my word, I see: 'a 
 royalist, too, if she is.' " 
 
 Lucille, looking down, pushed a little pebble about 
 with the tip of her shoe. "Are you sorry, Motier ?" 
 
 "Sorry!" he exclaimed, taking her hand and 
 pressing it to his lips. "Nothing that you could do 
 would cause me regret ; unless — " 
 
 "Unless what?" 
 
 "Unless," he continued, "you changed your mind 
 and did not — " 
 
 She raised her eyes and he saw the moisture that 
 glittered under their lashes. "Change, Motier?" she 
 said, with a low, happy laugh. "Sometimes I wish that 
 
 184 
 
Motier Receives Company 
 
 I might." Whatever else she may have said was 
 whispered in Motier's ear, for he caught her in a swift 
 embrace, and they stood for a moment forgetting all in 
 the world save that their arms were about one another 
 and that their lips were met in a kiss that, long and 
 ardent though it was, seemed but a touch. 
 
 "Again, before you go ?" whispered Motier, as they 
 unclasped their arms. 
 
 She shook her head and laughed. "No, sweetheart, 
 you're too greedy; but wait until you come again to 
 our castle." Then, with a little flush burning on each 
 cheek, and in her eyes a light that half the men in the 
 world would have fought through blood and fire to see 
 for one moment, she walked with him to the carriage at 
 the front door. There they parted, and Motier began 
 to wish that Boggs would send him back to the palace. 
 
 Motier, his hands clasped behind his back and his 
 eyes fixed upon the ground, slowly retraced his steps 
 to the garden. His mind was centred upon Lucille, and 
 he wished devoutly for the day to come when he and 
 she could be together beneath the governor's roof. 
 Nearing the bench which he had left to meet her, he 
 raised his eyes. Captain Maynard, dressed in a 
 tight-fitting uniform of blue and buff, stood watching 
 his approach. 
 
 "Why, Captain," said Motier, taking the officer's 
 hand, "you give me a pleasing surprise." 
 
 "I happened near here, Du Val," answered 
 Maynard, as they sat upon the bench and lit a pair of 
 black Spanish cigarros which the captain produced, 
 "and thought to ask of your health ; but Alice telling 
 me you were here, I came back in time to see you and 
 
 185 
 
Wallannah 
 
 your lady friend go through the gate. So I waited. 
 How is the head?" 
 
 "As well as ever," answered Motier. Then, with a 
 laugh, "I wish that infernal Boggs would let me move 
 around more. What's going on in the world ?" 
 
 Maynard looked at him with a questioning smile. 
 "Well enough to hear some news?" he asked. 
 
 "The more the better," laughed Du Val. 
 
 "Has Tonta told you much about your accident ?" 
 
 "All that he knows." 
 
 "Did he tell you who shot at you?" 
 
 "No," was the quick response. "Do you know ?" 
 
 Maynard, behind a cloud of smoke, nodded his 
 head. "Do you want to know ?" he asked, quietly. 
 
 "If you value your life," Motier laughed, "tell me 
 who the fellow was." 
 
 "Well, now," responded Maynard, with provoking 
 slowness, "suppose I told you, what would you do ? go 
 to the magistrate and swear out a warrant ?" 
 
 "Magistrate be hanged !" retorted Motier, with 
 humor and spirit. "I had enough of the magistrate the 
 day of the governor's review. He sent me to jail 
 without a trial. No more magistrate for me!" 
 
 Maynard threw back his head and blew a pair 
 of smoke-rings into the air. " What was your 
 misconduct?" he asked. 
 
 "Dealing out summary punishment to a fellow 
 named Cantwell." 
 
 "Oh ! yes ; Cantwell. I think I — " 
 
 "But, Captain!" protested Motier, impatiently. "I 
 want my assailant's name." 
 
 "Why, certainly," said Maynard, brushing a speck 
 
 i86 
 
Motier Receives Company 
 
 of ash from his coat. "We're talking about him 
 now." 
 
 "Ah!" Du Val drew a long breath. "I might have 
 known." Then he laughed softly to himself. 
 
 "Well," said Maynard, watching him with an 
 amused but admiring smile. "What do you expect to 
 do ? ask him to apologize ?" 
 
 Motier, with his elbows resting on his knees, was 
 studying the end of his cigarro. "Captain," he said, 
 looking up sidewise, "Jacob Cantwell is a fool." 
 
 "Yes?" answered Alaynard, questioningly. 
 
 "He is also a swordsman," Du Val went on; "he 
 must measure his blade with mine." 
 
 Maynard rose to his feet, one hand resting on 
 Motier's shoulder. Du Val, throwing away his cigarro, 
 stood up beside him Alike in height and breadth 
 and carriage, the two represented an unusual type of 
 physical perfection. 
 
 "Du Val," said the captain, with a hearty handshake, 
 "you're a man after my own heart. I knew your 
 answer a week ago." 
 
 "That's my ultimatum, Captain," was the response. 
 "But," and he smiled a little as their eyes met again. 
 "I am not a man after your own heart in all 
 things." 
 
 "It may be well that you are not. Anything 
 special ?" 
 
 "Rather," said Motier; and reaching into his 
 pocket he drew out the governor's commission. "Read 
 that." 
 
 Maynard, taking the paper, read it through. 
 Motier watched him closely; but not a muscle moved 
 
 187 
 
Wallannah 
 
 in the captain's face. He handed back the sheet. 
 "Irrevocable?" he asked, with a Httle smile. 
 
 "Irrevocable." 
 
 "Then do your duty : arrest me." 
 
 "You 're premature, my dear Captain. I'm not 
 sworn in." 
 
 They looked into one another's eyes and both men 
 laughed. 
 
 "In the future?" suggested Maynard. 
 
 "I will do what I am sworn to do." 
 
 "And if we meet — officially ?" 
 
 "If I don't win, you will." 
 
 "And after the fighting?" 
 
 "If you haven't shot me, and if I haven't shot you, 
 we'll settle the Cantwell affair." 
 
 "Now," said Maynard, with a perplexed smile, "I 
 can't stop coming here, and you say Boggs won't set 
 vou free. When am I to know that you are a sworn 
 officer?" 
 
 Motier looked down thoughtfully. "Well," he said, 
 slowly. Then he looked up with a quick laugh. "If I 
 meet you in the De Vere house after I am sworn, you'll 
 find me very short-sighted." 
 
 "How?" asked Maynard, reaching out and taking 
 Du Val's hand. 
 
 "I will not see you," was the reply. 
 
 With a firm pressure of the hand and a hasty "God 
 bless you!" Maynard slipped into the bushes and was 
 gone. 
 
 Motier, hearing a sound behind him, turned quickly. 
 Down the gravel walk came Esther Wake and 
 Governor Tryon. 
 
 i88 
 
The Story of Jack Ashburne 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The Story of Jack Ashburne 
 
 HE governor and his sister-in-law spent but 
 a short time at the De Vere's, but Motier 
 was with them tih they left. The coming 
 of Doctor Boggs made it possible for DuVal 
 to promise the executive to return to the palace within 
 two days, and Tryon assured him of an immediate 
 assignment to active work in the preparation for the 
 campaign against the Regulators. This gratified 
 Motier, but his pleasure was not all in the anticipation 
 of his work. He knew that the palace meant Lucille, 
 and Lucille meant more to him than the inspection of 
 stacks of guns and kegs of powder. 
 
 Miss Wake led Motier aside while De Vere and the 
 governor debated a knotty problem in rose culture. 
 "Motier," she said, in a low voice, "pray be careful in 
 your association with Captain Maynard. All that saved 
 you in the garden was a hawk that swooped across the 
 path and attracted his Excellency's eye. Otherwise he 
 would have caught you red-handed." 
 
 "I appreciate your spirit of kindliness," responded 
 Motier, with a quiet dignity; "but my interview with 
 Captain Maynard was not a clandestine one. Should 
 occasion require, I would not hesitate to tell the 
 governor of the matter." 
 
 189 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Don't misunderstand me, Motier," said Esther, 
 reddening a little. "I do not mean to speak in criticism, 
 or even to suggest that your meeting with the captain 
 was a secret one. I only wish to show you that I am 
 not unmindful of your interests. Governor Tryon, you 
 know, is very bitter against Captain Maynard, and he 
 might be unreasonable in anything bearing upon 
 him." 
 
 "Have no concern, Miss Wake," said Motier, 
 laughingly. "I will not involve myself with the enemy. 
 Now, his Excellency seems to await you : let me lead 
 you to the carriage." 
 
 Motier watched the cloud of dust that followed the 
 governor's equipage. "Perhaps I am sailing close to 
 the wind," he said to himself, as he turned and entered 
 the house. "But I'll use my judgment and not the 
 governor's." 
 
 The next day was cold and rainy. Motier and 
 Alice, who had met at dinner the day before, spent the 
 morning together in the drawing-room. Their 
 conversation began when Alice, pausing a moment at 
 the door, saw DuVal standing by the window. "Lonely, 
 M'sieur Du Val?" she called. 
 
 He turned, smiling. "Until now," he said, bowing 
 in the stately European manner. "Won't you come in 
 and brighten me?" 
 
 "I wanted to talk with you before you left," she 
 said, as they met in the middle of the room, "because 
 you can tell me about France, where mother and father 
 lived until after their marriage ; and because you know 
 so well the court life of which we Americans can only 
 read." 
 
 190 *' 
 
The Story of Jack Ashburne 
 
 They walked together to the window, and Alice 
 sat in the wide window seat. Motier leaning his 
 shoulder against the casing, stood close by her. "Of 
 France," he said, "I can say naught but good — except 
 it be of the government, which is extremely bad. Of 
 the court life," he hesitated and looked down at her, 
 "no one can speak without some reservation." Motier 
 would have spoken more specifically to Lucille or to 
 any other woman save this one ; but Alice was new 
 and strange to him, and something in her eyes made 
 him guard his lips as they had never been guarded 
 before. This sensation of constraint puzzled Motier. 
 Hitherto his manner with women had been marked 
 by a freedom which had won for him a considerable 
 renown in the court of Louis of France. His bold 
 heart and quick tongue had put to frequent silence 
 every mistress of epigram and bon mot in the salons 
 of the day ; and Madame Du Barry, the king's favorite, 
 had said upon more than one occasion that young 
 Du Val was the only man in France who had no fear 
 of woman. Yet, Madame had overshot the mark ; for 
 this same Du Val was now showing to Alice De Vere 
 that respect which the women of the salons were wont 
 to call timidity. 
 
 Alice gave little heed to her companion's 
 conservative allusion to the court life. "I heard your 
 father telling Lord Durham of many of your 
 adventures in France," she said, looking up at him. 
 "Did you really escape from prison and carry off one 
 of the guards ?" 
 
 Motier laughed. "Well," he said, with a little 
 embarrassment, "I did something like that; but the 
 
 191 
 
Wallannah 
 
 prison, you know, was a very frail sort of structure, 
 and I pushed out the door with my knee." 
 
 "But the guard?" said Ahce. "Didn't he try to 
 kill you?" 
 
 "I don't know but that he did; but he was in my 
 way, and it seemed safest to take him with me." 
 
 "But how did you do it ?" 
 
 "Tied his hands and feet, stopped up his mouth and 
 carried him on my shoulder. Really, Miss De Vere, 
 the incident was a trivial one. The guard, too, was 
 glad enough to come with me." 
 
 "And after that," said Alice, her eyes sparkling, 
 "you and the guard became fast friends, and you two 
 went to Calais, where you rescued a woman who was 
 under arrest — " 
 
 "Who told you all this ?" laughed Du Val, a little 
 flush rising to his cheeks, 
 
 "Your father. But don't interrupt me, please. 
 You rescued the woman, like those knights we read 
 about — " 
 
 "But, Miss De Vere," broke in DuVal, protestingly, 
 "father exaggerates these matters fearfully. The 
 woman rescued herself, you see: we simply escorted 
 her to the ship. Really," he added, as her eyes laughed 
 into his, "she did it all." 
 
 "Why, Monsieur Du Val ! You know that you 
 heard the woman call from the carriage, and that you 
 and your comrade threw the driver from his seat and 
 galloped the horses to your ship. Then you fought 
 Monsieur le Capitaine at the wharf and nearly killed 
 him." 
 
 "Miss De Vere, you must not listen to all that 
 
 192 
 
The Story of Jack Ashburne 
 
 father tells you. He must have said these things the 
 night you expected me to die. It is customary, I 
 believe, to over-rate the past deeds of a dead or a 
 half-dead man." 
 
 She met his objections with a toss of her golden 
 curls. "It's all true," she said, firmly, "every word; 
 for your father gave dates and all. But he ended the 
 story with the sailing of the ship. What happened 
 after that?" 
 
 "Nothing worth recalling. We sailed to Dover, 
 where we left the poor woman — they had sent her 
 husband to the Bastille, you know, and were carrying 
 her to a chateau near Versailles. Then from Dover 
 we went to Liverpool. We spent several months in 
 England ; then my friend the guard came to America. 
 I have never seen him since." 
 
 Alice, twisting a ribbon about her fingers, looked 
 thoughtfully at him. "But why did all this happen?" 
 she asked. "Why did they put you into prison ?" 
 
 "For what his Eminence, the Cardinal, called 
 treason," responded Motier. "I had some notions and 
 theories about civil rights and about the nonsense of 
 the divinity of kings." 
 
 A pleased look came to Alice's face. "You were a 
 patriot, then?" 
 
 "Perhaps," answered Motier, with a smile. "The 
 Duke d'Aiguillon, however, called me by a different 
 name." 
 
 ♦'Tell me, what did he say?" 
 
 "As he passed me while the guards steered me 
 prisonward, he raised his hat and called, 'M'sieur 
 Du Val, I salute the greatest fool in France !' " 
 
 193 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "How ill-bred !" exclaimed Alice. "Did you answer 
 him?" 
 
 "Do you really care to know?" 
 
 "I really do." 
 
 "I said, 'If your Highness is a man of wisdom, I 
 thank Heaven for having been born a fool!' Now," 
 added Motier, hastily, "I am wrong to tell you all this : 
 it sounds egotistical. Let us turn the conversation to 
 our own day and our own land — for I call this my 
 land now." 
 
 Alice lifted her eyebrows and shook her head, "Oh ! 
 no," she said, in a pleading tone, "don't change the 
 topic yet. I think your answer to the duke was a 
 good one ; but — " She hesitated and looked sidewise 
 through the window. 
 
 "But?" Motier repeated. 
 
 "I think you would have done better had you held 
 your head high and passed by the duke without a 
 word." 
 
 Motier looked down at her. "You have voiced the 
 thought that has lingered in my mind ever since that 
 day," he said, quietly. "I was wrong to answer him at 
 all." And he remembered with somewhat of a start 
 that Lucille had applauded the spirit of the very retort 
 that Alice now deprecated. Yet he felt that Alice was 
 in the right. 
 
 "If you were patriotic enough to go to jail rather 
 than change your politics," asked Alice, "why have you 
 been a royalist ever since?" 
 
 The question struck Motier on a weak spot in his 
 armor. He could not say to her that he was a royalist 
 because he had promised Lucille to be one, so he 
 
 194 
 
The Story of Jack Ashburne 
 
 answered as best he could. "Because," he said, 
 evasively, "the government of Great Britain is far more 
 Hberal than that of France." 
 
 "Do you think that we in the colonies are well 
 treated?" she asked, earnestly. "Don't you think the 
 government too severe in its strictures?" 
 
 Motier shook his head. "No; I think that some 
 few matters might be handled more considerately ; but 
 in general I think that the provinces have little cause 
 for complaint. Under a ruler like Louis XV, for 
 instance, you would hesitate to call life worth the 
 living." 
 
 Alice looked out into the rain. She wanted to 
 debate the condition of the colonies, but her spirit of 
 hospitality overcame her patriotism. 
 
 She turned suddenly and saw that Motier's eyes 
 were fixed curiously and questioningly upon her face. 
 But she met the look with a smile, and changed the 
 subject. "How do you like Captain Maynard?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "As well as any man I ever met," he answered. 
 
 "We think him the best and bravest man in the 
 world. You remind me in many ways of him. You 
 are both tall and much alike in physique ; then, too, you 
 both have that way of laughing when you are 
 angry." 
 
 "But you have never seen me -angry." 
 
 "N-no," she answered, slowly, "but I know that you 
 would laugh if you were. Then," she continued, 
 "sometimes you look so like him that I can never 
 think of you but as a sort of avenging Nemesis.'* 
 
 "Really," he said, with an amused smile, "you must 
 
 195 
 
Wallannah 
 
 think me a terrible fellow. How do the captain and I 
 suggest avengers of wrong?" 
 
 "Sometimes," she said, lowering her voice into 
 seriousness, "Captain Alaynard talks with father about 
 some things which have happened in his life, and his 
 eyes get so cold and so merciless that it makes me 
 shiver to think of the day when he may meet the men 
 who have wronged him. The same look came into your 
 eyes when you said that you had never seen your friend 
 the guardsman since he left you in England. If you 
 ever meet him — " 
 
 "But I will never meet him, mon ami," answered 
 Du Val. "He is too far away." 
 
 "But you may," persisted Alice. "You and he were 
 good friends, were you not?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, gravely, "the world has never 
 seen another such as he." 
 
 "Was he tall, too, and strong, and did he laugh 
 when he felt angry?" 
 
 "Come here by the fire. Miss De Vere," said Motier, 
 drawing two chairs before the grate, "and if you wish 
 I'll tell you of my friend the guardsman; but I can't 
 promise to tell you why I never expect to meet 
 him. 
 
 "My friend," he said, as they took their seats, "was 
 an Englishman. He had left his regiment because — 
 because his debts grew too burdensome." The 
 excessive debts were in Du Val's imagination : the real 
 cause was the love of a woman, but Motier evaded the 
 truth, as he had once before, because he was afraid of 
 the clear, pure look in Alice's eyes. "He left the 
 country for the — the same reason. That was years 
 
 196 
 
The Story of Jack Ashburne 
 
 and years ago. I had seen him but once before I 
 carried him away from the jail; but I took a fancy to 
 him because he was all that you, in your question, asked 
 if he was. He was tall and strong and he did 'laugh 
 w^hen he felt angry.' " 
 
 "I knew that," laughed Alice. "All brave men do 
 that way." 
 
 "Yes, of course they do," assented Motier, "but it 
 doesn't follow that all men who do that way are brave. 
 Now, as you know, my friend of the guard crossed to 
 Dover on the ship with me, and with the fugitive 
 Frenchwoman. We left the lady to her own devices, 
 and he and I played cards from the wharf at Calais to 
 the landing in England. It was wicked, you will say, 
 but we played for gold and I won all that he had and 
 ran him into my debt for considerably more that he did 
 not have. We spent some time around Liverpool, and 
 my friend made a little money by teaching some peer 
 of the realm to fence with the rapier. He then paid 
 all that he owed me. and we struck northward toward 
 the border. 
 
 "Somewhere near the line which divides England 
 from Scotland we became involved in a petty uprising 
 of some landlord's tenants. I was seized and locked 
 up in a wagon-shed: my friend escaped. It being 
 night my captors deemed it inadvisable to wake up 'my 
 Lord' so-and-so, and I was kept in the shed with the 
 expectation of being handed over to the authorities 
 in the morning. My friend, however, biding his time, 
 had stolen up to 'my Lord's' house, frightened some 
 poor woman half to death, and with a bottle of wine, 
 a broiled steak and an axe — with these things he 
 
 197 
 
Wallannah 
 
 evaded a part of the plough-boy guard and came down 
 to my lodging place. Some one shot at him, but he 
 split the fellow's head with the axe, and, battering 
 down the door, he let me out. After that we ran a mile 
 or two through the woods, and then sat down to 
 luncheon. 
 
 "Now this shows you what manner of man he was. 
 I never knew a braver soldier than he ; he was the truest 
 friend that ever breathed ; and his good-humor was 
 unfailing. His companions in the old English regiment 
 have told me that this man could laugh into the 
 cannon's mouth, and sing songs into the faces of the 
 men who went down before his sword, yet be as tender 
 as a woman with a wounded comrade. After we 
 cleared the borderland he saved my life four times, once 
 from drowning, once from the explosion of a barrel 
 of powder, and twice from the assaults of footpads. 
 When we returned to Liverpool we met my father, who 
 had left France in a more graceful manner than did his 
 son. Here my friend of the guard found two solicitors 
 waiting for him with a legacy of something like a 
 hundred thousand pounds. If you guessed all your life 
 you could never tell what he did with the money. 
 
 "First he squared up his old debts ; then he gave a 
 banquet to the English regiment that still called him 
 theirs; after that he crossed over to France and 
 without my knowledge purchased my pardon from the 
 French government ; he came back and hunting up the 
 fugitive woman who had crossed with us from France, 
 forced her to take — at the point of a pistol, he said — 
 ten thousand pounds of his money and to go back to 
 France for her husband, who, he told her, would be 
 
 198 
 
The Story of Jack Ashburne 
 
 free before she got there; and then my friend of the 
 guard ended it all by eloping with a beautiful 
 Lincolnshire girl and sailing for America. That is 
 his story as I know it." 
 
 Alice's face was aglow with excitement. "And 
 then," she said, "after he came to America — then 
 what?" 
 
 "If I tell you that you will know why I can never 
 meet him." 
 
 "But tell me," she said, impatiently. "You've left 
 off at the most interesting point. What did your friend 
 do when he came to America?" 
 
 Motier looked gravely into her eyes. "He took a 
 pistol and blew out his brains," he answered, quietly. 
 
 Alice looked up quickly and half arose from her 
 chair. "Oh! M'sieur Du Val, you — I had no idea 
 what I asked. I hope — " 
 
 "You have done nothing," answered Motier, kindly. 
 Then he smiled, a very slight smile and a very sad one, 
 she thought. "The other woman was the one who did 
 the mischief," he said. 
 
 "The one who came from England with him ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who was she?" 
 
 Motier looked at her. "If I knew — " He stopped 
 with a short laugh. In his eyes was the same merciless 
 gleam that Alice had seen there once before. 
 
 They were silent for several minutes, Alice gazing 
 thoughtfully into the fire, and Motier, his lips pressed 
 firmly together, looking through and beyond the mantel 
 into the days when his friend had lived. 
 
 At last Alice spoke. "One thing you have not told 
 
 199 
 
Wallannah 
 
 me," she asked, softly. "What was the guardsman's 
 name?" 
 
 "Lieutenant John Ashburne," he answered, turning 
 his eyes upon her. Then, bending forward quickly, 
 "Are you ill, Miss De Vere." 
 
 Alice was very pale. "No, no," she said, in an 
 agitated voice. "But tell me, where — in what city did 
 he live in America?" 
 
 "Charleston, in South Carolina." 
 
 Then Alice, remembering Maynard's words, knew 
 that Lieutenant John Ashburne had shot himself 
 because of Lucille Creighton. And Motier — she 
 recalled the look that had come to his eyes as he said, 
 "If I knew — " 
 
 "M'sieur Du Val," she said, faintly, "I think I do 
 feel ill. Will you pardon me if I leave you?" 
 
 He led her to the door of her mother's room. Then, 
 returning to the drawing-room, he stood again at the 
 window. "Women are strange creatures," he muttered 
 to himself, "but this is the strangest. What can she 
 know of John Ashburne ?" But his uppermost thought 
 crept out in his next sentence. "If I knew who the 
 woman was who forced that man to what he did, I 
 would forget that she was a woman, and — " He 
 shook his head. "No," he added, as he turned and 
 flung himself into a chair, "that would be too good for 
 her." 
 
 200 
 
The Gift of the White Rose 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 The Gift of the White Rose 
 
 OTTER and Tonta spent the afternoon 
 
 making ready for their departure on the 
 
 morrow. Their conversation had been 
 
 varied, its topics suggesting themselves 
 
 from tmie to time as the two worked about the room. 
 
 After one of their silences, Motier, moving aside 
 a chair, disclosed a bag lying upon the floor in one 
 corner of the room. "Some of your plunder, Tonta?" 
 he asked, lifting it up and laying it upon the table. 
 
 Tonta, polishing a boot, looked up from his. work. 
 "Tonta take 'em," he said, simply, "Caiheek take 'em 
 back." 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you have played your 
 old tricks here?" 
 
 "Me no help it : Bad Spirit take 'em. Tonta good 
 — Caiheek take back." 
 
 Du Val, cutting the string that closed the mouth 
 of the bag, emptied the contents onto the table. Such 
 an assortment he had never seen : combs and brushes, 
 cups, saucers, spoons, forks, books, jewelry, ribbons, 
 and a score of other articles lay before Motier's 
 astounded gaze. "Well," he said, when he had finished 
 his inventory, "you've made a harvest this time. 
 What's this book ? Cullen's Lectures, eh ? Good thing 
 
 201 
 
Wallannah 
 
 for an Indian who cannot read. You stole this from 
 Doctor Boggs : you should not have done that, Tonta. 
 The doctor probably brought that book here to use in 
 my illness : your taking it might have cost my life." 
 
 "Tonta take doctor book — Caiheek get well." 
 
 "No compliment that, to the doctor. I'll give this 
 back to him. And these other things you must scatter 
 about the house and trust to luck for their getting back 
 to their owners. But this dagger ? whose is this ?" He 
 picked up an exquisitely mounted dagger with a 
 fantastic four-edged blade. 
 
 "Yawhauk try shoot Caiheek. Tonta find 
 wee-woshonshee — this. Caiheek take him — find 
 Yawhauk." 
 
 "You found this in the woods where the man shot 
 at me?" 
 
 "Not close — long way." 
 
 Motier turned the dagger over in his hand. The 
 side of the ivory hilt was set with five glittering 
 emeralds. Between the stones were five slight marks 
 on the ivory, seeming like the scratches of a like 
 number of jewels on another handle. "A peculiar 
 weapon," reflected Motier, "and one of a pair. I 
 wonder if the other one will ever turn up. This goes 
 into my satchel, for future reference." 
 
 He looked down again at Tonta's collection of 
 trophies. "Now, Tonta," he said, picking up a small 
 gold case, "you've gone rather far in this. Where did 
 you — Ah! A miniature!" He had opened the case 
 and was studying the features portrayed within it. 
 
 The picture held his gaze with something like 
 fascination. Its subject was a mother and a child, the 
 
 202 
 
The Gift of the White Rose 
 
 latter a boy of perhaps two years of age. The woman's 
 face was singularly beautiful, and Motier was struck 
 with the rich harmony of the deep brown of her eyes 
 and the raven blackness of her hair with the rose of 
 her cheeks and the vivid blood-red of her lips. 
 
 "H'm !" he said, wonderingly. "I have never seen 
 the woman, I can swear to that ; but there's something 
 wonderfully familiar in the face. Who is she, Tonta ?" 
 
 "Wallannah," answered Tonta, reverently. 
 
 Something in the boy's manner attracted Motier's 
 attention. "Wallannah?" he repeated, slowly. "And 
 who is Wallannah ?" 
 
 "Wallannah Manita, spirit — live Yaunocca — in 
 mountain. Indian 'fraid Wallannah — love her." 
 
 "But this is a woman." 
 
 "No woman — Wallannah Manita." 
 
 "Manita," repeated Motier, in some perplexity. "I 
 suppose that means some sort of goddess, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Caiheek say good." 
 
 "Then how did you get this picture?" 
 
 "Bobbasheelah — Cap'n." 
 
 "So you steal from Captain Maynard, do you?" 
 
 "Bad Spirit steal. Me hold Cap'n horse — see 
 wassador in pocket — purty, like him snuffer-box. Bad 
 Spirit take him. Caiheek take him back." 
 
 "Wallannah, then, is a friend of Captain Maynard?" 
 
 "Wallannah bobbasheelah Manita — save him 
 Cap'n." 
 
 "Is the captain safe now ?" 
 
 "Him safe — go last night see Wallannah.'* 
 
 Motier looked curiously into the copper-colored 
 face. "Well," he said, with a mystified laugh, "I 
 
 203 
 
Wallannah 
 
 suppose you know what you mean ; but the whole affair 
 goes a point beyond me. I'll take the picture and will 
 return it to Captain Maynard if I ever see him again. 
 Now, Tonta, finish cleaning my boots, then go down to 
 the stables and rub down Fleetfoot. I'm going to play 
 chess with Mr. De Vere." 
 
 The next morning was warm and clear, and Motier, 
 after donning his riding suit, went down to the garden 
 for a walk before breakfast. He found Alice there 
 before him, plucking some hardy spring roses for the 
 table. 
 
 They spent an hour together, talking a great deal 
 about a very little, and walking as they talked, up one 
 path and down another, until the breakfast bell rang. 
 
 Motier, master of his feelings though he was, could 
 not account for his diffidence in this young woman's 
 presence. Unconsciously, as she talked, he seemed 
 lifted above himself. He recalled the freedom of his 
 conversations with Lucille : he could imagine no 
 situation which could lead him to talk in such a way to 
 Alice. Yet, the girl was not a prude : he disdained the 
 very thought. But something kept him at a distance. 
 He could liken the feeling to but one other within the 
 range of his whole experience, and that was the one 
 which had come over him one night in Paris when one 
 Le Brun, a swaggering braggadocio, had said in a cafe 
 on the Rue de la Madeleine, "Drink some of this, 
 Du Val ; it is sacramental wine stolen from the 
 Cathedral Notre Dame." Du Val had refused the glass 
 with the same feeling at heart as was now inspired by 
 this bit of a woman. Was it reverence ? ]\Iotier looked 
 at her as she bent over a rose-bush. Fair she was ; gold 
 
 204 
 
The Gift of the White Rose 
 
 were dull beside such hair as hers, and alabaster would 
 be coarse and muddy against her cheek. As she lifted 
 her head, she looked up at him — for he was taller by 
 far than she — and her eyes, blue and clear as an 
 Alpine lake, met his. Was it reverence that he felt? 
 He could call it nothing else. But someway the whole 
 situation baffled his reason. Then, too, was the 
 provoking consciousness that he was giving more 
 thought to her than she gave to him. And why? He 
 asked the question a score of times ; but the answer 
 would not come. 
 
 The two lingered in the dining-room after the 
 others had left, Alice enthroned in her father's oaken 
 chair at the head of the table, Motier sitting upon the 
 arm of the chair next at her right. Their conversation 
 had been more personal than at any time before, and 
 IMotier felt as he thought a man must feel when, 
 batthng with a whirlpool's current, he is drawn into 
 the vortex. Yet, to carry out the metaphor, the 
 whirlpool seemed an inverted one, not drawing him 
 down, but lifting him up ; and, as an inverted whirlpool 
 IS by necessity an anomaly, Du Val concluded that 
 there was no whirlpool at all, but that some freak 
 m the nature of man was doing its work within 
 him. 
 
 Pure and sweet and lovely she looked as she sat 
 there, robed in white, with a brooch of pearls at her 
 throat and a white ribbon in her hair. Compared with 
 Lucille this woman was cold and unbending, and he 
 felt that her heart beat slowly and that reason was the 
 dominant power within her. 
 
 "M'sieur Du Val," she said, after they had 
 
 205 
 
Wallannah 
 
 exhausted the common topics of the hour, "bring me 
 a rose from the vase." 
 
 "For you?" he asked, as he bent over the table. 
 
 She shook her head. "No," she answered. "This 
 will be for you. I give it as a talisman," she added, 
 with a touch of merriment. "Bring a yellow one." 
 
 "Yellow?" he asked, hesitating as he reached for 
 the flower. "Yellow, you know, typifies jealousy and 
 all such disagreeable things." And Lucille's amber 
 silk came to his mind. 
 
 "Then yellow .won't do," said Alice, with a quiet 
 laugh. "Choose my color for me." 
 
 Motier's »hand dropped to a ;rose of dainty white. 
 "This is yours," he said, handing "it to her; "the others 
 do not suit." 
 
 She smiled a little. "Come closer," she said, taking 
 a pin from her belt, "and let me fasten the flower to 
 your coat." 
 
 He drew nearer to her and bending down met the 
 laughing regard of her eyes. iHe steadied the lapel 
 with his hand while she fastened the rose upon it. 
 Her fingers touched his for a single instant, and he felt 
 the color rise in his cheeks. 
 
 "There," she said, breaking off the surplus stem 
 and leaves, "I have given 'you my colors. Rise, Sir 
 Motier ; henceforth you are my knight." She laughed 
 as she spoke the words, but Motier felt a strange 
 embarrassment; for he remembered the words, "my 
 knight," as they had last fallen from Lucille's lips. 
 lYet, the thought seemed discordant; why, he could 
 not tell. 
 
 "They say," he said, rallying from his momentary 
 
 206 
 
The Gift of the White Rose 
 
 confusion, "that flowers have voices. I cannot hear 
 this one, but I receive it as an emblem of purity and 
 truth. And when it withers — " 
 
 "You may come and get another." 
 
 "But if I am too far away?" 
 
 "Why, then you — " She hesitated, and looked, 
 with grave eyes, straight down the white-clothed table. 
 
 "Let me finish that," said Motier. "If I am too/ 
 far away to come back, I will keep the dried-up flower ; * 
 for a withered white rose is better, to my mind, than a 
 fresh blood-red one." Devious were the ways before 
 Motier ; for Lucille wore a red rose five days in every 
 seven. 
 
 Du Val looked at his watch. Two hours had crept 
 by. "Ma foi, mon ami!" he said, his surprise forcing 
 him to his native tongue. "I must be about my work: 
 I leave at twelve." 
 
 "And must you go ?" she asked, with a wistful ring 
 in her voice. 
 
 "Yes; to my regret. The governor's orders, you 
 see. 
 
 "The governor's orders?" she repeated, slowly. 
 "Why does the governor give orders — to you ?" 
 
 "Do you not know?" he asked, with some surprise. 
 "I am a staff ofiicer." 
 
 "You a staff officer!" she exclaimed, rising from 
 her chair. "Why, M'sieur Du Val, I am astonished !" 
 
 "Astonished, Miss De Vere? and why?" 
 
 Her face wore a troubled look. "Because," she 
 answered, with a little trace of resentment, " I thought 
 from all that I had heard that you would remain neutral 
 in this conflict. Captain Maynard, who has already 
 
 207 
 
Wallannah 
 
 been much to you, is arrayed on the side of the 
 Regulators ; our sympathies are all with them ; and — 
 and I am sorry, M'sieur Du Val, that you have done 
 this." 
 
 Motier looked down. The visions of martial glory 
 which had been before his mind were scattered and 
 dispelled by the words of this girl — the friend of but 
 three short days. "I regret all these things of which 
 you speak/' he said, quietly, "but really. Miss De Vere," 
 and he raised his eyes as he spoke, "the path of my duty 
 was very plain before me : I could choose no other." 
 
 She was looking out through the window to the 
 garden of the roses. He felt his heart sink as he 
 watched her. "Are you fully committed to it?" she 
 asked, after a painful silence. 
 
 "Entirely, Miss De Vere," he answered, 
 remembering his promise to Lucille. "But I wish — " 
 
 She turned quickly. "What do you wish?" she 
 asked, eagerly. 
 
 But he shook his head. "No," he answered, "I 
 cannot say what I started to say. It would be treason 
 to myself." 
 
 "I cannot ask you now," she said, looking again 
 to the window. "You have promised, and that must 
 end it. But I am very sorry." Her voice sounded 
 cold and distant. "I will go to my room," she said, at 
 length. "Good-bye, M'sieur Du Val." 
 
 Motier stepped beside her. "Can I not see you 
 again before I go?" he asked. 
 
 She raised her eyes. "No," she answered, steadily. 
 "It would not be for the best." And he heard the rustle 
 of her skirts as she passed down the hall. 
 
 208 
 
The Gift of the White Rose 
 
 With a tinge of bitterness in his smile Motier 
 stooped to the floor and picked up the rose which had 
 fallen from his coat. It was crushed and torn and he 
 knew that she had stepped upon it where it had lain. 
 "John," he called to the footman, "take this flower to 
 Miss De Vere : I think it is hers." 
 
 Du Val spent a busy afternoon with the governor 
 and his secretary and Malcolm, the senior aide. 
 Luncheon was brought to the four as they worked. 
 Save only the secretary, they were in uniform, and 
 Motier, overtopping them all, looked the soldier in 
 every line. They accomplished much, and Du Val 
 entered into the work with a zest that surprised him. 
 Yet, when they dispersed at seven o'clock, Motier, 
 with a quiet shrug, said to himself, "The white rose 
 girl has spoiled some of the fun for me." 
 
 Motier went to his room after supper. He thought 
 first to change his uniform for his customary black, 
 but the governor's secretary sent word for him to 
 attend a military council at ten o'clock. 
 
 Motier muttered something disrespectful. "A 
 council at ten o'clock at night!" he said, with disgust. 
 "He'll have more councils in the next three days than 
 had Alexander when he conquered the world." But the 
 ten o'clock council was not the thing that fretted 
 DuVal. He had sent a valet to Lucille with a request 
 for the evening with her, and from eight-fifteen to ten 
 would be but half of the time he wanted. 
 
 The vague misgivings which had haunted him 
 when Alice was near had left him when he stood once 
 more within the palace. He looked forward to his 
 meeting with Lucille with uncontrollable impatience. 
 
 209 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Remembering her words in the garden at Beechwood, 
 "Wait until you come again to our castle," he could 
 hardly restrain the wild longing to go to her on the 
 instant. 
 
 He lit his pipe and sat by the window smoking and 
 waiting for Lucille's reply. After an interminable time 
 the valet came to the door. Motier took the note from 
 his hand. It began abruptly, "At eight-thirty, in the 
 parlor in the upper suite. Yours ever, Lucille." 
 
 "Humph !" he growled. "Brief enough ; and she 
 has shaved fifteen minutes off my time, too." Then 
 he looked down at the paper. On its back was a 
 superscription which before had escaped his notice. 
 "To my knight," it said, and the "my" was heavily 
 underscored. Motier smiled, as he relit his pipe by the 
 candle flame. "I seem to be several knights," he said, 
 looking out into the darkness. 
 
 He stood at the window a long time, the smoke 
 from his pipe floating into the room and curling about 
 the candles in the sconce. Then his shoulders rose and 
 fell with a sigh. "Queer," he said, knocking the ashes 
 from his pipe, "but I can't drive Ashburne and the 
 woman from my mind." 
 
A Temptation that Went Astray 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A Temptation that Went Astray 
 
 HE upper parlor was a small room, but its 
 furnishings, thanks to the exquisite taste 
 of Esther Wake, were richer than those of 
 
 any other apartment in the palace. The 
 
 walls were profusely mirrored, and the beams from 
 the multi - branched candelabra were reflected and 
 counter - reflected until the room seemed ablaze with 
 light. The floor was bare save where a few heavy rugs 
 stood out brightly from their dark background. One 
 of these was a tiger-skin, with mounted head and 
 gleaming eyes, and it was on this that Lucille, in her 
 gown of amber silk, stood waiting when DuVal entered 
 the room. 
 
 "Well, my Lord," she said, with a mocking 
 courtesy, "you have deigned at last to come to me." 
 
 "As you see, my Lady," responded Motier, crossing 
 to her, "I am now a soldier, and must needs follow my 
 duty and not my heart." Her hands were clasped as 
 she stood there, and Motier, taking them both in one of 
 his, drew her up to him and kissed her. . "We are now 
 in our castle," he said ; "and I will see that I have my 
 due." 
 
 "You were overpaid in that one kiss," she answered, 
 following him to the seat in the alcove. "I must 
 
 2IZ 
 
Wallannah 
 
 hold you in reasonable bounds, Alotier ; else you would 
 break from my control." 
 
 "Then affairs would be very sad, wouldn't they, 
 Lucille?" he retorted, laughingly, as they sank back 
 upon the silken cushions. 
 
 "Sad, or glad," she said, with a far-off look in her 
 eyes. "There is a vast gulf between the two, and few 
 can span it. But now," she said, with a quick change 
 of mood, "tell me what you have said and done since 
 I left you at Beechwood." 
 
 Motier, leaning back and turning his head so that 
 Lucille's face was always before his eyes, told much 
 and withheld much more of the things which had 
 happened at the De Veres. Of JNIaynard he said 
 nothing, of Alice scarcely more, but he painted with 
 bold strokes the portraits of De Vere and his wife, and 
 dwelt at length on Doctor Boggs and Alary Ross. 
 When he was weary of this talk jMotier asked her to 
 account for her time during his absence. 
 
 "I have done nothing, Motier," she said, "but to eat 
 and sleep and mingle with the governor's gatherings. 
 Nearly all of my evenings have been lonely, so lonely 
 that I wished a thousand times that I might saddle a 
 horse and ride to Beechwood and — to you." 
 
 "You have missed me, then, chere?" he asked, 
 slipping his hand over hers and holding it with a gentle 
 pressure. 
 
 "Yes, Motier ; I have missed you much ; how much 
 you cannot know." 
 
 "But I am here now ; why are you — " 
 
 "Why am I so deep in my woes?" she said, filling 
 out the sentence for him. 
 
 212 
 
A Temptation that Went Astray 
 
 - "Yes why? You are not yourself to-night, ma 
 belle. Why is it?" 
 
 "Because, Motier," and the eyes that turned to his 
 were moist with tears, "I have a letter from father, and 
 must leave by the ship to-morrow to meet him in 
 Boston." 
 
 Motier bent forward. "In Boston? and so soon?" 
 he asked, scanning her face as one looks at a beautiful 
 picture. "Don't tell me, Lucille, that you must go 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow, dearest," she said, tenderly. "I would 
 have let you know earlier, but I heard from father only 
 this morning." 
 
 "But you will come back soon?" he asked, scarcely 
 yet able to grasp the full significance of her words. 
 
 "Soon?" she repeated, dreamily. "I do not know: 
 I may never come back." 
 
 "Never come back ! You cannot mean that." 
 
 "It may be, Motier; until I reach there I shall 
 know nothing of the future." 
 
 Motier, who was leaning slightly forward with his 
 chin resting in his hand, was silent a long time, his eyes 
 looking into vacancy. 
 
 "Are you not sorry?" she asked, with a painful 
 little smile. He looked up with a quick move. "Sorry, 
 Lucille?" he said, "I can find no words to tell 
 you." 
 
 She trembled under his touch, and they looked at 
 each other a moment, he as one whose mind is stupefied, 
 she with eyes betraying the fire in her heart. With a 
 soft word of endearment he reached and drew her to 
 him. 
 
 213 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Metier," she sobbed, clutching his hand 
 convulsively with both of hers ; "I thought to have you 
 all for myself when you came back. I watched for 
 your return to me as I never thought I could for any 
 man's coming. I had pictured all that you would be 
 to me, and all that I would try to be to you : I did not 
 know it would end like this !" 
 
 "Has it ended?" he asked. "If you do come back, 
 you will find me here at my post of duty : if you stay 
 there, when my work is done I will come to you." 
 
 She raised her head. "Do you love me enough 
 for that?" she asked, a smile trembling through her 
 tears. 
 
 "I love you more than all else in the wide, wide 
 world. Wherever you may go, my love will take 
 me." 
 
 "Even unto the world's end?" 
 
 "To the end of all, my queen." 
 
 With a rustle of her silken skirts she moved closer 
 to him and her hands rested on his shoulders. She 
 began speaking in a voice so soft and so sweet that 
 Motier's reason, already overcome by the woman's 
 maddening beauty, yielded to the wild wish to do 
 anything, no matter what, that she might ask him. 
 "Would you say to me, dearest," she asked, " 'Whither 
 thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will 
 lodge : thy people shall be my people, and thy God my 
 God'?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, softly. Then, " 'Where thou 
 diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.' " 
 
 "Then," she went on, "would you love me, comfort 
 me, honor, and keep me in sickness and in health ?" 
 
 214 
 
A Temptation that Went Astray 
 
 "Yes, even unto death." 
 
 "Then," she said, running her soft fingers through 
 the hair above his temple, "if you love me as you say, 
 grant me one little boon." 
 
 "Anything you ask," he said, stroking her cheek 
 with his hand. 
 
 A minute passed before she answered. He could 
 feel her warm breath upon his cheek. He knew that 
 her whole woman's soul was in the thoughts that 
 surged through her brain. With a fierce, mad joy he 
 felt that she was his ; she, queenly and beautiful above 
 all the women of the earth, with her grace and with 
 her wondrous fascination, she was his, all his, to love 
 and to cherish to their life's end. Yet she, who held 
 him powerless in the bonds of their love, hesitated to 
 ask him one more question. 
 
 He spoke again, "Ask what you will," he said, 
 kissing her cheek, "and I will do it." 
 
 "Motier," she said, "it may be beyond your power 
 to do what I ask. If it is, tell me; and — oh! Motier, 
 it would break my heart!" 
 
 "What is it, dearest?" he asked. 
 
 She raised her head until she could see his face. 
 He smiled as he had that night in the hallway by her 
 door, tenderly, and with a great love in his eyes. "Will 
 you go with me to-morrow ?" she asked, softly. "Think 
 of it, Motier ; we would be on the ocean for days and 
 days. You would be mine, and the court, the army and 
 all the rest of the world would be so far away that we 
 should forget all these things and live for each other. 
 Will you go?" 
 
 A quick light leaped into his eyes, and the blood 
 
 215 
 
Wallannah 
 
 in his veins seemed afire. "Do you realize what that 
 would mean?" he asked, struggling to command his 
 voice. 
 
 "I realize it all," she said, clasping her hands tightly 
 before her. "But I love you, I cannot go without you ! 
 I give you my heart and my soul, Motier — everything 
 — I give you everything, even life itself, if need be; 
 and ask of you only that you come with me and love 
 me." Her voice sank into a whisper, but such a 
 tremulous, impassioned whisper had never before 
 sounded in his ears. 
 
 Motier sat staring at the gleaming eyes of the 
 tiger's head upon the floor. The boldness of Lucille's 
 plan had made him speechless. 
 
 She watched him as a gamester watches the casting 
 of the die. Her face was pale and the knot of ribbon 
 on her corsage rose and fell in uncertain measure with 
 the tumult that raged beneath it. She knew the forces 
 that she had set to work in Motier's mind; she knew 
 that on one side was duty and honor, and on the other 
 love and — no, not that word ! but love, and love only. 
 She watched the fight until she felt that she had won 
 the victory. 
 
 He rose to his feet, with one hand thrust into his 
 bosom and the other tightly clinched behind him. His 
 head was bowed and his face hard and set. As he 
 walked slowly backward and forward under the light 
 of the clustered candles, Lucille knew that she had won 
 him, and the thought made her brain whirl. Esther's 
 guitar lay at the end of the divan; and, scarcely 
 thinking what she did, Lucille picked it up and ran her 
 fingers across the strings. Motier still paced the floor, 
 
 216 
 
A Temptation that Went Astray 
 
 but a new look came into his eyes at the sound of the 
 music. 
 
 Bending forward so that the Hght fell upon her 
 face she began playing, very softly, a Spanish air, slow 
 and sensuous, like a siren's witching song. A smile 
 was on her lips as she struck the closing chords ; then, 
 watching Motier's face as he turned toward her in his 
 walking, she swung into one of those melodies that 
 Satan wrings from a composer's soul for the tempting 
 of man when all else, women, wine, and the odor of 
 incense do not avail. 
 
 Motier stopped short in the middle of the tiger-skin. 
 He raised his head quickly, and Lucille caught a 
 gleam in his eyes that frightened her. Her fingers 
 wavered and struck a harsh discord and the music 
 ceased abruptly. Motier walked slowly toward her. 
 Wondering, she kept her eyes fixed upon his face. 
 A chair stood in front of her; and Motier, resting 
 his hands upon its back, stood looking into her 
 eyes. 
 
 She laughed nervously. "Why do you look so 
 strangely, Motier?" she asked, forcing a smile to her 
 lips. 
 
 "I am thinking," he answered in a cold, strained 
 voice, "whether or not I should kill you." 
 
 She gave a little start. "Why Motier," she cried, 
 the color leaving her cheeks, "you — you talk as though 
 you were going mad." 
 
 "No, I am not going mad. I have just learned that 
 I have been mad for a long time." 
 
 "But, Motier, I cannot understand you. Why do 
 you look so? What has happened?" 
 
 217 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "You started to piay something a moment ago," he 
 said, slowly, with emphasis on every word ; "but you 
 stopped before you finished. You learned that little 
 song from John Ashburne." 
 
 "John Ashburne !" The guitar fell to the floor and 
 lay there, its strings vibrating in discord. "What do 
 you know of John Ashburne ?" 
 
 "I am the one — " 
 
 With a low anguished cry she rose and staggered 
 toward him. "Oh! Motier," she cried, standing in 
 front of him, her hands pressed tightly over the bow 
 on her corsage. "You are — you are — " But she 
 went no further. 
 
 "I am," he answered, with a queer, hard ring in his 
 voice. "And what is more," he continued, slowly, "I 
 have sometimes thought that I would do the world a 
 kindness to kill the woman who ruined Jack's life. I 
 knew him better than you did, and I say to you now 
 that a nobler man never lived. As to the woman who 
 drove him to his death, I can say only that she was true 
 to nothing on earth nor in heaven. Has she any words 
 to justify herself?" 
 
 She did not answer, but wavering a moment, sank 
 upon one knee and raised her terror-stricken face to 
 his. "Motier! Don't kill me! I did not know that 
 you were his friend ; and I love you so — " 
 
 He interrupted her with a grating laugh. "Stand 
 up," he said, harshly. "For the sake of what you have 
 been to me, I will do you no harm. I can only thank 
 God that you played that opening chord before I came 
 to you to say yes. For now that all is over I will 
 admit that I had resolved to go with you, to throw 
 
 2l8 
 
eC': 
 
 ■-.^f. • ^ \ft*^ - 
 
 AC r^l.\Clt\r\J'\. 
 
 "Oh! MUTIER," SHE CRIED, STANDING IN ERONT UE HIM. 
 
A Temptation that Went Astra)'- 
 
 away for you honor, self-respect, and all else that a 
 man holds dear." 
 
 Staring at him with a look of agonized appeal in 
 her eyes she leaned against the table for support. 
 
 He spoke with evident effort. "I scarcely know 
 what to say to you," he said. "Until to-night I thought 
 you all that a true-hearted woman should be. But now, 
 knowing that your heartlessness and duplicity brought 
 Jack to his death, harsh though the words may seem, I 
 cannot even call you friend." 
 
 She lowered her eyes to the floor, and drew in a 
 sharp, quivering breath. "Motier, don't talk like that," 
 she pleaded ; "can't you see that I cannot bear it !" 
 
 He was unmoved. 
 
 "You deceived Jack," he went on, giving no heed 
 to her interruption ; "and you have deceived me. Could 
 anything make me believe that you would accord me 
 better treatment than you did him? Were I to join my 
 life with yours, could I forget that you once loved 
 another man as you now love me? and could I forget 
 what turned that man's love-dream to a depth of misery 
 that your own soul could never measure ?" 
 
 He waited for an answer. 
 
 She stood still, her eyes fixed on the floor. "Motier," 
 she said, in a choked voice, "I know all that happened 
 in that old life. But I have left it all behind me. And 
 it — it was not what th"5' world thinks it was. Were 
 Jack alive now, he would tell you. But we — we did 
 not understand each other. That was all. I never 
 dreamed that he would kill himself. He may have 
 suflFered ; but I never knew it. I saw him sometimes 
 after our separation, and he looked cheerful, and even 
 
 2iq 
 
Wallannah 
 
 happy, almost to the last day. I did not know : I — I 
 thought that he didn't care. Even when they told me 
 he was dead, I could not believe that I was to blame. 
 But truly, Motier, he misunderstood. The only wrong 
 I ever did him was to marry him before I learned the 
 meaning of love. There v/as no one else : God is my 
 witness ! But he — O Heaven ! I do not know what 
 he thought !" 
 
 The glitter still lurked in Motier's eyes; but his 
 voice was quiet, and even tender. 
 
 "I am glad that you have told me this," he said, 
 "yet, candidly, Lucille, it does not leave you blameless. 
 There is still much which you cannot deny. You 
 repeatedly dined with men whom Jack had forbidden 
 you to entertain. You surrounded yourself with a 
 coterie of young lovers, and defied Jack to put a stop 
 to your flirtations with them. Can you deny this?" 
 
 Coming from Motier's lips, and in his cold, even 
 tones, her arraignment had been a terrible one. Before 
 he had finished she was sobbing convulsively. He 
 watched her for a long time ; and, as he watched, the 
 look in his eyes softened. He bit his lip and looked 
 away from her. After a moment he turned again. 
 
 "Lucille," he said, kindly. 
 
 Her woman's ear caught the tremor in his voice, 
 and she looked quickly up at him. 
 
 Outwardly he was very calm. 
 
 "I have had but two loves in my life," he said, 
 leaving the chair and moving toward her. "One was 
 my love for the friend who was all to me that one man 
 can be to another. The other love was my love for you. 
 I can say but one thing now. I will leave your 
 
 220 
 
A Temptation that Went Astray 
 
 treatment of Jack in the hands of One whose place it 
 is to judge; I will overlook the deception you have 
 practiced on me; I will try to forget the proposition 
 you have made to me to-night. I will do all of this 
 for the sake of the love which has bound us together. 
 For the future I hold forth a friendship that is yours 
 always and whenever you may need it. Half an hour 
 ago, when you played Jack Ashburne's love song, I 
 could not have said this ; but now that I know you 
 better, I cannot part from you as I would have left you 
 then." 
 
 He turned away from her and walked toward the 
 middle of the room. His face was drawn and pale, and 
 his eyes were heavy with the weariness of his inward 
 struggle. 
 
 Slowly, very slowly, Lucille raised her head. Her 
 eyes, seeking Motier's face, met his, fixed upon her 
 calmly and without a sign of anger. With quick 
 instinct she saw in his eyes something of the look of 
 the old days. 
 
 "Motier," she faltered. 
 
 "Yes?" he answered. 
 
 "You are going away from me?" 
 
 "Yes, Lucille; I can do nothing else." 
 
 "Oh ! Motier, you cannot — " Her words broke 
 off in a sob. 
 
 He drew nearer. "I did not hear you," he said 
 gently. 
 
 She made a step toward him. Her hands were 
 clasped tightly before her, and her breath was agitated. 
 Always beautiful in Motier's eyes, she now seemed 
 lovelier than man ever dreamed that woman could be. 
 
 221 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Don't leave me, Motier!" she pleaded, with a 
 pitiful little break in her voice. "If you go away what 
 will be left for me? I love you, darling! love you 
 more than I ever could have loved Jack. You're all 
 that I have to Hve for. Keep me here, Motier ! Keep 
 me with you ! If you ask it, I'll not go to Boston. 
 Only tell me that you want me, and I'll stay here with 
 you. Motier, I beg of you, don't leave me !" 
 
 He seemed to hesitate before answering. His eyes 
 were looking far beyond her, and he saw nothing save 
 what was in his mind's eye of her in the other days. 
 But when he spoke, his voice was firm and quiet. 
 
 "After all that I have told you," he said, "you know 
 what my answer must be. We have indulged our 
 madness long enough. I must go." 
 
 "But Motier, you will come back!" 
 
 He shook his head. "As a friend I may, if you 
 need me. Otherwise, never." 
 
 She opened her lips to speak, moved them with an 
 inarticulate word, then flung herself sobbing into his 
 arms. 
 
 Almost roughly he tried to free himself from her. 
 But she clung the more closely to him. 
 
 "Motier!" she cried, "don't tell me that: you 
 cannot mean it !" Then she raised her head and looked 
 into his face. "I cannot let you go," she said, in a low 
 voice. "If you have even a spark of the old love in 
 your heart, keep me with you. Let the things you have 
 heard lie in the ashes of the past. You loved me once, 
 you can love me again ; and I — oh ! darling, I cannot 
 live without you !" She was talking rapidly and with 
 feverish excitement, but her voice and her eyes and all 
 
 222 
 
A Temptation that Went Astray 
 
 her wondrous beauty were fast throwing the spell of 
 their fascination about Motier. "You know how you 
 loved me," she went on ; "and you know how we used 
 to talk of the days to come, when we should be 
 together, you and. I, and away from all the rest of the 
 world. Have you forgotten those words of yours? 
 Have you forgotten everything that made those days 
 so happy? Tell me, darling, have you forgotten all?" 
 
 Motier's hand trembled as with an effort he 
 unbound the arms that were clasped about him. How 
 easy would it have been to give up the fight ! His 
 senses were whirling with the mad joy of that last 
 embrace. The room, the mirrors and the lights seemed 
 to sway about him, then to fade away in a confused 
 glamor. For Lucille, fairer than ever, had been in 
 his arms, pleading for his love. He felt in that moment 
 as though all in life was centered about her. Her 
 upturned face was close to his; and a terrible force 
 seemed impelling him to clasp her closer to him, to 
 cover her face with kisses, and to yield all that he had 
 won in the last fierce burst of the flames that still 
 flickered above the ruins of the old love. 
 
 But even then he remembered the gulf that his 
 manhood had placed between them. 
 
 "It is useless — useless. ' he said, hoarsely. "I am 
 going, for your sake at much aa for mine. God knows 
 I wish there might be another way out of it ; but there 
 is not. It is best — I cannot stay now." 
 
 "But Motier — " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Have you no heart to — '* 
 
 "Lucille 1" 
 
 223 
 
Wallannah 
 
 There was no mistaking the meaning of his tone 
 nor of his look. 
 
 Tears were in her eyes, but she smiled bravely 
 through them, a pitiful smile, with lips all a-tremble, 
 that went deeper into Motier's heart than any words 
 could have gone. 
 
 "If you are going," she said, holding out her hand 
 to him, "good night — and good-bye !" 
 
 He took her hand and held it for a brief moment. 
 "Good-bye," he said, huskily. 
 
 Then he turned and left her standing there. At the 
 door he stopped and looked back. He saw, standing 
 upon the tawny tiger-skin, a figure in amber silk, a pair 
 of bare white shoulders shaking with grief, a bowed 
 head crowned with a wealth of dark hair, and beyond 
 her, on the floor, the guitar that had quivered with 
 Jack Ashburne's love song. A wave of regret passed 
 over him as he thought of all that this lovely woman 
 had been to him in the days that were gone. He 
 hesitated a moment and made a step toward her. But 
 Ashburne's face seemed to come before him, and 
 Ashburne's voice seemed to sound in his ears. 
 
 With the old merciless gleam in his eyes, he turned 
 and went down the stairs to the governor's council of 
 war. 
 
 224 
 
Men-at-Arms a-Marching 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Men-at-Arms a-Marching 
 
 OTIER DU VAL had long been an 
 admirer of William Tryon. As a guest in 
 the palace the young Frenchman had met 
 with naught but courtesy at the governor's 
 hands ; and a warm friendship had sprung up between 
 the two. It was this feeling which had led Du Val to 
 accept as an honor his appointment on the executive's 
 military staff. But that was before he learned that 
 Tryon was a two-sided man, and that one of his sides 
 was not good to look upon. This last fact was borne 
 in upon Motier by slow degrees, yet with convincing 
 force, when Tryon the statesman merged into Tryon 
 the soldier. 
 
 Du Val's revised opinion of his Excellency had its 
 birth in the ten o'clock council on the night that he left 
 Lucille in the upper parlor. The session was a long 
 one. Motier, whose even temperament allowed him to 
 look with peculiar coolness into problems of intrigue 
 and of war, felt considerable surprise at the frequent 
 eruptions of Tryon's temper. To Motier's mind the 
 governor looked hotly upon matters which required 
 extreme discretion, and gave but scant heed to the 
 minor questions which should always enter into the 
 least calculations of a man of judgment. Motier's 
 acquaintance with the soldiers of France was a wide 
 
 225 
 
Wallannah 
 
 one, and generals and marshals of world-wide repute 
 had been among the young man's closest associates. 
 He could look upon Tryon and see that this man was 
 not a true soldier. Conceding that the governor 
 possessed courage and indomitable force, it still left 
 him without the higher qualifications that every soldier 
 regards as his noblesse oblige. Of honor he had little ; 
 and of the judgment that puts statecraft and diplomacy 
 before the rule of the sword he had none. 
 
 Du Val, leaning back in his chair within the little 
 red-coated circle that made a dash of color in the 
 gloom of the Hall of Audience, watched his superior 
 officer from beneath half-closed eyelids. He saw 
 Tryon swayed from one point to another by 
 vindictive hatred of his foemen ; and against this 
 hatred argument availed nothing. The governor's 
 sole thought was fight. Motier, with something 
 approaching scorn, saw that the rights of the people, 
 the blood and the homes of patriots, and the lives of 
 the royal soldiery had no part in the consideration of 
 the issue at hand. Tryon said, "These fellows are 
 rebels, their views and their acts are treason;" which 
 made an excellent cloak for the governor's personal 
 animosities and seemed a brave excuse for his own 
 self-glorification. But Motier had allied himself with 
 the governor, and his knowledge of the man's character 
 had come too late. Unable to turn back, he had but to 
 follow his chieftain whither he went. 
 
 On the twenty- fourth day of April Governor Tryon, 
 with three hundred men at his back, began his march 
 from New Bern to the camp of the Regulators, nearly 
 two hundred miles to the northwest. Small though his 
 
 226 
 
Men-at-Arms a-Marching 
 
 ■force, Tryon went forth like a leader of invincible 
 legions. 
 
 Some of the spirit of the thing infused itself into 
 Motier's blood as he sat upon his horse close beside 
 Doctor Boggs (who was now staff surgeon), and 
 watched the fluttering banners, the foam-flecked horses, 
 the gleaming lines of scarlet coats and the rythmic 
 swing of booted legs, and back of that the dull grey and 
 brown of the ununiformed militia. He heard the 
 screech and rattle and boom of the drum corps. His 
 ear caught the "clump, clump, clump" of the feet of 
 marching men. The air was filled with the murmuring 
 and the shouting of the people and the quick, sharp 
 ring of officers' commands. And, after it all, came the 
 surly rumble of cannon and caisson. In his throat was 
 the choking of the rising dust, and his nostrils opened 
 to welcome the scent of musty uniforms, the smell of 
 leathern trappings and the odor of the stables that still 
 clung to the horses. These carried him back to the 
 days when he and Ashburne had mingled with Jack's 
 old English regiment; and those were good days to 
 remember. 
 
 The governor and his staff swung into their places ; 
 the glitter and the glare and the sounds and the smells 
 seemed brighter and clearer and closer; the men 
 turned their faces to the west and with a crashing salute 
 from the cannon the little army started for the front. 
 
 For days and nights and nights and days did they 
 march and encamp, decamp and march again, over 
 roads and through forests, by riv^er and by brook ; and, 
 as they marched, others came to swell their ranks. 
 Sometimes the army, emerging from a dense wood, 
 
 227 
 
Wallannah 
 
 came face to face with a motley company of volunteers 
 cheering and waving their caps. Again some 
 quick-eyed woodsman would see afar the glimmer of 
 arms and the cloud of dust that overhung some 
 detachment approaching in the distance. Thus came 
 the reinforcements from the counties Craven and 
 Carteret, from Dobbs and from New Hanover, from 
 Johnson and from Onslow and from Wake; and the 
 cheers were loud and long when Bullock dashed among 
 them with his company of light horse, when Neale 
 swung into line with his band of sturdy riflemen, and 
 when Moore toiled into the column with his little 
 battery of artillery. 
 
 There were men within the ranks whom Motier 
 knew well before the three weeks' march was over. 
 Officers were there who fought beneath the governor's 
 standard because they thought Tryon a man of honor. 
 He had told how he abhorred the shedding of blood ; 
 that his purpose was but to make a show of force to 
 intimidate the rebels ; that he would negotiate for 
 peace until peace was assured or found impossible ; and 
 that not until reason and persuasion were worn to the 
 bare bone would a grain of powder be burned. So it 
 was that brother marched against brother, father 
 against son, son against father ; for they were honest 
 and true and knew nothing of their leader's guile. 
 But Motier did know; for he had seen the skeleton 
 that grim and soulless stood within that outer man. 
 
 Du Val and Doctor Boggs, being tent-mates, were 
 much together; and as the masters, so were the 
 servants. Boggs had with him the gaunt son of a Gold 
 Coast chieftain, who, seventeen years before, had fallen 
 
 228 
 
Men-at-Arms a-Marching 
 
 with the burning stairs in the Maynard house. Motier 
 was attended by a hideous apparition mounted on a 
 speckled pony. The pony was Tonta's, the servant's 
 figure was Tonta's, and so were the keen eyes and the 
 well-cut features ; but the color of the face w^as scarlet 
 and black, and the style of the garments was the 
 picturesque mode of savagery. More than this, the 
 only name that brought its response was Oocheecha. 
 For Tonta was in war-paint, and with it were his 
 warrior's garb and title. This was because a war was 
 on foot, and furthermore because he knew that Captain 
 Neale could never forget the face of the boy who, but 
 a few weeks before, had helped deliver him into 
 Maynard's hands. Motier, understanding this, 
 preferred the ridicule of his attendant's unique 
 appearance to having the faithful fellow driven away 
 or hanged. 
 
 But the ways of Tonta and the ways of Oocheecha 
 were one and the same, and the Indian's favorite 
 hunting ground was the outfit of the doctor's negro. 
 Quack. This ebon worthy rode a horse whose 
 grandsire and granddam came from Europe with 
 Graafenreidt in 1709. He was the oldest horse in the 
 Carolinas, and his legs bowed outward when he walked 
 and inward when he stood. Yet Quack thought him a 
 Bucephalus, and every inch of leather upon him bore 
 a gaudy tassel or tag. The saddle was fringed with 
 deerskin thongs, and from these swung the tinware of 
 the doctor's camp-equipment. 
 
 Quack's horse-regalia struck Oocheecha's eye as 
 soon as it loomed into view, and day by day the shadow 
 of the spectacle grew less, until Quack arose in a 
 
 229 
 
Wallannah 
 
 mighty wrath and the sounds of that wrath smote upon 
 the governor's ears. 
 
 Boggs and Motier and even Quack himself tried to 
 stay the gubernatorial edict; but their words were as 
 raindrops 'gainst the wind. Oocheecha stole out in the 
 darkness of night and with him went Quack's ruffled 
 shirt-front, untied from its owner's bosom while 
 dreams enchained his fancy. 
 
 Motier and Tonta met but once more during the 
 march, and that was on the third night after the 
 Indian's escape from the camp. This happened in the 
 forest by the side of a spring that Motier had found the 
 night before. 
 
 Tonta, coming as from the depths of the earth, 
 stood before Du Val as he rose from drinking the clear 
 water. "Sequa want see Caiheek," he said, briefly. 
 
 "Who is Sequa?" asked Motier. 
 
 "Sequa daughter Tetah — Tonta mother." 
 
 "Where is your mother?" 
 
 "Sequa here," came a soft voice behind him. 
 
 Motier turned. An Indian woman, tastefully 
 dressed in a short-fringed skirt and wearing beaded 
 leggings and moccasins, stood upon a fallen tree close 
 at his elbow. About her shoulders was thrown a red 
 shawl, and her long black hair fell from beneath a little 
 spangled cap of scarlet satin. 
 
 "Tonta's Caiheek ?" she asked, musically. 
 
 "I am," answered Du Val, looking into her 
 handsome bronzed face. "What do you wish?" 
 
 Her English was better than Tonta's, and she 
 smiled as she talked. "Tonta's Cailieek help Tonta," 
 she said, stepping down from the log and moving 
 
 230 
 
Men-at-Arms a-Marching 
 
 closer to Motier. "Now Sequa help Tonta's Caiheek. 
 You go to big hills. Indian in big hills hate governor 
 — kill you for governor's friend. Indian on war-path, 
 but Sequa help you. Take this," she added, holding 
 out a bracelet of beads joined by a silver star, "for 
 Sequa love Caiheek. Show star to Tetah — big chief. 
 Tetah see star and know Caiheek friend of Tonta, 
 friend of Sequa. Save Caiheek, and Sequa glad." 
 
 Motier took the bracelet in his hand and fumbled 
 awkwardly with the clasp. 
 
 With a little laugh Sequa took it from him. "Sequa 
 put it on," she said. She took his hand and unbottoning 
 his sleeve fastened the circlet about his wrist. As she 
 did so he noticed that her hands were small and 
 well-kept and that her arm, bare to the elbow, was soft 
 and shapely. 
 
 Before she left, Sequa bent her head to Motier's 
 ear. "Sequa know Caiheek better than Caiheek guess," 
 she whispered. "Some day Sequa come to Caiheek, 
 and Caiheek know why Sequa love him." With 
 another low laugh and with a smile over her shoulder 
 the Indian woman darted into the bushes and was gone. 
 
 Motier turned to Tonta. "Your mother is a very 
 handsome woman," he said. "How does she keep her 
 beauty?" 
 
 "Sequa Indian," was the quick response, "but 
 Sequa got friends. Sequa rich." And Tonta seemed 
 proud of his mother's distinction. 
 
 Indeed, as Motier afterward learned, the woman 
 Sequa, whom her own people called the beautiful, had 
 held in the grasp of her little hand the fates of some 
 whose places were high in the world's esteem,, 
 
 231 
 
Wallannah 
 
 At the river Enoe the governor's forces were 
 increased by a motley crowd of ex-officials from 
 Hillsborough. At their head was Colonel Fanning, the 
 despised of the people. Even Tryon, who kept the 
 man for the uses to which he put him, liked him as little 
 as did any one else. 
 
 Hoping to control for a favorite of his own the 
 election of Husband's successor in the legislature, the 
 governor had planned to spend several days in the camp 
 on the Enoe, within easy reach of Hillsborough. But 
 a courier dashed into camp one day with intelligence 
 of the capture of the governor's powder train, en route 
 from Charleston. Close upon this news came the 
 report that the Regulators were assembled in great 
 force a few miles ahead of them. Therefore, Tryon 
 made haste to change his plans. Breaking camp the 
 next morning the army marched from the Enoe, and 
 crossing the Haw encamped upon its farther bank. 
 
 On the next day Motier began to see more clearly 
 the brutal determination of Tryon. The two were 
 together in the commander's tent when a messenger 
 brought a petition from the Regulators, who were in 
 camp but a short distance in front. Tryon read the 
 communication, and with a short laugh threw it to 
 Motier. The governor turned to the messenger. "I 
 will answer that at noon to-morrow," he said, curtly. 
 And that was the end of that appeal. Motier read it 
 through. It prayed for redress of certain grievances, 
 expressing a willingness to disperse peaceably if their 
 prayer were granted, but making the firm stand that 
 only by this course could the governor avert bloodshed. 
 To Motier's mind the petition was a fair one, and 
 
 232 
 
Men-at-Arms a-Marching 
 
 certain propositions within it were worthy of 
 consideration. But Tryon, after his dismissal of the 
 messenger, left his tent, humming a popular song, 
 which he interrupted to pester Captain Moore with 
 some irrelevant questions about the range of his 
 artillery. Motier knew well enough what Tryon's 
 answer would be ; and choking down his disgust he left 
 the governor's tent and went to his own. 
 
 Boggs, sitting on the ground with his back against 
 an empty box, was smoking a pipe and playing with a 
 kitten that Quack had abducted from some farm-house 
 along the line of march. 
 
 The doctor looked up as Motier entered. "I'm 
 playing with William Tryon," he said, gravely. Then, 
 to the kitten, "William, show the gentleman your pretty 
 tricks." The doctor began rubbing the feline's back. 
 "That's right, William; you're a fine fellow. Purr 
 away : then tell us how nice we are and how good and 
 noble you are. There, that's a dutiful WilHam." 
 
 Motier laughed at the absurd tableau; but the 
 doctor's face was the picture of gravity. "Now, 
 William," he said, a little sternly, "I'm tired of rubbing 
 your back : suppose we shake hands and call each 
 other good friends." 
 
 Boggs held out his hand. Quick as a flash the 
 kitten's paw shot forward and its claws sank in the 
 doctor's palm, drawing three tiny drops of blood, 
 
 Boggs looked up. "That is William Tryon," he 
 said, dryly. "Give him what he wants, and he purrs. 
 Assert your own rights and he strikes for blood." 
 
 And the doctor had a very fair knowledge of human 
 character. 
 
 233 
 
Wallannah 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 The Battle of the Alamance 
 
 T dawn of the sixteenth of May the royal 
 troops moved forward. Their tents were 
 left standing, and the baggage wagons, 
 with horses in harness, remained, suitably 
 guarded, on the camping ground. The march was 
 made in quick time and without music. Skirmishers 
 were thrown out to protect the way, but the advance 
 met with no opposition. The troops reached a point 
 five miles to the westward of the Great Alamance on 
 the road from Hillsborough to Salisbury; and the 
 governor, mindful of the things printed in his book of 
 tactics, sent markers to the right and to the left to lay 
 out the points of the line of battle. Then the 
 companies, wheeling and crossing obliquely to their 
 several positions, formed with the artillery in the 
 centre. 
 
 Opposite the forces of the crown and but a half-mile 
 from them were the Regulators, drawn up in a ragged 
 single line, without semblance of military formation. 
 
 Thus the two armies stood at ease. The governor 
 counted in his lines eleven hundred men well armed 
 and equipped. The patriots' strength was in numbers 
 only; for their two thousand men, confident of a 
 peaceful outcome of the trouble, were half of them 
 
 234 
 
The Battle of the Alamance 
 
 unarmed, and of the other half few had more than 
 enough powder and lead to carry a man through an 
 hour's squirrel hunt. 
 
 Through the morning numerous peacemakers 
 crossed and recrossed the space between the lines. Of 
 these the most active was Doctor Caldwell, a greatly 
 beloved minister of the gospel, who visited the governor 
 no less than four times before the battle. 
 
 At one of their interviews Tryon, resting his hand 
 affectionately upon the other's shoulder, said, "My 
 good Doctor, I am as anxious as you to avert the 
 shedding of blood. We have troublesome and seditious 
 adversaries, but I promise you not to fire upon them 
 until I have fairly exhausted negotiation in the effort 
 to reach an amicable adjustment." 
 
 Yet, as the worthy ecclesiastic hastened aw^ay, the 
 governor, sitting upon his horse, scanned the line of 
 the enemy with his glass. "If we concentrate our fire 
 on their centre," he muttered, "we may be able to cut 
 them in two and drive their right wing off from the 
 woods. That would give us victory in half an hour." 
 Thus did Tryon seek peace. 
 
 An hour before noon Doctor Caldwell returned once 
 more on his mission. With him was Robert Thompson, 
 a man well regarded for upright character, and 
 unarmed and neutral, striving only to avert the 
 impending crisis. 
 
 The governor received Caldwell coolly. "I have 
 replied to the ridiculous petition of these people," he 
 said, "and, after reminding them that I had always 
 done my duty toward them, and had already gone 
 further than was due to meet their wishes, I told them 
 
 235 
 
Wallannah 
 
 that unconditional surrender is the only thing I can 
 consider. They must submit within the hour, promise 
 to pay their taxes, and return -to their homes; giving 
 us assurance that they will interfere no more with our 
 courts of justice. I can say nothing more to you than 
 I have said to them." 
 
 The governor, after Caldwell's departure, began 
 pacing backward and forward before his lines. Motier 
 and his fellow-aides, Malcolm and 'Hawkins, sat upon 
 their horses near at hand. The royal troops still stood 
 at rest; and across the field the Regulators, many of 
 their younger men wrestling and enjoying various other 
 athletic sports, awaited the <iecision that would settle 
 the destiny of their cause. 
 
 A messenger approached the governor with the 
 Regulators' reply to his ultimatum. "They answer," 
 the horseman said, "that they cannot accept your 
 proposition. Claiming that your message is a threat, 
 they defy your arms, and declare that if your reply is 
 conclusive their only recourse is battle." 
 
 Tryon, smiling grimly, dispatched a magistrate 
 and one of his staff officers with a proclamation 
 commanding the rebels to disperse. The governor, 
 watching the enemy's line, saw the confusion which 
 resulted when the royal emissaries arrived. The boys 
 in the ranks stopped their playing; the long thin line 
 became a writhing human serpent, darkly marked on 
 the green of the meadow ; and with shouts and gestures 
 of anger and menace the Regulators began* surging 
 forward. 
 
 Tryon turned to his aides. "Hawkins," Tie cried, 
 as he mounted his horse, "ride over and tell those 
 
 236 
 
The Battle of the Alamance 
 
 people that unless they deliver to us, at once, Husbands, 
 Hunter and Howell and such others as we have 
 before indicated, and unless they disperse immediately, 
 we will fire upon them." 
 
 Hawkins galloped across the field. The Regulators, 
 advancing, met him near the middle of the field. The 
 derisive shouts which greeted the governor's message 
 were plainly heard by the knot of officers surrounding 
 Tryon. In a few moments Hawkins, with red face and 
 firm-set lips, returned. 
 
 "Their answer?" asked Tryon, with some eagerness. 
 
 Hawkins pulled at his mustache. Something like a 
 smile came to his eyes. " 'Fire, and be damned !' " he 
 replied. 
 
 The governor's jaws shut closely together. Then 
 he gave a short laugh. "H'm! Polite enough, I 
 should say." 
 
 In the pause that followed, the peacemaker 
 Thompson endeavored to recross to the line of the 
 Regulators. 
 
 "Stop that man!" called Tryon, angrily. 
 
 Thompson halted voluntarily and raised his honest 
 face to the governor's frowning visage. "If your 
 Excellency insists," he said, respectfully, "I must stay ; 
 but I came peaceably into your ranks, and I think I can. 
 justly claim the right to make a peaceable return." He 
 moved again toward the ranks of the patriots. 
 
 With a savage oath Tryon, bending over his saddle 
 bow, tore a musket from the hands of one of his men. 
 "By God ! you won't go !" he cried, hotly. And he 
 fired point-blank into the fearless, upturned face. 
 Thompson threw up his hands, staggered backward 
 
 237 
 
Wallannah 
 
 and sank to the ground. A great shout of rage came 
 from the Regulators. Tryon, paHng at the reaUzation 
 of his own murderous act, reined in his rearing horse 
 "Send out a truce!" he cried, hoarsely. 
 
 A white flag fluttered in the breeze. A chorus 
 of scornful yells floated across the field. Then, 
 hesitatingly at first, but with final decisiveness, the 
 patriots levelled their rifles. The flag was dropped to 
 the ground. 
 
 Tryon, spurring his horse, dashed down the front 
 of his army. "Fire!" he commanded. "In the king's 
 name, fire upon those rebels !" The soldiers looked at 
 each other with an uncertainty that for the moment 
 brought dismay to Tryon's heart. The governor rose 
 in his stirrups and waved his sword with furious 
 energy. "Fire !" he yelled, his face purple with rage. 
 "Fire on them or fire on me !" 
 
 Then, with a few scattering shots, the volley 
 began. In a moment, with a crashing crescendo, 
 the army poured its lead into the ranks of the 
 Regulators. 
 
 The answer came back with the echo. The smoke 
 from the two sides rolled out and swept toward the 
 centre of the field. For a few moments the governor's 
 regulars kept to their volleys. The royal militia and 
 the Regulators, firing at will, kept up a fitful popping. 
 Then, with a crashing roar, a double flash of red 
 gleamed through the sulphurous clouds, the white 
 smoke opened in two narrow lanes, then sucked in 
 behind the iron messengers that swept across the field. 
 The six-pounders had begun their work. After them 
 came the crack ! crack ! rip ! rip ! of the tiny swivels, and 
 
 238 
 
The Battle of the Alamance 
 
 through and above them all sounded the rising and 
 falling of the angry growl of musketry. 
 
 Within ten minutes neither side could see the other, 
 and their only guides were the lurid flashes that broke 
 through the billowy clouds of smoke. Once a gust of 
 wind swept across the field and drove the smoke 
 scurrying over the grass. Then it was that Tryon saw 
 that his foes were drawing nearer. 
 
 The governor, smarting with the fear of defeat, 
 commanded, "Cease firing!" and sent out another 
 white flag. Its effect upon the Regulators was barely 
 noticeable. Again the racking chorus of cannon and 
 swivel shook the air, and the musketry resumed its 
 deafening roll. 
 
 Tryon, riding up and down before his lines, saw 
 that the enemy's riflemen were playing havoc with the 
 artillery. He turned to Motier. "Tell Moore to 
 dislodge those fellows from that ledge of rocks," he 
 called. 
 
 Du Val galloped down the line to its centre. Dead 
 and wounded men lay about the cannon in little 
 blood-streaked piles. Grimy men with bare arms 
 blackened and faces gleaming with a hellish fury, 
 sponged and loaded and primed the guns. Captain 
 Moore, his uniform torn to shreds, looked up. 
 
 "Dislodge the men behind the ledge," called Motier. 
 
 "Dislodge the devil!" came the answer. "They'll 
 clean us out first." But the quick smile that followed 
 his words softened their disrespect. 
 
 The guns were swung about and sighted on the 
 rocks, and a roaring field-piece crouched deep into the 
 earth with the drive of its recoil. The smoke cleared 
 
 239 
 
Wallannah 
 
 away. The rifleman Pugh, undismayed, was firing 
 with cool and careful aim while the three men about 
 him loaded his rifles. Motier turned away. As he 
 started back a bullet ripped oft one of his epaulettes 
 and sent the glittering bauble hurtling through the air. 
 The Frenchman smiled, and a cheer came from the 
 men behind him. 
 
 The fight grew hotter. Bullets shrieked and 
 whistled about them, little puffs of dust sprang up from 
 the ground in a thousand unexpected places, and now 
 and then a shout or a groan would turn IMotier's eyes 
 toward some staggering man with a bloody face 
 mashed and torn beyond all human semblance, or with 
 a hand pressed over a spot on his uniform and a little 
 dark stream oozing between his fingers. And with 
 each of these sights of blood Du Val muttered under 
 his breath, "Score one more for Tryon's vainglory." 
 
 Slowly the royal troops fell back — ten — twenty 
 — fifty — a hundred yards. Tryon raged in ungoverned 
 fury. Motier and his brother-aides dashed hither and 
 yonder with orders that sounded bold and brave, but 
 meant nothing at all. 
 
 "Tell Moore to train his artillery on their right 
 wing," shouted Tryon. 
 
 Motier and Malcolm rushed down the line and 
 reached the centre in bare time to meet the gunners in 
 retreat, with a howling swarm of Regulators possessing 
 the cannon. Motier escaped his foemen's rush by a 
 quick turn and a hasty bit of sword-play. Malcolm 
 fell from his horse and ran for his life, leaving half his 
 clothing in the hands of Witten, the hunter. 
 
 The Regulators kept the cannon as long as they 
 
 240 
 
The Battle of the Alamance 
 
 held the field. Having no ammunition to fit them, and 
 knowing nothing of the beautiful theory of spiking 
 guns, their only safety was in keeping the pieces out 
 of Tryon's hands. This they did, and the governor's 
 men were glad of it. Pugh, from his rocky fortress, 
 had killed and wounded sixteen of the royal 
 artillerymen; and the few who remained had no 
 stomach for the sort of fate that had come to their; 
 companions. Tryon and his staff knew that those 
 sixteen men had been uselessly sacrificed ; for the 
 enemy had taken to fighting from the woods, and the 
 heavy shot did little but sink into tree trunks and 
 break the branches and limbs into firewood. 
 
 At last, when the governor almost despaired of 
 victory, and his troops were fighting like men in their 
 last hour, the fire of the Regulators began to lessen in 
 intensity. A puff of wind crossed the field and sent 
 the smoke bellying toward the woods. The enemy's 
 forces were half gone, and scores of black figures 
 darted in and out among the trees in hasty retreat. 
 Their ammunition had failed when victory was within 
 their grasp. 
 
 Tryon pressed his men forward. A few hundred 
 Regulators still kept up a desultory fire, and every 
 puff of smoke meant a hole in a red jacket or a rip in 
 a horse's hide. The royal troops advanced, and Tryon, 
 his eyes sparkling and his hands nervously fingering 
 his sword-hilt, took the lead. "A glorious victory," he 
 said, as Motier and Hawkins swung in beside him. 
 "We'll capture them all." 
 
 But his Excellency was disappointed ; for, at their 
 enemy's approach, the Regulators broke ranks and 
 
 241 
 
Wallannah 
 
 scattered into the woods. Tryon's victorious charge 
 for a mile through the forest yielded but fifteen 
 prisoners, a few badly foundered horses, and a small 
 quantity of abandoned stores. Thus after two hours 
 of fighting did the king's provincial troops win the 
 battle of the Alamance. 
 
 What Tryon thought of his achievement can best be 
 judged by the opening words of his official dispatch 
 to the home government. 'T have the happiness to 
 inform your Lordship," it read, "that it has pleased 
 God to bless his Majesty's arms in this province with 
 signal victory over the Regulators." 
 
 But many in the camp that night berated Tryon for 
 a tyrant and a murderer; for the battle might well 
 have been avoided ; and, even casting that aside, the 
 death of Robert Thompson had left a stain on Tryon 
 that the waters of a thousand rivers could never wash 
 away. 
 
 242 
 
Several Mysteries Spring Up 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Several Mysteries Spring Up 
 
 AD some well-directed ounce of lead found 
 lodgment, before the Alamance, within the 
 body of William Tryon, he might have been 
 
 the better for it. He would still have been 
 
 regarded as a despot of most despicable stamp, and 
 posterity would still have termed him an unqualified 
 ass ; yet, withal, he would have escaped the well-earned 
 title of murderer. But bullets seldom go aright, and 
 Tryon came from the field with skin unbroken. 
 
 Then it was that the situation ran away with the 
 man. He had won the fight, it is true; but not until 
 he had lost it. A keg of powder added to the enemy's 
 store would have turned the Alamance against the 
 king's forces ; and no man, however wise, can say what 
 would have happened after that. With Tryon routed, 
 his army in retreat, his stores and ammunition captured, 
 the Regulators might have swept British rule from the 
 Carolinas then and forever. And Victory, riding 
 onward, would have sounded the bell of liberty a full 
 five years before the day on which it rang. But the 
 lack of a little keg of powder turned the tide the other 
 way. 
 
 It was after this that Tryon took to hanging his 
 prisoners. Now, hanging is a thing that few people 
 
 243 
 
Wallannah 
 
 like — patriots the least of all ; and when the governor 
 (who should have been kneeling in his tent giving 
 thanks to God that the enemy's powder had run short) 
 began stringing up his foemen, he spoiled forever what 
 little remained of the good name which every man may 
 have if he keeps quiet and gives his enemies time to 
 cool down. 
 
 Among the Regulators who fell into Tryon's hands 
 was one James Few, a harmless, demented youth who 
 smiled at everything and thought that the whole world 
 smiled with him. Du Val learned with regret that this 
 man was in Tryon's grasp, for he knew that the 
 governor had a letter which Few had written. That 
 letter, in all its rambling length, had but one coherent 
 sentence ; and Tryon, with unholy glee in his eyes, had 
 read that sentence thrice before he sent to his baggage 
 wagons for a coil of hempen rope. "I am sent by 
 Heaven" — thus Few had written — "to relieve the world 
 of oppression; and 1 will begin in North Carolina." 
 Now, Tryon had some notion that he himself had been 
 sent by Heaven for a particular mission; and he 
 brooked no rival. Therefore was Few hanged. 
 
 Boggs and Motier were together when the latter 
 learned that Few was to receive some light punishment 
 for his treasonable proclamation. Motier turned to 
 the doctor. "Who is this man Few?" he asked, "and 
 what made him crazy?" 
 
 The doctor responded readily. "Few is a harmless 
 
 fellow," he said, as they walked back to the camp. 
 
 "When I first knew him he was a bright sort of boy, 
 
 betrothed to a very pretty girl. They were to be 
 
 [married in a short time; and Few was about the 
 
Several Mysteries Spring Up 
 
 happiest man I had ever seen. But the governor's dear 
 friend Colonel Fanning-, who heads that crowd of 
 Hillsborough politicians, took a fancy to Few's fiancee, 
 and proceeded — in a nice, kind, gentlemanlike way, of 
 course — to accomplish the ruin of the girl. Few 
 discovered the state of affairs shortly before the day set 
 for the wedding. His present condition is the result." 
 "Too bad that he couldn't have kept his wits long 
 enough to shoot Fanning," mused Motier. with a 
 wrathful gleam in his eyes, 
 
 "That's why Fanning gloats over the fellow's 
 capture," responded Boggs. "He's afraid Few may 
 still have enough brains to do it." 
 "I hope that he has." 
 
 The doctor shook his head. "No chance," he said. 
 "The man can never regain his mind." 
 
 Boggs prophesied better than he knew, for Few 
 never had a chance to recover his reason. Tryon, with 
 the smirking, dark-faced Fanning at his elbow, had the 
 gibbering maniac hanged before the sun had set. The 
 poor fellow laughed as they put the noose about his 
 neck; for he had no understanding of what it all 
 meant. 
 
 As Tryon, with a grim satisfaction in his eyes, 
 looked up toward the gaunt figure that swayed 
 backward and forward against the blood-red western 
 sky, one of the militiamen nudged a companion in the 
 side, "That 'ere corpse swings atween Tryon and 
 heaven, in jest about two different ways," he said. 
 And the chances are that the man was right. 
 
 On the day after the fight Boggs was the busiest 
 man in camp, for the wounded numbered over three 
 
 245 
 
Wallannah 
 
 score, and cried for his attention. The dead were 
 buried with fitting honors, and the various departments 
 of the Httle army busied themselves in making ready 
 for the march to SaUsbury. 
 
 At sunrise Motier began reading the six or eight 
 letters which had been brought to his tent on the day 
 before. One of these was from his father, who had 
 written with the intention of having his message come 
 to Motier before the fight. 
 
 "I had determined," wrote M. Du Val. "for reasons 
 which I will explain in proper time, to remove you from 
 the army upon your arrival at Hillsborough. I wished 
 to do this in order that you might accompany me 
 further up the country, whither I am called by a sacred 
 duty. But General Waddell, with whom I am now, 
 being unable by force of circumstances to move 
 forward, I think it better to remain with him until such 
 time as he can effect a junction with the main array. 
 Continue, therefore, with the governor until we meet. 
 Should you in the meanwhile get into battle, you will 
 necessarily be exposed to your full share of danger. In 
 communicating the governor's orders you will have to 
 be where the fight is thickest. I know you will 
 discharge such duties faithfully, but do not volunteer 
 a single blow. Do your duty, but do not be led into 
 anything aggressive. You may think this strange 
 advice, but it will be explained to you in due season." 
 
 Motier gave a little laugh as he slipped the letter 
 into his pocket. "That shows several things," he 
 reflected, as he sat on his camp-stool and lit his pipe. 
 "That proves that Sequa knew some time before I did 
 that I was going to the mountains: that is mystery 
 
 246 
 
Several Mysteries Spring Up 
 
 number one. It indicates, also, that father nas some 
 mission up the country: that is mystery number two. 
 The next thing is his request for me to be passive in 
 the battle. Well, when I recall the squabble, I can't 
 remember that I struck a blow that did more than 
 break the skin: but anyway, that makes mystery 
 number three. Then, too, he says that Waddell is tied 
 up by force of circumstances : that is the fourth 
 mystery ; but I'll wager that the Regulators have made 
 him retreat. I could have told Tryon a week ago that 
 to send two hundred and fifty men through this country 
 in the face of that crowd of insurgents was the act of 
 an imbecile. But," and he shrugged his shoulders and 
 opened another letter, "that's the governor's business : 
 let him figure it out as best he can." 
 
 The second letter was from Esther Wake. Motier's 
 pipe went out several times as he read the scented 
 missive, and his flint and steel kept up a merry crackle 
 through it all. After the first reading Motier smiled. 
 "Parblieu," he said, brushing Boggs' kitten from his 
 shoulder, "here is mystery number five." 
 
 Here is what the letter said : 
 
 "Dear Motier: We are all overwhelmed with anxiety at 
 the result of the governor's expedition, and eagerly await news 
 from the front. Do be careful, and don't expose yourself to 
 needless danger. 
 
 "I spent yesterday at the De Vere's and had some talk with 
 your golden-haired friend. I am afraid, dear boy, that you 
 parted too hastily from this little woman. I haven't heard the 
 whole story, but I think that when you return you should drop 
 in at Beechwood and see how the matter stands. I fear that 
 you have a rival ; for while waiting for Alice I chanced to 
 open her autograph album and found a page perfectly bare of 
 
 247 
 
Wallannah 
 
 writing but having a badly crushed white rose fastened to it. 
 If you can tell who sent her the rose you will also know where 
 her heart lies, for she blushed very brightly when I spoke of 
 it, and refused to tell me the name of the donor. 
 
 "We have, of course, heard nothing from dear Lucille 
 since she left. I hope that she has not run into the severe 
 storms which have been raging along the coast of Virginia. 
 I think that Lucille was very fond of you; and we are all 
 surprised that you never found it out. She seemed heart-broken 
 because you did not come to the wharf to bid her good-bye. 
 I might have told you this before you left, but you and brother 
 William were so closely closeted that I had no opportunity to 
 talk with you. 
 
 "Now, my dear Motier, remember you must not walk into 
 the cannon's mouth, nor run your horse under low-limbed 
 trees ; for we want you back here again. 
 
 "With sincere regard, Esther. 
 
 "Very sweet," laughed Motier, after the second 
 reading. "But mystery number five is : 'Why is Alice 
 De Vere keeping that rose ?' " He folded the letter. 
 "Esther" — he started. Then he looked down. "But 
 here is the inevitable woman's postscript." "By the 
 way," it read, "you will find in your uniform-coat 
 pocket a little bow of blue and white ribbon which I 
 had Tonta slip in there. I want you to wear this as a 
 token of peace. It is a queer little notion of mine ; but 
 if you will wear my colors, and be my — " Motier 
 raised his eyes and swore at the tent-top. "Great 
 Caesar!" he growled, "another commission!" He went 
 back to the blurred comma: "and be my knight, I 
 will feel as though some bond linked together our 
 friendship. I am not in sympathy with this war ; and 
 if you agree with me, as a matter between us two wear 
 my ribbons." 
 
 248 
 
Several Mysteries Spring Up 
 
 Motier stuffed the note into his pocket and drew out 
 a rumpled bunch of ribbon. "I'll have to put a stop to 
 this knight business," he said, trying to smooth out the 
 ribbons on his knee. "There's no chance of winning a 
 Holy Grail or anything else but grey hairs and bad 
 opinions. Well, I'll wear the thing, anyhow; though 
 it isn't exactly a martial decoration. Oho !" And he 
 yawned sleepily. "Esther means well, but if she'd 
 written much more about those two girls — " 
 
 He lit his pipe again and began staring at the 
 romping kitten on the floor. 
 
 It was clear in Motier's mind that Lucille had not 
 told the members of the governor's household of her 
 parting with him; nor had he spoken of his own )art 
 in the matter. As far as he could tell, Lucille was out 
 of his life forever. The thought of her future was not 
 a pleasant one to him; but he persuaded himstlf that 
 had he devoted his whole life to her, she would have 
 been none the better for it. He was sure that he would 
 have been much the worse. 
 
 Then his mind turned to Alice, and he smiled as 
 he thought of the white rose. He still felt that strange 
 dislike of placing her, in his own regard, on a level with 
 the other women whom he had known. There was 
 something about her which made him place her with 
 the higher things of life; but what that something 
 was he did not know. 
 
 From Alice his mind turned to Maynard. He had 
 not met the man since the day that Esther Wake had 
 seen them in the garden at Beechwood; but he had 
 thought of him with a strange frequency. As neither 
 had killed the other in battle, the affair with Cantwell 
 
 249 
 
Wallannah 
 
 lay somewhere ahead of them both ; and Motier longed 
 for the day. Excepting one (he who had been with 
 him through those swift-going months in England) 
 Maynard was the most congenial man-at-arms he had 
 ever known. He felt that to fight a good fight under 
 the eyes of this cool-headed, fearless man would be a 
 distinction well worth the risk. There was still enou^'h 
 of the boy in Motier to make him love a display of his 
 prowess. 
 
 His revery ended, Du Val reached out for another 
 letter. The superscription of this one was in an 
 unknown hand ; but, as he read' the message within, he 
 remembered when and how he had seen this rude 
 penmanship before. 
 
 "Munseer," it ran, "for gods saik look owt fer jake 
 Cantwell. hes praktisin evvry day with his sord and 
 he sez hes goin upp to the mowntins to ketch you. 
 they sez yer a frencher but i bett yer carlina enuf to 
 skin that air pollywog allive. yer f rend, A Frend." 
 
 " 'Your friend, A Friend,' " repeated Motier, with a 
 laugh. "I'd give half a crown to know who he is. He 
 seems to fear Cantwell more than I do. Vive 1' ami ! I 
 hope to meet him some day." 
 
 A shadow crossed the tent floor. Motier looked up. 
 Malcolm, the senior aide, stood in the doorway. "His 
 Excellency wishes you," he said, with a mock salute. 
 
 "He can have me," responded Du Val, throwing 
 down his pipe and stuffing the letters into his pocket. 
 "What's in the wind now?" 
 
 "Another hanging-bee," was the answer. "A 
 devilish unpleasant one, too." 
 
 "How? Any special features?" 
 
 250 
 
Several Mysteries Spring Up 
 
 "Yes ; a woman in the case.' 
 
 "H'm ! There frequently is when a man hangs." 
 
 The army stood at rest beneath the trees. Huddled 
 together, with a guard about them, were the prisoners 
 of yesterday's conflict. The governor and some of his 
 officers stood together by the rude gallows from which 
 the demented Few had gone to eternity. Beside the 
 dangling noose stood Messer, one of the captured 
 Regulators, bound hand and foot, but calm and fearless. 
 At Tryon's feet knelt a slight, thin-featured woman, 
 apparently of the poorer class. She was weeping 
 piteously, and a ten-year-old boy who stood near by 
 was crying as though his heart would break. 
 
 Doctor Boggs took Motier's arm as the Frenchman, 
 parting from Malcolm, went toward the governor. 
 "Yesterday was bad enough," he said, fiercely, "but 
 this is worse. Fd like to curse his Excellency until my 
 face turned blue." 
 
 "Sedition, rank sedition," responded Motier, "but I 
 swear I agree with you." 
 
 Motier took his place by the governor. Tryon 
 looked down at the woman with a sneer on his lips. 
 "Well," he asked, petulantly, "why don't you go? You 
 have my answer." 
 
 The woman sobbed aloud. "But spare his life, your 
 Excellency," she cried, "don't kill my husband. He's 
 all we've got in the world: don't kill him!" 
 
 Tryon's face gave no sign of feeling. "You are 
 wasting breath," he said, harshly. "Fve told you that 
 he must hang. He has five minutes more : talk to him, 
 not to me." And he turned away and walked toward 
 the camp. 
 
 251 
 
Wallannah 
 
 The woman arose and followed him. "Your 
 Excellency," she sobbed, "if you have any feeling, 
 listen — " 
 
 "You have my answer," he replied, shortly. "Do 
 not speak to me again." He made another move 
 toward his tent. 
 
 The young boy ran to his side. "If your Excellency 
 please," he said, lifting his big blue eyes to Tryon's 
 face, while the tears rolled down his cheeks, "don't hurt 
 papa." 
 
 Tryon's face was unmoved. "Your mother has my 
 answer," he said, coldly. "Go to her." 
 
 But the boy did not go. "Please, your Excellency," 
 he entreated, his lips quivering and his little hands 
 clasped together, "if you've got to hang some one, hang 
 me and let papa go." 
 
 A slight smile crossed Tryon's face. "Who told 
 you to ask that?" he questioned. 
 
 "Nobody, your Excellency: I just ask it myself." 
 The boy's face was white and he trembled from head 
 to foot. 
 
 The governor looked at him with eyes that softened 
 for one brief moment. "What is your reason for 
 making this request?" he asked. 
 
 "Because," the boy answered, "if you hang me it 
 won't make no diff'rence; but if you hang papa, 
 mamma will die too, and so will little brother and 
 sister." The boy still kept his great eyes fixed on the 
 governor's face. 
 
 Tryon cleared his throat. "Well," he said, with 
 some gentleness. "I will change my plan, and will not 
 hang your father to-day." He turned and left the field. 
 
 • 252 
 
Several Mysteries Spring Up 
 
 But he had not said that he would not hang the man a 
 week from that day. 
 
 A few days later the army started upon its march 
 from the Alamance to make a junction with the force 
 of General Waddell, which the Regulators had driven 
 back to Salisbury. Motier was sitting on his horse, 
 reining him in tightly as the drum corps thundered by. 
 
 Doctor Boggs approached him. "We part here," 
 he said, "I am ordered back with the wounded to 
 Hillsborough. I hope when you reach your father he 
 will find something better for you than gracing Tryon's 
 triumphal march. I trust you will never get into 
 another such scrape. Really, Du Val, I am sorry to 
 leave you. We have had pleasant communing together ; 
 but we shall meet again before long. I expect to give 
 a good report of you to the girl at Beechwood — There, 
 no back talk ! Good-bye, my boy, and God bless you !" 
 And the grip of the doctor's hand was that of a man 
 who means all that he says. 
 
 At Salisbury Motier met his father, and was relieved 
 from further service in the army. Governor Tryon 
 complimented him upon the faithful performance of 
 his duties, and laid great stress upon the young man's 
 coolness during the battle, which Tryon seemed to 
 rank with the greatest conflicts of history. 
 
 Tryon, after a march of triumph through the upper 
 towns of the province, released several of his prisoners, 
 held a few more for the orders of the king, and 
 proceeded, with all due delicacy, to hang the rest. 
 Among these last was John Pugh, the rifleman, who 
 met death without a sign of fear, after having 
 denounced Tryon in a speech which that worthy 
 
 253 
 
Wallannah 
 
 gentleman cut short in the middle by swinging the 
 speaker into eternity quite a half-hour before the 
 appointed time. 
 
 Messer, whose son had interceded for him at the 
 Alamance, was hung on the same day. The wife and 
 the little son made no plea this time, for they thought 
 the man safe. Messer himself, having no nonsense in 
 his composition, knew from the first that Tryon would 
 strangle him at the earliest opportunity. 
 
 Du Val, much to his gratification, missed this latest 
 demonstration of Tryon's official courtesy, and 
 having joined his father, made plans for a future of 
 bewildering uncertainties. 
 
 The elder Du Val seemed badly run down in health, 
 and had abandoned his trip to the mountains. After a 
 long conference in which Motier found much that 
 seemed mysterious, his father gave him a letter for 
 Captain Maynard with instructions to ride up the 
 mountain road until the captain met him. This 
 command seemed so remarkable that Motier could 
 hardly believe it to be uttered in earnest ; but his father 
 insisted, and with no further light on the matter, Motier 
 prepared for the trip. 
 
 He puzzled his brain for several days, but could 
 find no reason why his father should send a 
 communication to Maynard in such a manner and at 
 such a time; but he was not sorry, for he wanted to 
 talk with the captain upon the matter of one Jacob 
 Cantwell, who was coming into the mountains to 
 "ketch" him. And that thought gave birth to another : 
 how did young Cantwell know that Motier was going 
 to the up-country? 
 
 254 
 
An Awkward Surprise 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 1A.N Awkward Surprise 
 
 WEEK after Motier Du Val and his father 
 parted at SaHsbury, a party of a dozen 
 horsemen were riding slowly over a ridge 
 road that wound its way along the crest of 
 a mountain range in western Carolina. All save the 
 two in the lead rode with the lounging ease of veteran 
 troopers, their accoutrements rattling merrily, their 
 sword-hilts close at their hands and their carbines 
 gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun. 
 
 The two who rode ahead were Captain Neale, of the 
 Rangers, mounted on a great bay charger, and Motier 
 Du Val, astride his own horse Fleetfoot. The officer, 
 attired in the fatigue uniform of the the provincial 
 army, carried sword and pistols. Duval wore a 
 civilian's garb, and his weapons, if any he had, were 
 concealed beneath his coat. 
 
 The down-going sun was close to the top of the 
 range, and the trees that lined the rocky road were 
 casting long shadows across the highway. 
 
 "By St. George!" ejaculated the officer, checking 
 his horse a little, "the road gets rockier with every rod. 
 Our prospect for a night under cover seems none of 
 the best. What say you, Du Val? down there in the 
 valley we might find water and a smooth spot for a 
 
 255 
 
Wallannab 
 
 camp; but I doubt our reaching it in time. I caught 
 the sparkle of a streanl down there but a moment ago. 
 We may be able to make it if we do not waste our 
 daylight. Shall we try?" 
 
 Motier steered his horse around a giant boulder. 
 "As you will, Captain," he answered, settling back 
 again into his saddle. "Remember that I make no 
 claim to woodcraft. I see no path leading toward the 
 valley ; but if you say go, I'll follow." 
 
 "I hate to risk it so late in the day," said Neale, 
 with an anxious glance toward the sun. "Should 
 darkness catch us in that chasm we'd never find the 
 road again. I wish to heaven we'd brought a guide 
 with us." 
 
 Neale turned his horse and faced his little party. 
 "Do any of you know this country?" 
 
 The soldie'rs looked at one another and smiled. 
 Every head shook its negative response. 
 
 "Well," said Neale, with the calm of one whose 
 habit is to take things as they come, "we'll keep ahead 
 until we find some trace of human life." He turned 
 his horse's head again to the west, and spoke to DuVal. 
 "We're outside the civilized world, I guess," he said, 
 with a little laugh, "we've been traveling for three days 
 over the worst road in Christendom — or heathendom, 
 whichever it is — and have yet to see the first 
 decent-looking house. Let your mind drop back to the 
 pictures of domestic bliss as we've seen it in the huts 
 along the way: women, women, children, children. 
 Have they no husbands or fathers, do you think ?" 
 
 "The men were hunting, so their wives said." 
 
 "Yes ; all hunting ; but hunting what ? We've seen 
 
 256 
 
An Awkward Surprise 
 
 none of them. A king's uniform drives these rabbits 
 to their burrows quicker than aught else, except the 
 tax-collector. How far back would you call the last 
 house we passed?" 
 
 "Something like ten miles." 
 
 "So I think. I fear, Du V^al, we are on a fool's 
 errand. How are we to find our man among all these 
 crags and hollows and caverns, and cracks like this 
 one?'' He pointed to a crevice beside the road. "Ye 
 gods ! I can smell hell's sulphur coming up through 
 it now. It passes my poor wits to know how to find the 
 fellow. However, be it one way or the other, orders are 
 orders ; and, if our information amounts to anything, 
 we are still upon the trail. Now — but I caU that 
 smoke, don't you ? There to the right, between us and 
 that ragged peak. See it?" 
 
 "Yes. It's smoke all well enough ; perhaps a 
 dwelling; more probably a hunters' camp. Either 
 would suit us now, if they feed us and refrain from 
 poisoning our soup." 
 
 "Well, let's keep ahead. This road probably snakes 
 around toward it some way." 
 
 Spurring up their horses the party clattered on at a 
 lively gait. Dipping over the brow of a little hill, they 
 caught a glimpse of a figure disappearing into a 
 thicket by the roadside. Neale drew his pistol. "Who's 
 there?" he shouted, galloping toward the bushes that 
 still swayed with the passing of the person. "Come 
 out," he yelled, waving his weapon toward the woods, 
 "if you don't, I'll blow your brains out." 
 
 A woman came forth from the thicket and entered 
 the road. The captain wheeled his horse and faced her. 
 
 257 
 
Wallannah 
 
 She was of masculine proportions, broad and brawny, 
 and arrayed in a blue-checked gown of homespun. 
 Her features, partially hidden by a great sunbonnet, 
 were bold and prominent, and her keen gray eyes 
 twinkled with expression. 
 
 "I beg you to excuse me, my good woman," said 
 Neale, returning his pistol to its holster and touching 
 his hat ; "had I known you to be one of the gentler sex, 
 I should not have called so roughly. I trust that I did 
 not alarm you. But why did you try to hide from us ?" 
 
 The woman raised her head and smiled. " 'It's 
 gude to dread the warst; the best will be the 
 welcomer,' " she answered, in a sharp unmusical voice. 
 
 The captain pulled at his mustache. "Ah ! I see," 
 he said, reflectively. "Scotch, or Scotch-Irish. Yet 
 not, I hope, the less loyal to his British Majesty, King 
 George; nor the less ready to help his officers if 
 need be. But you answer me in a proverb. Let me 
 suggest another, which I learned from my good old 
 grandmother : Til doers are aye ill dreaders.' " 
 
 " 'A burnt bairn dreads the fire,' " responded the 
 woman, "I didna ken but ye might be Regulators. 
 Sith ye gang wi' the king, God bless him ! I'm ower 
 glad to see ye. But it's nae wrang for a puir weak 
 woman to hide hersel' from stranger sodgers wi' lang 
 guns, when she canna tell friends from foes. 'Mettle's 
 nae gude for a blind mare.' " 
 
 "Quite right, quite right," responded the captain, 
 gallantly. "It well befits your tender sex to be timid. 
 I am glad to see you, since you are so good a friend to 
 the king. We shall want your aid. Here, Du Val," he 
 said to Motier, as he and the soldiers halted close by, 
 
 258 
 
An Awkward Surprise 
 
 "here is the guide we've prayed for. This gooa woman 
 lives close by — you said close by, did you not?" 
 
 "Nae, nae ; I didna say. But it's na sae mony 
 miles — beyant the crags there." And she pointed to 
 a rugged peak dimly looming through the haze above 
 the foothills. 
 
 The captain's eyes followed the direction of her 
 fingers. "By Heaven !" he said, with dismay. "We 
 can never get there!" 
 
 "Hoot awa, mon ! Gin ye swim the loch, an' nae let 
 the grass grow under your feet, it wadna tak lang 
 i' the night." 
 
 "Worse and worse!" cried Neale, with a 
 disheartened shrug. "We can't — But how do you 
 get home? you don't swim the lake?" 
 
 "Nae ; I go a shorter path ; but the beasties couldna 
 keep their footin' in it." 
 
 "We must give that up," said the captain. "But is 
 there no other place, somewhere within a reasonable 
 distance, where we might find shelter, or at least, 
 water? What makes that smoke ahead of us?" 
 
 "It's an auld wife's lodge; and the string o' the 
 latch hangs outside the door." 
 
 "Could she give us food and shelter and some 
 fodder for the horses?" . 
 
 "Auld Locky hae muckle and to spare; and gin ye 
 hae siller, 'twill be a hame o' your ain. 'Money maks a 
 mon free ilka where.' " 
 
 "Guide us to the place, and we'll pay you well." 
 
 "My ain path gaes foment. When we come to the 
 partin' I'll show ye the way, sae wi' half an e'e ye canna 
 miss it." 
 
 259 . 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Soho! my men!" called Neale, jocularly. 
 "Forward to the house where the latch-string hangs 
 outside." 
 
 "Nae, nae," protested the woman, "gie'n ye gang 
 at sic a gait I canna keep up. 'Mair haste the waur 
 speed, quoth the tailor to the lang thread.' " 
 
 "I beg pardon," lauo-hed the captain, reining in his 
 horse ; "I forgot that you were walking. But it's late, 
 and time is short." 
 
 They moved on for a while in silence. The captain 
 looked carelessly about him as one who seeks for 
 natural scenes to please the eye. Motier, his eyelids 
 slightly lowered, looked fixedly at their guide. 
 
 The silence was abruptly broken by the captain. 
 "Has this place a name?" he asked of the woman. 
 
 "This ridge ye're ridin' on? They call it The Deil's 
 Backbane." 
 
 "Thundering good name — judging by its virtues 
 as a road," exclaimed Neale. "But it has a sound of 
 evil omen. My good mother," he added, after a little 
 pause, "you seem to have little love for the Regulators. 
 Have they ever troubled you?" 
 
 "Did they na tak my gude mon frae his bed sleepin' 
 by my side, and wi' his hands tied all helpless, tak him 
 to a tree before me and the childer, and Way him till the 
 brath was well-nigh gane from his puir body! Love 
 them ! Aye, as the deil lo'es holy water \" 
 
 "You have good reasons then for being a loyalist. 
 Tell me, now, have you ever seen Herman Husbands? 
 Do you know the man ?" 
 
 "Do I ken Herman Husbands? Troth I ken him 
 vvell eno' ; and it's na muckle gude I ken o' him. He 
 
 360 
 
An Awkward Surprise 
 
 wai5 alang — the head o' a' — the night they got my puir 
 Dugald. He cam back t'ither day, sair greeted; and 
 tried with his siller to mak it a' up, and be friends 
 ag'in. But I'm na ilka mon's dog that whistles on me." 
 
 "Where is he now?" 
 
 "Wad ye like to see the deil's bairn?" 
 
 "He's the man we want, good woman. Put us in 
 the way to find him, and a good reward will be yours. ' 
 
 "Wad ye, tho'? How much siller?" 
 
 "Well, say ten pounds sterling; will that do?" 
 
 "Awee?, aweel ! Ten pounds is muckle money to 
 gie a puir body to do her ain pleasure. But the king's 
 rich; and 't wad be a bonny lift for a rainy day. I 
 canna say ye nae." Then resting her hand on the 
 horse's shoulder, and lowering her voice for Neale's 
 ear, "Gie'n Herman's na at Tam Eraun's, ye may find 
 him at the auld wife's where ye're gangin' for the 
 night. He was there yestreen ; and they looked for 
 him to-day. He sleeps i' the sma' house i' the corner 
 o' the yard. But ye maun be cautious, or ye'll fright 
 the bird." 
 
 "But maybe the old woman will be on watch?" 
 
 "Maybe! Maybe's are no aye honey-bees! Auld 
 dame Locky has nae mair lo' for him than I hae mysel'. 
 But here we be at the partin'." 
 
 They had come to a great circling sweep in the 
 ridge, where the main road veered to the right, 
 and a smaller path, descending into a gloomy hollow, 
 continued straight to the west. 
 
 "I maun lea* ye here," the woman said, halting by 
 the roadside. "Your way lies doon there. I canna 
 leave the Deil's Backbane sae soon." 
 
 261 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "But, my good woman, you were to guide us." 
 
 " 'Tis a clear track noo. Bear to the right at ilka 
 fork. Ye see the smoke ag'in' the trees. There's 
 nae branch or moor to trouble ye wi' the crassin'. But 
 diniia hurry : let the sun gang to his lair, or Herman '11 
 get his een upon ye." 
 
 "Suppose Husbands is not there. What then?" 
 
 "I'll tak a look at Tarn as I gae by. and gie him 
 twa o' the pounds — tho' I canna spare sae muckle — 
 to tak Herman down. A smart carle is Tammy." 
 
 VWell, since you must leave us, here is your money, 
 good friend." And the captain pulled out some coin, 
 a half crown and a few pennies. He tendered the 
 largest piece to the woman, who took it with an 
 av/kward curtsey, and cast a wistful glance at the 
 pennies. 
 
 "Can ye nae let the horns gang wi' the hide?" she 
 asked. 
 
 Neale gave an amused laugh. "Take them," he 
 said, holding out his palm. "And now, good-bye; 
 and thank you. Remember your ten pounds reward 
 if we find him." 
 
 "I'll nae forget. And if Tammy canna bring 
 the mon, I'll fetch him mysel'." And she turned up 
 the road. 
 
 As they entered the path to the hollow, Motier, 
 who had been regarding the woman with suspicion, 
 turned in his saddle and glanced back. The woman 
 was watching them, and to Du Val's eyes she looked 
 six inches taller than when she had stood beside them. 
 But as he looked, she turned, and quickly passed from 
 view. 
 
 262 
 
An Awkward Surprise 
 
 Neale held back his horse. "She was a godsend 
 to us, wasn't she?" remarked the captahi, as Du Val 
 came up beside him, "What did you think of her?" 
 
 "She has gained my deepest distrust." 
 
 Neale looked at Motier in surprise. "Distrust!" 
 he echoed. "Why, the woman is one of those honest 
 old Scotch people who would die rather than lie. Why 
 do you distrust her?" 
 
 "Why ? Because she was playing a part. She's as 
 Scotch as I am : her dialect broke out in little spots. 
 Eight-tenths of her words were pure English. And 
 her voice ! She had six or seven voices. I fear 
 treachery." 
 
 "Pshaw !" laughed Neale. "Wait, my dear Du Val, 
 until you know these mountaineers as I do. They're 
 a rough set, and they talk more dialects than a sailor's 
 parrot ; but they're honest to the core. This woman's 
 account tallied perfectly with our former information : 
 you concede that? She is prompted by her revenge 
 and by her love of gold — which last, you know, is a 
 good, strong motive with a Scot." 
 
 Motier shook his head. "As you will, Captain,"- 
 he said, with a smile, "but take my advice and shoot 
 the rest of her kind that come our way." 
 
 "No fear," retorted Neale. "The woman who 
 outwits us must rise early and stay out late." And 
 he began humming some careless little song. 
 
 After a few moments the captain's music stopped. 
 "There's one thing that troubles me, Du Val," he said. 
 "Should we capture Husbands to-night — and I'd 
 wager my horse on it — I must return vv^ith my 
 command, and leave you to go on alone. I don't like 
 
 263 
 
Wallannah 
 
 to turn you loose in the wilderness ; but — orders, you 
 know. Do you go much further ?" 
 
 "I think not," answered Motier, with reserve. 
 "But do not feel anxious on my account. I'll follow 
 the road until something stops me." 
 
 Neale, whose conversational abilities were immense, 
 drew closer to Motier, and made ready to speak. "It 
 has puzzled me to conceive what brings you to this 
 heathen country, Du Val," he said, settling back into 
 his saddle and letting his horse pick his own way. "I 
 cannot ask you, for the question would be indelicate; 
 but it seems legitimate for me to make suggestions. 
 If it is your purpose to locate lands, the direction 
 of our present course will soon bring you into an 
 uninhabited region of great resources. But if you bear 
 too far to the right, you'll find yourself in a part of the 
 world where mystery, if not enchantment, abounds. 
 If your course goes that way, you could scour the 
 Carolinas without finding a corporal's guard to go 
 there with you." 
 
 "Really, Captain," said Alotier, smiling, "my 
 curiosity is rampant." 
 
 "Then I will gratify it — at least, as far as I can. 
 As to the land, my knowledge was all gained from 
 Tryon. I am as much a stranger in these parts as you 
 are, but the governor, when he came up here to make 
 his survey of the Cherokee boundary, found large 
 sections of country unoccupied except by scattered 
 tribes of Indians. This land he thought inferior to 
 none in the province ; and he spoke of making entries 
 for himself on speculation. 
 
 "Now, the region of mystery and enchantment — 
 
 264 
 
An Awkward Surprise 
 
 and it has been a theme for winter night talks in my 
 home since my childhood — it is a curious thing. My 
 grandfather, who was a great hunter, spent much time 
 in these mountains and my father followed closely in 
 his footsteps. Both have told marvelous tales of what 
 they had heard and seen. 
 
 "In olden times, a gentlemanly cut-throat known 
 as Bloody Jack used to pounce upon the early 
 settlements and, with a formidable band of his peers, 
 commit all sorts of depredations wherever he went. 
 The settlers would often take their guns and give 
 chase ; but on each occasion Jack and his men would 
 lose themselves in the mountains. At last, when 
 neither life nor property was secure, the people rose 
 en masse and surrounded the place where the bandits 
 usually made their disappearance. Instead of seeking 
 a refuge, Jack and his men broke through the ranks of 
 their pursuers and got inside their circle, which was 
 nearly a mile in diameter. 
 
 "This was what the settlers wanted. So, keeping 
 the outlaws always in sight, they closed in upon them. 
 Jack led the way to a bleak looking mountain which 
 the Indians called Yaunocca. At the foot of this peak 
 the bandits turned and fired a volley at their pursuers. 
 The guns were aimed low and the smoke rolled along 
 over the ground. When it lifted and blew away, Jack 
 and his whole band had vanished. 
 
 "The astonished settlers searched the whole 
 landscape but found no trace of the men or of their 
 lair. Some said the mountain opened to receive them, 
 and closed up again ; some visionary fellows swore 
 that the men rose into the air and flew away ; and 
 
 265 
 
Wallannah 
 
 others of similar mental calibre concluded that the 
 robber band was something more than human. Within 
 a week, however, Jack and his crowd were at their old 
 tricks. 
 
 "By and by they disappeared altogether. Years 
 passed, and the story had become a tradition ; and even 
 that was dying out, when all at once the mountain 
 became the centre of a new mystery. A beautiful 
 woman was seen walking about the rocks and crags. 
 Here, there, and everywhere, she appeared ; and even 
 while the amazed people looked at her she would 
 vanish out of view. They say that she is still in the 
 mountains ; and the people round about here believe 
 her to be Bloody Jack's daughter." 
 
 "A wild story," said Motier, laughing, "but at all 
 events an interesting one. What do they call this 
 woman ?" 
 
 "Wallannah — an Indian name." 
 
 Motier started a little at the captain's answer. 
 "Does she speak to those who approach her?" he asked. 
 
 "Indeed yes ; in any language." 
 
 "Seems a queer thing," said Du Val, thoughtfully. 
 "What do you think of the story?" 
 
 "I ? I think nothing : I only repeat what I have' 
 heard. The Indians hold her in great veneration and 
 call her a prophetess. But, Du Val, twilight is upon 
 us; we must quicken our pace. That confounded 
 smoke is as far away as ever." 
 
 "Farther, I should say," Motier answered. "A few 
 minutes and the darkness will shut out that landmark 
 from our view." 
 
 "Distances are deceptive," replied Neale. "As 
 
 266 
 
An Awkward Surprise 
 
 much so through these valleys as across water. I well 
 remember — But listen !" He reined up his horse and 
 held up his hand to halt the men behind them. 
 
 "Horses," said Du Val. 
 
 "Some travelers along the ridge," suggested the 
 captain. 
 
 "Noise enough for a royal guard." 
 
 "Cattle, probably. This region is a great grazing 
 ground. Cattle, you know, constitute the wealth of 
 these people. But the sounds have passed beyond us ; 
 let's move ahead. Ahead, my men ! We must eat and 
 sleep to-night." As he spoke they emerged from the 
 woods and entered an open glade, girt about by large 
 trees and thick undergrowth. 
 
 Suddenly Motier pulled back his horse. Neale 
 made a swift reach for his sword. The sound of 
 breaking branches and ripping leaves broke upon the 
 air; and with a wild chorus of yells a hundred Indians 
 burst into the glade. 
 
 The struggle was a short one. The soldiers, riding 
 at ease, without thought of danger, had no time to 
 reach their weapons before they were unhorsed and 
 tightly bound. Neale went down before his sword was 
 half unsheathed. Motier alone made a show of 
 defense. Facing a half dozen of the painted warriors, 
 and seeing that life was a mere chance, he determined 
 to fight while he could. Pulling a pistol from beneath 
 his coat he pushed it against the chest of the nearest 
 Indian and fired. His other assailants hesitated long 
 enough for the Frenchman to draw another pistol ; but, 
 seeing him ready for his second shot, they sprang 
 forward with uplifted hatchets. Motier, with the same 
 
 267 
 
Wallannah 
 
 slight smile that always hovered about his lips when 
 death looked him in the face, waited until his foes were 
 almost at his horse's head. Then he raised his pistol 
 and his finger pressed the trigger. At that moment, 
 when two lives were all but at their end, a loud shout 
 sounded about the din of conflict. 
 
 "Sau-hau! Yenxauhe!" 
 
 The savages stopped suddenly ; Motier lowered his 
 pistol ; and all looked in the direction of the call. 
 
 Out of the gloom of the overhanging trees rode 
 Herman Husbands. 
 
 268 
 
A Move Forestalled 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A Move Forestalled 
 
 USBANDS rode forward among the Indians 
 and spoke to them in their own language. 
 They were angry, and pointed frequently to 
 the motionless form of the warrior whom 
 Motier had shot. The argument was a long one, 
 but at last the Quaker's efforts met with success, 
 and his red-skinned friends replaced their weapons 
 in their belts and gave attention to their wounded 
 comrade. 
 
 Husbands approached the prisoners. "Captain 
 Neale," he said, saluting, "a woman back yonder on 
 the Devil's Ridge promised to send or bring Herman 
 Husbands to you to-night. She has kept her word." 
 
 Neale, standing against a tree, smiled and said: 
 "Wish she'd been in the devil's claws instead of on his 
 back," he muttered. "Tell her so, with my regards." 
 
 "You forget your gallantry. Captain," returned 
 Husbands. "But not for the first time, perhaps. Allow 
 me, before we part, to give you a little advice after the 
 good woman's own manner." Then, in the sharp 
 falsetto tones which were still fresh in the captain's 
 memory, " 'Keep your breath to cool your ain 
 porridge'; and 'Ne'er sca'd your lips in ither folk's 
 kale.' " 
 
 269 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Neale's face reddened, and he made an effort to 
 free himself from the cords that bound his hands. 
 "Husbands," he said, with bitterness, "you take 
 ungenerous advantage of my position. But, as you 
 are fond of proverbs, let me remind you that 'Every 
 dog will have his day.' " 
 
 "And you had yours at the Alamance," responded 
 Husbands, quietly and in his natural voice. ''But, Met 
 bygones be bygones.' I did not come to tantalize you: 
 Heaven knows my own troubles weigh heavily enough, 
 I might say, for your information, that these Indians 
 are in arms as friends of the Regulators. They hate 
 the governor" and everything that is his. I think, 
 however, that if you do nothing to anger them, they 
 will give you little trouble. If you try to escape, you 
 may as well say your last prayer. You and your men 
 will be prisoners until I and a few others, whom your 
 precious government is driving from the province, are 
 beyond your reach. I am going away from Carolina 
 to a land where men can be men. So, you need hunt 
 me no longer." Passing by Du Val, who, unhorsed 
 and tightly bound, sat upon a log, Husbands bent 
 toward him. "A bad business, Monsieur Du Val. ' 
 he said, in a low voice. "I hope the wounded man may 
 not die. But in any event be prudent. I cannot help 
 you more than to send to you one who may be able to 
 give you aid." He turned his horse's head to the 
 woods, and with a nod to the circle of warriors, 
 disappeared into the forest. 
 
 The night was now upon them; and the Indians, 
 placing their wounded comrade upon a hastily made 
 litter of saplings and branches, gave each of their 
 
 270 
 
A Move Forestalled (\d^ 
 
 prisoners into the charg^e of a warrior. The captives 
 were quickly stripped of everything of value except 
 their clothing, and v^ere led into the woods on the 
 westward march. Motier. and Neale and the soldiers 
 walked behind the litter ; and after them rode the older 
 savages. 
 
 In this manner they went their silent way, over hills 
 and through valleys, by beaten paths and in tangled 
 byways, wading small streams and climbing over 
 rugged rocks. And Motier thought the night the 
 longest he had ever passed. To the white men it was 
 a weary march, and their feet and legs throbbed and 
 stiffened long before the coming of the dawn. 
 Sometimes, when fatigue all but overcame them, and 
 they lagged but ever so little in their gait, their 
 unpitying guards, themselves showing no sign of 
 weariness, pushed and dragged them forward in a way 
 that gave no hope of rest. Tramp, tramp, tramp, they 
 went through the livelong night. And all the sound 
 their marching made, came from the beat of the horses' 
 unshod hoofs and from the booted step of the 
 prisoners; for the moccasined tread of the savage is 
 as noiseless as the panther's footfall. 
 
 Besides the slight sounds of' their movement over 
 the ground little came .to the captives' ears save the 
 tinkle of the metal bangles- upon the ankles of the 
 Indians. This music. was so faint and so overpowering 
 in its monotony that Motier could hardly keep awake. 
 Now and then, it is true, they heard the weird cry 
 of some startled night-bird or the barking of a dog in 
 a far-away valley, and, oftener than these, the murmur 
 of Abater rippling over rocks that lay far below their 
 
 271 
 
 ^ 
 
Wallannah 
 
 path. But these faint sounds seemed but to make the 
 stillness deeper. 
 
 At last, after hours and hours of struggling on 
 through the dark, the sky behind them took on the 
 grey that comes before the sun's rising. Then it was 
 that they found their course to be several points toward 
 the south of west ; and Motier knew that their captors 
 were the Cherokees, whose villages lay in that direction. 
 He had heard in far-off New Bern that the Indians 
 were in their war paint, and, further, he remembered 
 the words of Sequa, "the beautiful," and he knew why 
 she had given him the bracelet. But his heart sank a 
 little, for the tiny trinket was now fastened about the 
 wrist of the surly fellow who pulled him along the 
 path. 
 
 The Cherokees, he knew, had been for years the 
 allies of the white man ; but he also knew that latterly 
 they had become jealous and exacting in their dealings 
 with the other race. If they had awaited a favorable 
 opportunity to break through the flimsy bonds of their 
 peace treaty, their time seemed now to have come. The 
 hand of Tryon had borne hard upon these children of 
 the forest, and among their closest friends were the 
 men whom the governor was striving to kill or to 
 drive to exile. What more' fitting than a union with 
 the Regulators ? So they made common cause with the 
 other foemen of the king, and started down to help 
 them fight their fight. It appeared afterward that the 
 alliance was but partial, and that few of the Cherokees 
 joined the move; but to Motier's mind the situation 
 of the men who were now in the hands of the savages 
 was a critical one. 
 
 272 
 
A Move Forestalled 
 
 Motier, with a calmness that surprised him, awaited 
 the coming of the hght that would let him see the man 
 who lay upon the litter before him. If the fellow were 
 dead, then were Du Val's days less in number than the 
 fingers of his hand; but if he lived? — he did not 
 know. But be it life or be it death, the pride that was 
 in him made him swear to give no sign of fear or of 
 pain to the men who called him captive. 
 
 They were winding up through the shadowy depths 
 of a moss-bedded glen. Above them, high on the 
 ragged heights of the cliffs that pointed skyward, the 
 red glow of the sunlight alternately flamed and paled 
 as the morning mists opened and closed before the sun. 
 The dusky moving mass about him had shaped itself 
 into men and horses ; and the shadows on either hand 
 had opened into trees and vines and slimy rocks. The 
 grey mist still hung in the hollows, and across the face 
 of a grim peak that loomed at the opening, of the vista 
 before them, stretched a long thin finger of pink 
 cloud. 
 
 Du Val began to scan the faces and forms of the 
 little band of which, he seemed the centre. To his left 
 was Neale, pale and dejected, stumbling over every 
 root and rock which came in his way. Behind him 
 were four of his soldiers trudging on with sullen faces, 
 and muttering oaths as they walked. At Motier's right 
 were the rest of the rangers, some walking in good 
 form and showing little fatigue, others staggering as 
 thev went and meeting with scant consideration from 
 their scowling guides. The Indians were naked to the 
 waist, and their faces and bodies were gleaming with 
 hideous painted emblems. Their heads, bare save for 
 
 273" 
 
Wallannah 
 
 the scalp-lock at the crown, were topped with clus'teirs 
 of feathers tipped with blood. Their breech-clouts and 
 leggings were fringed and spangled, and their dirty 
 moccasins gleamed with fancy bead-work. None 
 seemed armed with guns, but each carried in his belt 
 a keen-edged tomahawk. With a strange fascination 
 Du Val watched these silent, grim-faced savages as 
 they marched with light, untiring step through the 
 forest. Their bodies gleamed with some bad-smelling 
 grease, and beneath the oil and the paint he could see 
 the easy rise and fall of muscles that seemed never to 
 cease their play. But he could not see the man upon 
 the litter. 
 
 At last they reached the head of the glen and 
 stepped with startling suddenness into a wide glade 
 bright with sunshine and green with a carpet of waving 
 grass. The Indians spread their ranks into a more 
 open formation, and Motier was pushed to a place close 
 behind the wounded brave. He looked at the man 
 who lay upon the litter, and saw that he still Hved. At 
 the time, he did not know whether to be glad or sorry. 
 If his life depended upon the man's recovery, he felt 
 that he might give reasonable thanksgiving that the 
 savage heart still beat; but if death were to come 
 anyway, he wished that he might have placed his pistol 
 more to the right, for the ragged hole in his chest was 
 an inch too far the other way. The blood oozed from 
 the wound in little foamy bubbles, and he knew that 
 his shot had found its way through the lung. The 
 man's features were sharp and rigid, and his eyes half 
 closed ; but no sound came -from his lips, except when 
 a hard-drawn breath would suck through his clenched 
 
 274 
 
A Move Forestalled 
 
 teeth. Then, turning his eyes away from his victim, 
 Motier began to wonder when the deliverer of whom 
 Husbands had spoken would come. 
 
 Half way across the sunny glade the savages halted 
 by the bank of a stream that, scarcely wider than a 
 man's step is long, rippled over the gravel between 
 waving lines of green. They laid the litter upon the 
 ground, and from the rear guard came an old man, 
 dressed in a great variety of skins and furs and 
 feathers, and v/ith a face that, clean and unpainted, 
 lacked but a nose to make it seem human. Whether 
 war or disease had made the man's face flat as the 
 palm of a hand, Motier could not guess, but he did 
 know that this hideous creature was the medicine-man 
 of the tribe. As' the man walked across to the Htter 
 the sun glittered on the rows of bears' claws and 
 sharks' teeth that swung from his neck and wrists ; and 
 the dull red figures on the outer side of the hide which 
 hung cloak-like about his tall, ungainly figure seemed 
 to glow like blood in the morning light. 
 
 Motier watched the doctor closely as he bent over 
 the wounded warrior ; for he knew that on this man's 
 word might hang his own life. He knew from the 
 lowering looks and grumbling comments of the savages 
 that the medicine-man's report was not a bright one. 
 But he felt relieved when a young brave dipped some 
 water from the brook and washed the wound. ''None 
 but a fool would wash a d}'ing Indian," he reflected. 
 "This fellow must have some chance of life." 
 
 Building a fire by some feat o.f barbarous ingenuity, 
 the doctor stewed a decoction of herbs and applied it to 
 the patient's chest. In something like a half hour the 
 
 275 
 
Wallannah 
 
 man had fallen asleep and the beaded sweat stood out 
 upon his face and shoulders. 
 
 In the mean time the younger men had lighted a 
 fire of their own and were preparing the morning meal. 
 The odor of the smoking meat drifted to Motier's 
 nostrils, and its savor was maddening ; for neither he 
 nor his companions had tasted food since noon of the 
 day before, and hunger such as theirs can be felt from 
 the head down to the feet. 
 
 Captain Neale, watching with wistful eyes a piece 
 of venison that sputtered on the coals close by his side, 
 forgot the discretion which had kept him silent through 
 the night. "Say, Du Val," he whispered, "suppose the 
 gentlemen will ask us to join the feast?" A slap from 
 a warrior's dirty hand stopped further remark. 
 
 But Neaie did not know the Indian heart; for the 
 prisoners, with hands unbound, were lined up within 
 the circle of the red men and were given their food 
 before their captors took a mouthful. An Indian will 
 divide his last morsel with his bitterest enemy, and will 
 seldom even lead a man to the stake without first 
 offering him the best from his store of food. 
 
 After an hour of rest and refreshment, which the 
 men sorely needed, the march was resumed in the same 
 order as before. At noon they stopped again and 
 dined, the Indians eating gluttonously. After the meal 
 all, captor and captive alike, lay on the soft grass and 
 slept. The guards took no further precaution with 
 their prisoners than to fasten about their own wrists 
 the ends of the thongs which bound the white men's 
 arms. 
 
 As soon as the camp seemed in perfect quiet, Motier 
 
 276 
 
A Move Forestalled 
 
 raised his head and looked about him. He could see 
 the men, white and red, clustered about in little knots, 
 but none of them seemed awake. Even the five guards, 
 who were sitting with their backs against as many 
 great oaks, were deep in slumber. Du Val looked down 
 at the deerskin cord that bound him to his captor. It 
 was drawn tight between them. He worked himself 
 closer to the sleeping Indian, and the thong, slackening, 
 sagged until its middle touched the ground. Then, 
 closing his fists, he strained his wrists apart until one 
 of the knots gave way the veriest trifle. He rested a 
 moment and looked about him. Fleetfoot, picketed to 
 a slender bush, stood but a few yards away. With his 
 eyes still shifting from one Indian to another he 
 resumed the slow straining at his bonds. Between him 
 and Fleetfoot lay half a dozen sleeping savages, but 
 beside each of them was a space wide enough for a 
 safe footing. The carbines of the soldiers were stacked 
 on the further side of the glade near one of the 
 dreaming guards. He cast his eyes down to the 
 red-skin at his side. A tomahawk lay within the grasp 
 of the half-relaxed grimy fingers. IMotier had one 
 hand half through the circle of buckskin. His guard 
 moved a little and muttered in his sleep. Motier gave 
 a quick pull with his arm and the thongs slipped to the 
 ground. His hands free, he began working his way 
 toward Fleetfoot. With a sudden thought he looked 
 back at his guard. 
 
 "Hist!" The whispered signal seemed like a 
 thunder-clap in the Frenchman's ears. 
 
 Motier, dropping back to his former position, ran 
 his eyes quickly about the circle. An Indian warrior, 
 
 277 
 
Wallannah 
 
 his paint-streaked face distorted with a frown, and his 
 hand grasping a heavy tomahawk, stood within an 
 arm's length. 
 
 Motier, knowing what fate to expect, hardened his 
 face into a look of indifference, and returned the stare 
 of the savage's glaring eyes. ''Well ?" he said, quietly, 
 "what do you — " 
 
 But he did not finish his question. 
 
 278 
 
Some Heathen Justice 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Some Heathen Justice 
 
 U VAL'S inquiry, prompted by a spirit of 
 bravado, was cut short by a sign of caution 
 from the Indian. "No talk — no move," 
 the savage v^hispered. "Indian kill. Me 
 friend." And the m.an raised his wrist and showed the 
 bracelet which Sequa had fastened to Motier's arm on 
 the way to the Alamance. "Me Tetah," the chief 
 continued. "Save him pale- face. Tie 'g'in — quick !" 
 And he stooped beside Motier, and with a few quick 
 turns bound his hands as close as they had been before. 
 "Now go sleep," he whispered. "Move more — Indian 
 kill." He sank to the ground and closed his eyes. 
 
 Motier lay looking at the sky above him. High 
 overhead circled a buzzard, a tiny speck against the 
 blue. A smile crossed the young man's face. "If he 
 flies to the north," he muttered, under his breath, "I'll 
 go to sleep ; if he goes south I'll watch the thing out." 
 
 The bird rested a moment, then with a long 
 downward swoop turned his head away from the sun. 
 Motier drew a long breath, closed his eyes, and in a 
 moment had dropped asleep. 
 
 Toward the evening of the next day the warrior 
 band with its little herd of captives approached a village 
 from which thin, wavering lines of smoke, rising 
 
 279 
 
Wallannah 
 
 lazily above the trees, had been visible for several 
 hours. Rather to Motier's surprise Tetah had taken 
 no further notice of his grandson's Caiheek. They had 
 met frequently on the march, but during their intervals 
 of rest the Indian's eyes never sought the Frenchman's 
 face. Motier, trusting in the chieftain's promise, cared 
 little for his present indifference if, in the end, he 
 would keep his word. 
 
 They had left the forest and were passing between 
 fields of corn and of oats, small enclosures protected 
 for the greater part by hedges of thorny bushes. Here 
 and there a dark, half clad figure moved about, and 
 women with their pappooses were seen working among 
 the ragged rov/s of green. 
 
 As they drew nearer to the rising smoke the 
 procession halted, and four savages stepped to the 
 front. Holding their arms above their heads they 
 opened their mouths in a long yell, as clear as though 
 it came from but one man's throat. Then, lowering 
 their clenched fists to their sides they bent slightly 
 forward and gave fourteen short and deafening 
 whoops. These told the number of their prisoners. 
 
 There were faint answering shouts from beyond 
 the trees, and with them the pounding of drums and 
 the barking of dogs. The march was resumed, and 
 as they neared the outskirts of the town there came to 
 meet them a great swarm of women and children, 
 talking excitedly and cutting the air with sticks and 
 clubs and sv/itches. The captives guessed and guessed 
 rightly that these things were meant to give a merry 
 welcome to the prisoners; for the crowd lined up on 
 either side of the road and with jeers and laughs made 
 
 280 
 
Some Heathen Justice 
 
 ready for their sport. But Tetah stepping forward 
 spoke a few words of command, and the implements 
 of torture were dropped to the ground. Quietly the 
 band marched into the village, warriors and captives, 
 the first to find a welcome home, the others — who 
 could tell ? 
 
 Du \'al, whose pistol practice had given him the 
 distinction of a prisoner of honor, was separated from 
 his companions and was lodged in a strongly-built 
 cabin, with a warrior of forbidding aspect as his 
 custodian. This man and his wrinkled, driveling 
 mother were Motier's only companions for three long 
 days. And poor company they were, for English and 
 French were to them as their vile Cherokee was to 
 Motier, and all their converse was in signs that 
 sometimes went aright, but oftener brought to pass 
 strange complications. 
 
 By the end of the third day the suspense had begun 
 to wear on Motier. Much of his spirit had left hirn, 
 and he thought too often of the things of his former 
 days. Lucille came into his mind with a morbid 
 frequency, and he fought his thoughts of her as a 
 man fights death itself. Once, when the depths of his 
 soul seemed as dark as the night about him, his mind 
 went back to the sobbing figure that, gowned in amber 
 silk, had met his eyes as he turned back at the doorway 
 before he went down to the ten o'clock council of war. 
 He felt a little choking in his throat, and began to wish 
 for his pipe and some tobacco ; for few things can give 
 surcease of care so soon as the weed that the Indians 
 call uppowoc. Then, with a suddenness that startled 
 him, came the vision of Alice De Vere, white-gowned 
 
 281 
 
Wallannah 
 
 and blue-eyed, as she had looked at the head of her 
 father's table on the morning that seemed so far in the 
 past. He tried to laugh away the memory ; but time and 
 again it surged back upon him. He seemed to hear 
 her voice over and above the heavy breathing of his 
 guard, and the ripple of her laughter shut from his 
 ears the chirp of the crickets in the vines upon the roof. 
 And as he thought he wondered; for in those days at 
 Beechwood and in the weeks that followed he had 
 thought of her as one thinks of a new-found friend. 
 But these thoughts? He buried his face in his hands 
 and tried to reason out what it all meant. But his 
 sophistries gave him no relief. As fast as he shut the 
 vision from his eyes and the music from his ears, the 
 vision and the music would come back again with 
 tenfold force ; and as daylight broke over the foothills 
 toward the east he knew that his heart turned more to 
 Alice De Vere than it had ever turned to Lucille 
 Creighton. Dreary though his prospect the thought 
 gave him comfort, and he looked to the rising sun with 
 a smile on his lips. 
 
 On the fourth day of Motier's imprisonment Tetah 
 came into his cabin, and with an imperious move of the 
 hand sent the surly jailer from the room. The old chief 
 had laid aside his scanty war-attire and had washed 
 the paint from his face. His garb now was the 
 buckskin dress of the hunter, and his features appeared 
 gentle and refined. 
 
 When the guard had gone Tetah held up the wrist 
 with the bead-work bracelet. "Where you get him?" 
 he asked. 
 
 • "From Sequa/' was Motier's answer. 
 
 282 
 
Some Heathen Justice 
 
 "YouTontaCaiheek?" 
 
 Du Val nodded his response. 
 
 The Indian looked closely at him. "Me save you 
 for Tonta," he said simply. 
 
 "You're a good fellow," replied Motier, seeing that 
 Tetah expected some response. "Tell me what to do 
 to help you ?" 
 
 "Sick man — Usquaughne — die." 
 
 "Dead !" repeated Motier, with some show of 
 feeling. "When did he die?" 
 
 "Not dead — but die soon. Hear?" 
 
 Motier, listening, heard a sound like the rattling 
 of dice in a cup. He had heard it often before, 
 but had not known its meaning. "What is it?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "How! Don't know? Him chinchone. Doctor 
 rattle him — cure sick man. Sick .man most die — 
 rattle easy." 
 
 "Then the man is in the next room? He must be 
 close to his end ! The rattle has nearly stopped. But 
 if he dies — what then?" 
 
 "Indian have big talk. Say warrior die, pale-face 
 die too." 
 
 "Good logic; but you say you can save me?" 
 
 "Me save you. Yes. Twelve pale-face — one die. 
 Take soldier — Tonta Caiheek no die." The old man's 
 face glowed with pleasure. A life for a life is a motto 
 as good for an Indian as it was for the Israelite of old ; 
 but, differing from the other, this law sometimes adapts 
 its justice to a substitute. The life of the slayer is not 
 always the forfeit. 
 
 Tetah seemed surprised at the shadow which came 
 
 283 
 
Wallannah 
 
 to the white man's face, which he had expected to show 
 some sign of satisfaction. 
 
 But Motier shook his head with convincing 
 firmness. "I must thank you, my friend," he said, 
 "for what you wish to do for me ; but it cannot be as 
 you have said. It was I who struck down your 
 warrior; if any one suffers, I must be that one." 
 
 When the astounded warrior saw that Du Val's 
 mind was fixed in its determination, he was visibly 
 moved. "Good Caiheek," he said, stretching out his 
 hand, "but too good. Tonta love Caiheek — me love 
 him too. Maybe live — maybe die, Tetah save if he 
 can." And he turned quickly and left the hut. 
 
 When Du Val awoke at sunrise the next day he 
 listened first for the rattle which would tell him 
 whether Usquaughne was living or dead. And if ever 
 music sounded sweet in the ear of man, the rattle of 
 dried peas in the medicine-man's gourd was that music. 
 The noise of the chinchone was loud and steady. 
 
 Other sounds came to the captive's ears, sounds 
 that even he could not mistake. Drums of heathenish 
 tone banged and boomed at frequent intervals, and a 
 high-pitched, wailing chorus trembled through the air. 
 
 "My ears burn," he said to himself, as he rose from 
 the mat on which he had slept. "Those choristers must 
 be singing that ballad for me." 
 
 Motier walked toward the opening, where stood his 
 surly guard; but before he reached his goal four 
 gayly painted warriors entered the room. Motier 
 scanned their faces with an assumed carelessness, then 
 turned his back to them and retraced his steps to the 
 other side of the hut. One Indian followed him, and 
 
 284 
 
Some Heathen Justice 
 
 placed his hand on Motier's shoulder. The Frenchman 
 turned. The warrior pointed to the door ; and the little 
 party, with Motier in its centre, went out into the open 
 air. 
 
 The escort led Du Val into the council lodge, a long, 
 low structure with a double row of seats about the 
 walls, and with several large mats on its earthen floor. 
 The tallest and most fantastically decorated warrior 
 motioned Du Val to a seat upon the smallest of these 
 mats, and handed him a lighted pipe. Motier seized 
 the offering with avidity. It drew badly, and he 
 pressed down the tobacco with his forefinger. When 
 he looked up he was alone in the lodge. 
 
 Affecting an indifference which he did not feel, 
 Motier puffed away at the long-stemmed pipe until it 
 sputtered in the bottom of the bowl and went out. 
 Then came a sound of rattling, for all the world like 
 the noise of the medicine-man's chinchone; and a 
 villainous-looking savage, arrayed in furs and painted 
 skms, and jingling with the teeth and bones and metal 
 ornaments that hung from the edges of his garments, 
 rushed into the room and with a furious sweep of the 
 arm scratched a ragged circle on the ground in front 
 ef Motier's mat. Then, jumping into the centre of this 
 space, he began a mad dance, accompanying his 
 contortions with a screeching song. Now and then, 
 to give a personal interest to the proceeding, this 
 dignitary shoved a painted, feather-decked gourd into 
 Motier's face and rattled it fiercely. When, after half 
 an hour of maniacal shouting, his incantation died away 
 in a long shriek, the pagan swung about and cantered 
 out of the room. 
 
 285 
 
Wallannah 
 
 As the wailing priest left the lodge, the tall warrior 
 who had led Motier from his prison entered with 
 another lighted pipe. 
 
 The prisoner looked up at him. "Bad thing to 
 smoke too much on an empty stomach," he suggested, 
 mildly. 
 
 The Indian answered by puffing the tobacco into 
 brighter luminosity and holding out the pipe to Motier. 
 The young man took the proffered gift and, wiping 
 the mouth-piece on his sleeve, began smoking 
 desperately. The warrior, uttering a guttural remark 
 which was lost on Motier, stalked from the lodge. 
 As his back disappeared through the doorway, another 
 priest, of fiercer aspect than the first, galloped in and 
 went through antics similar to those which had led 
 Motier to question the sanity of his predecessor. Thus 
 did the ceremony continue until Motier had smoked 
 five rank and reeking pipes, and had listened to the 
 howling of five hideous barbarians. Then the ritual 
 came to a close with a discordant chorus from the 
 quintette of priests ; and the prisoner, after two long 
 hours of smoking and watching, was again left to 
 meditate in solitude upon the blessings of Indian 
 hospitality and the discomforts of a mouth parched 
 and dried with the concentrated essence of a lifetime's 
 portion of tobacco-smoke. 
 
 Soon, however, the sound of a statelier chant 
 came from the outer air, gaining in intensity as it 
 approached. At the door of the lodge the song ceased ; 
 a youth with a flaming torch came into the room and 
 lit a pile of brushwood that lay beneath the smoke-hole 
 in the centre of the roof ; then, as the fire brightened, 
 
 286 
 
Some Heathen Justice 
 
 a score of chiefs and warriors entered in solemn silence, 
 and took their places on the great mat beyond the 
 circle in which the priests had danced. After them 
 came the people of the village, men, women and 
 children, all observing the strictest silence. 
 
 When the spectators were seated, two young 
 women brought in Motier's long wished-for breakfast, 
 and spread at his feet the meats and the corn-cakes of 
 his daily fare and a dozen little delicacies appropriate 
 to the present ceremonial occasion. Knowing that he 
 must eat what was given him, Motier made a brave 
 start, studiously refraining from looking toward the 
 men of the council, and forcing down everything which 
 had been laid before him. 
 
 As Du Val breakfasted, the council went into 
 executive session. Motier heard speeches and 
 comments, and more speeches and further comments. 
 At first these meant nothing to him except a most 
 annoying noise; but as the argument grew warmer 
 he began to distinguish between the voices, and soon 
 reduced the number of active participants to two men. 
 
 Of these speakers, one would have been an orator 
 of world-wide fame had he spoken a language which 
 the world could have understood. Motier had never 
 heard a voice which told so much in the rise and fall 
 of its tones. The man's utterance was at times quick 
 and impassioned, and again low and quiet, with 
 sometimes an undercurrent of menace and bitterness 
 which told Motier that this chieftain was the one who 
 spoke against him. 
 
 The other voice was that of Tetah; always slow 
 and deliberate, but as deep and as musical as the one 
 
 287 
 
Wallannah 
 
 which had sounded first. It was the voice of one 
 whose place was high in the councils of the people, and 
 it impressed the captive with a respect that bore its 
 fruit in the quiet confidence that this advocate would 
 stand between him and death. 
 
 When Motier had finished his repast the tall warrior 
 refilled and lit one of the long pipes, and Motier again 
 resigned himself to a season of smoking, contemplating 
 meanwhile the peculiar assemblage of which he was the 
 centre. The chiefs and the warriors were puffing at 
 their pipes and giving stolid attention to the one whose 
 voice seemed so threatening to Motier. This man was 
 tall and magnificently formed. His face was painted 
 blue on the one side and white on the other, and his 
 chest bore a great yellow emblem like a bright-rayed 
 sun with human features marked upon it. He spoke 
 with frequent gestures, and Motier saw that when 
 his voice was lowest he pointed to the wounded 
 Usquaughne, who lay upon his litter between Motier 
 and the warrior council. Once he turned toward the 
 prisoner and gave voice to such a fierce denunciation 
 that Motier, looking at him through a cloud of 
 tobacco-smoke, wished that he might get the fellow 
 out into the open and make him swallow his whole 
 heathen vocabulary. 
 
 When the prosecutor had concluded, he returned to 
 his place upon the mat and, taking a pipe from the 
 hand of a youth, resumed his smoking. Motier glanced 
 toward Tetah; but the chief remained silent and 
 motionless. 
 
 At this juncture another Indian entered the lodge 
 and crossed to the space in front of the captive. He 
 
 . 288 
 
Some Heathen Justice 
 
 was of slight build, but seemed as lithe and wiry as a 
 catamount. His head, shaven to the scalp-lock, bore its 
 nodding crown of colored feathers, and his face was 
 painted in great cross-wise stripes of green and yellow. 
 A mantle of embroidered green cloth swung from his 
 shoulders to the ground, and above the hand which 
 held its folds together glistened the mate to the bracelet 
 which Sequa had given to Alotier. The youth stood 
 with respectful mien, his eyes resting upon the blue 
 and white features of the accusing chieftain. 
 
 Then began the examination of the prisoner, the 
 men of the council asking questions of the interpreter, 
 who in turn was expected to translate them to the 
 captive. As the youth turned to Motier with the first 
 inquiry, the green mantle parted and revealed the 
 swelling ruffles of the shirt-front which Doctor Boggs' 
 servant had mourned as lost. At this mark of identity 
 Motier stared with a satisfaction that he found 
 difficult to conceal. 
 
 "No call my name," said the youth. "Cherokee got 
 quick ear." 
 
 Tetah, who must have understood his grandson's 
 English, made no sign of betrayal. 
 
 "How did you find me?" asked Motier, with studied 
 gravity. 
 
 Tonta turned to the council and gave some fictitious 
 answer to the first question. The accusing warrior 
 spoke again. 
 
 Tonta turned to Motier. "Big Hat tell me — him 
 Herman. Can my greatfather help Caiheek ?" 
 
 "No," answered Motier, "only by having Captain 
 Neale or one of his men killed in my place; which I 
 cannot permit." 289 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Cap'n bad man — Caiheek good. Let Indian take 
 Cap'n — Caiheek go." 
 
 "No; I cannot do it." 
 
 Tonta again made an answer to the warrior's ques- 
 tion. "Maybe save Caiheek," he said, pretending to 
 translate the council's third query. "Wait — see." 
 
 "Who is the fellow with the white and blue face?" 
 asked Motier. 
 
 "No talk so much," cautioned Tonta. "That 
 Ocebee." 
 
 As Tonta gave the concluding answer to the 
 council, a jingle of tiny bells sounded in the doorway, 
 and the noseless medicine-man came into the lodge and 
 took his place beside the interpreter. The men 
 questioned him closely, and his answers seemed to give 
 great delight to the spectators. Tomahawks and 
 knives were drawn; one youth brought forth from 
 beneath a bench a bundle of pine splinters; another 
 bent forward and stealthily drew out a drum; while 
 still another went through a vivid pantomime with a 
 stick weighted at the end with a stone as large as a 
 man's head. 
 
 Motier, seeing that his position had become 
 interesting, took advantage of a moment when the 
 lodge was filled with the hubbub of voices. "What's 
 the excitement ?" he whispered to Tonta. 
 
 The Indian answered without turning his head. 
 "Medicine-man say Usquaughne die if Caiheek live — 
 pale-face trouble sick man spirit. Ocebee say Caiheek 
 die." 
 
 "Ocebee is a very pleasant gentleman," murmured 
 Motier. 
 
 290 
 
Some Heathen Justice 
 
 When the commotion was at its height, Tetah, 
 commanding silence with a wave of the hand, rose to 
 his feet. Tonta stepped forward and asked a question. 
 The circle of warrior chiefs nodded in assent. Stepping 
 to Motier's side the youth translated the old man's 
 verdict. Motier, watching the chief's gestures, could 
 readily supply the words which Tonta could not render 
 in English. 
 
 "My brothers," said Tetah, drawing his robes about 
 him, ''the pale-face who raised his hand against the 
 wise and strong Usquaughne once wore the red coat 
 of the v/arriors of the Great Wolf. But this man's 
 heart was the heart of an eagle; and, when he saw 
 that the Great Wolf spilled the blood of his own 
 brothers, he took off the red coat and slept no more 
 within the tents of the wolf-dogs. 
 
 "The Eagle Heart is the friend of Tetah and of 
 Tetah's people. When he raised his hand to slay our 
 brother, he did not know that Usquaughne was a 
 warrior of the Cherokees. The wise and mighty 
 Ocebee and his brother, the young brave Awahonk, 
 gave their word to Wottame-Possa, the <jGreat-Hat 
 chief, that the pale-face would live. Let the great 
 warrior of the Cherokees remember his word, and ask 
 of the pale-face what will he that we should do with 
 him." 
 
 Tonta bent closer to Motier. "Where picture 
 Wallannah ?" he asked, quickly. 
 
 Motier reached into his inside pocket. The 
 miniature was the only thing which had escaped the 
 plunder at his capture. 
 
 Tonta stepped forward and spoke a few words. 
 * 291 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Motier caught the name of Yaunocca, which he knew 
 to be the enchanted mountain, and that of Wallannah, 
 which now sounded like music in his ears. Then the 
 young Indian held out the miniature. 
 
 A fierce discussion followed. Tetah, reaching out, 
 took the picture from Tonta's hand. "If Wallannah 
 Manita can heal the bleeding wounds of Usquaughne," 
 he said, "the Eagle Heart can go again to the lodges of 
 his people." 
 
 "But if Usquaughne die?" asked Ocebee, with an 
 exultant ring in his voice. 
 
 "Usquaughne still lives," was the quiet response. 
 
 The drum and the pine splinters, and the 
 tomahawks and the war-club were slipped back to their 
 places. 
 
 Ocebee's face was not pleasant to Motier's eyes; 
 but the captive returned the warrior's glare with a 
 look that made the Indian's fingers twist nervously 
 about the handle of his tomahawk. However, the 
 savage attempted no violence, for he was puzzled to 
 know what treatment to accord a man who had carried 
 the picture of a goddess in his coat pocket. 
 
 292 
 
Wallannah Manita 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 Wallannah Manita 
 
 FTER a dinner which Motier did not enjoy, 
 his appetite being impaired by his heavy 
 breakfast and by the sickening effects of 
 the excessive smoking of crude tobacco, the 
 march to Yaunocca began. The captive, with hands 
 bound behind him, walked after Usquaughne's Utter, 
 and the savage who had brought him the pipes in the 
 council lodge held the end of Motier's bonds. Twelve 
 warriors formed the guard, and Ocebee marched at 
 their head, 
 
 Motier noticed first of all the absence of his friends. 
 Tetah was not of the procession, nor was Tonta; 
 while Ocebee and his brother, both of whom Motier 
 regarded as enemies, seemed in unrestricted authority. 
 One feature of decided interest to Du Val was the 
 medicine-man's evident imcertainty of the wounded 
 warrior's bodily condition; for the rattle of the 
 chinchone seemed many times to have ceased. Motier 
 observed that on several such occasions, when the 
 gourd gave forth no sound and the medicine-man bent 
 in great concern over his patient, the fingers of the 
 Cherokees caressed with eager fondness the handles of 
 their tomahawks. From this Motier knew that when 
 Usquaughne's heart stopped beating his own death 
 would follow closely after. 
 
 293 
 
Wallannah 
 
 They travelled slowly and with frequent stops, and 
 at nightfall camped beside a stream at the foot of the 
 mountains. Motier was unbound while he ate his 
 supper, and also during the hour which followed and 
 in which he smoked Ocebee's brother's extra pipe. 
 After that, and until he lay down to sleep, he amused 
 himself by watching the savages telling of their deeds 
 of valor in the hunt and on the battle-field; for he 
 could see by their gestures the trend of the stories 
 which they told. 
 
 He was awakened early in the morning. Tonta 
 had told him that his second sun would set among the 
 mountains of the great Manita ; and he knew that but 
 a few hours would pass before his fate should be 
 known. 
 
 The region which they entered before even the early 
 mists had left the valleys brought to Du Val's mind the 
 Alpine borderland of far-away France, Great rugged 
 peaks towered high above the undulating foothills; 
 and here and there the long downward slope of a 
 pine-bristling mountain lost itself in the grassy level 
 of the plain below. Sometimes from the brink of a 
 great precipice they could look across a wide valley 
 to range after range of mountains, dark and gloomy 
 in the middle distance and running the scale of the 
 greens and the purples and the blues until the furthest 
 of them merged into the soft-hued sky and, in airy, 
 shimmering haze, were lost to the eye. 
 
 As they marched up through the pathless woods 
 each step brought to Motier's eyes a new and a more 
 splendid picture, and he felt glad that he had lived to 
 see these things; but each time the rattle of the 
 
 294 
 
Wallannah Manita 
 
 chinchone reminded him that the life in which he 
 rejoiced was the most uncertain thing in the world. 
 A consumptive can look forward resignedly to the day 
 when his own lungs will cease their working; but it 
 takes a man of iron nerve to stand in the pride of his 
 strength, and know that his young and vigorous life 
 must be measured by the length of that of another, and 
 that other a man whose lung has been perforated by a 
 ridiculously great leaden slug. Yet Motier's courage 
 never faltered ; for, though he loved life as few men 
 do, he feared death as little as any. 
 
 As they journeyed on they climbed higher and 
 higher among the wooded peaks and in the afternoon 
 the breeze died away, leaving behind it a perfect calm. 
 The air v>-as close and oppressive, and the sun shone 
 like a disk of molten copper in a dull grey sky. Motier's 
 limbs seemed heavy and nerveless, and his breathing 
 grew short and labored. The birds stopped their 
 singing in the forest trees, and the buzzard and the 
 eagle came down from the humid upper air and 
 soared listlessly over the low valleys. The Cherokee 
 warriors looked often about them, and ever and 
 anon glanced with uneasy eyes at the sun and the hazy 
 sky. 
 
 Marching slowly onward the party reached a wide 
 bare ledge projecting many feet from the wall of rock 
 that mounted a sheer hundred feet above it. Beneath 
 this shelf, so far below that its music was lost before 
 it reached the ledge, a mountain stream dodged hither 
 and thither among the great bowlders of the chasm. 
 The tops of the tall pines that stood within this gorge 
 reached but a third of the way to the ledge, and looked 
 
 295 
 
Waliannah 
 
 like tiny sprigs of evergreen beside a winding ribbon of 
 silver. Across the canyon loomed the cliff which had 
 kissed this other in the days before the earth had 
 opened and split them apart; and far ahead the two 
 great walls drew so close together that the space 
 between them seemed but a narrow slit of light in the 
 black rock. Through and above this crevice, and a 
 long way off, rose a straight-walled peak of dull 
 brown-grey, looming up like a giants' cathedral, but 
 bare of spire or buttress or window. Behind this rock 
 stirred a ragged bank of cloud, frayed and torn at its 
 edges. 
 
 The eyes of the Indians were fixed upon that cloud ; 
 and, watching with them, Motier saw that it rose with 
 great rapidity, spreading wider as it came, and varying 
 in hue as it grew in size, until a great segment of the 
 heavens was obscured by a surging mass of dull 
 brownish green, tattered and yellow-fringed on its 
 eastward border and seared and riven by dull red 
 lightnings running serpent-wiseupanddown and across 
 its angry expanse. Like a great curtain it crept across 
 the face of the sun, and its vast shadow stalked over 
 the valleys and the lowlands, wiping out the light and 
 the color and the warmth like a brush of black sweeping 
 across a brightly-painted landscape. The yellow and 
 the olive of the cloud changed to a sooty black, touched 
 here and there with whirling eddies of sickly grey; 
 and the lightnings went from red to pink and from 
 pink to orange and from orange to white, with dazzling 
 after-gleamings of purple and yellow and emerald 
 green. Then came the whistling wind, howling down 
 ^c gorge like a pack of hungry wolves ; and after that 
 
 296 
 
Wallannah Manita 
 
 the sullen rumbling of the thunder as it rose and fell 
 with a growling that seemed the voice of a menacing 
 Manitou. The storm came onward. The whole vault 
 above them darkened with the rolling clouds. The 
 landscape, dull and lifeless, took upon itself the gloom 
 of night. A vivid flash of lightning writhed down the 
 face of the opposite cliff, and with it came a roar like 
 the voice of a thousand cannon. The Indians huddled 
 together with upturned faces that paled beneath their 
 paint. Another jagged flash cleft the cloud and, with 
 a ripping crash, shot with a great twist to the depths 
 of the ravine. Then, when the lightnings gleamed 
 about them, and the great stony walls quivered with 
 the echo of the thunder, and the north wind shrieked 
 down the night-dark gap, a narrow beam of sunlight 
 pierced through the gloom and, marked like a long 
 white finger against the hellish blackness of the clouds, 
 fell upon the cathedral rock, touching it with an 
 hundred colors, until it gleamed like an agate hanging 
 before a broad black velvet background. 
 
 A low wail came from the Cherokee warriors, and, 
 as they broke into a crooning chant, Ocebee strode to 
 the edge of the rocky shelf and, raising his head, 
 stretched his arms toward the sun-kissed peak. 
 "Yaunocca! Yaunocca!" he cried, his voice ringing 
 loud above the noise of the warring elements. 
 "Wallannah! Manita!" The wind picked up his cry 
 and swept it down the valley of darkness. But Ocebee's 
 arms were still outstretched, and his lips moved with 
 words that Alotier could not hear. 
 
 The peak dropped back again into the gloom ; the 
 finger of light crept through the crevice at the canyon's 
 
 297 
 
Wallannah 
 
 upper end, and, moving across the shadowed hollow, 
 blazed a path of green and brown across the forest and 
 the rocks. Then it shone for a moment on the rim 
 of the ledge on the cliff's wall. Ocebee's lifted arms 
 and bare shoulders gleamed in the light, his war-lock 
 with its blood-tipped white feathers nodded to the sun, 
 and he stood for a moment the only dash of color in 
 the black-domed landscape, his form painted vividly 
 against a background as dark as the depths of an 
 Inferno. Then the light went out like a candle in the 
 wind; a lightning flash snaked slant-wise down the 
 gorge ; and with a sudden uplifting quiver the ledge 
 trembled beneath their feet. Once, twice, thrice, and a 
 last and terrible fourth time, did the earth reel and the 
 cHffs rock to the base ; but through it all came the wild 
 song of Ocebee, and his dark figure stood motionless 
 against the darker sky. Great pieces of stone crashed 
 down the walls of the canyon ; and one huge rock 
 hurtled down from the cliff's very top and with a great 
 leap struck upon the ledge and took a jagged bite from 
 its outer rim, then whirled to the depths below. The 
 Indians, save that one who stood alone on the chasm's 
 brink, fell upon their faces and wept and groaned with 
 terror. But Ocebee, like a gloomy statue, still held his 
 arms outstretched and sang his song to the Wallannah, 
 Manita of Yaunocca. 
 
 The storm passed over them, and with its going 
 came the courage of the Cherokees. The clouds swept 
 on toward the east, and the sun again shone over the 
 landscape. The party moved onward, winding its way 
 along the rock-ledged side of the cliff. It was near 
 the close of day when, emerging from the mouth of the 
 
 298 
 
Wallannah Manita 
 
 deep-cut gorge, the Indians and their prisoner entered 
 an open glade at the foot of the great cathedral rock. 
 The warriors, with one accord, stopped and gazed up 
 to the dizzy height of the pinnacle. Motier raised his 
 eyes with theirs. High on the brow of the beetling 
 cliff, strongly marked against the purpling sky, stood 
 a woman clad in white, her long black hair and her 
 loose flowing robes waving lightly in the breeze. As 
 they watched her she turned and pointed one hand 
 toward the west. "Ouke Yappa me !" came the sound 
 of her voice, floating down like music. As the tones 
 died away a low rumble came from the clouds that, far 
 away, carried the storm oceanward. Then the woman 
 was gone, whither Motier could not tell ; for it seemed 
 as though the white-clad figure had dissolved into 
 mist. 
 
 The little band of men walked a half-mile 'round 
 the base of the precipice, clambering over great 
 fragments of rock which had fallen, perhaps in ages 
 past, perhaps in the earthquake of the last hour, from 
 the wall beside them. Then, sweeping about a rocky 
 pilaster, they came into an open space that stretched 
 level as a ball-room floor within a circling bowl of 
 cliffs. Near the northern edge of this level sward a 
 great pool whirled and foamed in a deep rock-girt basin 
 as broad and as long as the council lodge of the 
 Cherokees. Into this poured a foaming stream as wide 
 as a city street, dashing down the mountain side over a 
 dozen rocky terraces and filling the air with its rushing 
 music. After its moment's rest in the pool, the stream, 
 with a new-found force, swept down the left of the 
 tabled green and roared its way into a gloomy gulf 
 
 299 
 
Wallannah 
 
 that seemed the gaping mouth of darkness. Against 
 the diff stood a vine-covered log cabin, its timbers 
 ghstening mossy green between the openings in the 
 ivy and the woodbine. Between this hut and the 
 rock-ribbed pool nestled a little spring, whose 
 sulphured borders mingled with the emerald of the 
 overhanging grass, and whose waters trickled down to 
 the seething basin of the torrent. 
 
 The bearers laid the litter with its wounded occupant 
 close by the spring ; then, with Motier as a centre, the 
 Indians formed a semi-circle, all facing the hut. In 
 a moment the door opened, and the white-clad woman 
 stood before them. Motier saw that she was 
 Wallannah, and he did not wonder at her influence 
 over the savage mind ; for she had come from the top 
 of the cliff, and it seemed to Du Val that nothing but 
 a spirit could make that descent and live. Yet she was 
 there. 
 
 Wallannah, seemiing not to notice the dark row of 
 warriors, gazed long and fixedly at Motier. He saw 
 that her features were those of the painted miniature; 
 but he missed something in the look of the woman's 
 eyes which the artist had placed in his portrayal. The 
 expression, though none the less noble, lacked the 
 womianly tenderness of the face upon the ivory. The 
 look was cold, and without a trace of sympathy. But 
 as Motier watched her, and as she watched him, the 
 face changed ; her eyes grew softer, and she bent 
 forward with an eager interest. Then, raising one 
 hand with a gesture of authority, she spoke quickly 
 two Indian words. Motier felt the cold touch of steel 
 upon his wrists, and his hands were freed. 
 
 300 
 
Wallannah Manita 
 
 Then the Manita spoke, in stately old-time English. 
 "What hast thou to say for thyself?" 
 
 Motier moved a step nearer. "I am a traveler in 
 the mountains, seeking one who is a friend. I was led 
 into an ambush and captured by a band of Indians, 
 among whom were the warriors who bring me 
 here." 
 
 "I know," she said, coldly. "I learned that from 
 the spirits that inhabit Yaunocca; but how couldst 
 thou, who hast passed unharmed through fire and 
 water, guard thyself so little as to fall into the hands 
 ofOcebee?" 
 
 "I had no knowledge of danger," replied IMotier, 
 wondering at her allusion to the "fire and water." 
 "How could I guard against that of which I knew 
 nothing?" 
 
 "Thou art but half right," was the answer; "but 
 speak on. Thy voice is music in mine ears : I have 
 heard it in my dreams. Wherefore camest thou over 
 the great water?" 
 
 Motier started, and something like awe came over 
 him. The woman seemed to know more of his life than 
 did he himself. 
 
 "Speak!" she commanded, 
 
 Motier forced a smile. "I came to visit my father's 
 friends," he said. 
 
 "And thy name?" 
 
 "Motier Du Val." 
 
 "I know it not. Art sure thou speakest truly ?" 
 
 Motier raised his head a little stiffly. "I have told 
 you my name," he answered, with a quick flash in his 
 eyes. 
 
 301 
 
Wallannah 
 
 She smiled: "Nay, I cannot doubt thee; but the 
 name fitteth not thy tongue. Thou hadst a message?" 
 
 "I had a letter: it was taken from me by my 
 captors." 
 
 "Nay, not that," she said, eagerly. ''Thou hadst a 
 message from him who went to the spirit land: hast 
 thou tidings of him ?" 
 
 Motier was perplexed. "No," he answered, shaking 
 his head, "I know none such as vou indicate." 
 
 The cold gleam returned to her eyes. "Thou canst 
 keep nothing from me," she said, shortly. "There is 
 blood on thy hands : look thou to it." Then, turning 
 from him, she approached Ocebee. 
 
 The Cherokee met her gaze with something like fear 
 in his eyes. 
 
 She spoke in the warrior's own language. "Why 
 seek ye Wallannah?" she asked, coldly. 
 
 "W'e come for judgment, O ISIanita," was the 
 Indian's reply. 
 
 "Against this youth ? Hast thou not already judged 
 him? Let Ocebee speak." 
 
 "Know then, O Wallannah," responded the warrior, 
 in the same musical tones that had thrilled the council 
 lodge. "The Great Wolf came with the thunder of his 
 roaring to devour the friends of the red man. While 
 the Good Spirit slept the Wolf feasted on our white 
 brothers and left their bones to bleach by the sands of 
 the Alamance. The Wottame-Possa, our Big-Hat 
 brother, a mighty chief of our pale-face friends, met 
 us and turned us back to our lodges. He went to the 
 mountains, but wolf-dogs were on the marks of his 
 footsteps. W^ottame-Possa bade us drive them to the 
 
 302 
 
Wallannah Manila 
 
 plains or take them to our wigwams, but not to shed 
 their blood ; that we might hold them between us and 
 our enemies, and our voices be bold when we talked 
 at our council fires. This pale- face youth was with 
 them. We sprang upon them like the panthers of the 
 forest; and we seized them all. But Usquaughne 
 returned not with us rejoicing. We bore him bleeding 
 to his women and his children. The pale-face youth 
 we would have spared ; but on his hands is the blood 
 of Usquaughne; and the blood of the great and wise 
 Usquaughne cries for vengeance." 
 
 "Blood for blood: thus reads the law," said the 
 prophetess, regarding Ocebee with eyes that seemed to 
 look beyond him. 
 
 "The Great Spirit speaks in the words of 
 Wallannah," responded the savage; and a chorus of 
 approval came from the dark group about him. "We 
 will take the pale-face again to our lodge." 
 
 Wallannah shook her head. "Not while 
 Usquaughne still Hveth," she answered. "He hath 
 done dark deeds ; he hadst killed the pale-face, but the 
 pale-face wast quicker than Usquaughne. But when 
 the warrior dieth, remember then thy law : Blood for 
 blood." 
 
 "Does Usquaughne die? Cannot Wallannah heal 
 him?" 
 
 "Usquaughne dieth even now: the chinchone 
 soundeth low." 
 
 "Give to us Usquaughne, and the pale-face may go. 
 Usquaughne is a warrior, and the wolf-dog will never 
 darken our lodges again. Cannot Wallannah call upon 
 the Great Spirit to heal Usquaughne ?" 
 
 303 
 
Wallannah 
 
 She turned her head and looked toward the spring. 
 "Usquaughne is dead," she said, wearily. "The 
 chinchone soundeth no more." 
 
 Confirming her words, the rattle stopped its noise 
 and the medicine-man broke into a low wailing chant. 
 
 Ocebee sprang toward Motier. "Give us now the 
 youth," he cried fiercely. "Give us the pale-face : we 
 must appease the spirit of Usquaughne." 
 
 "Life for life ! Thou knowest the law. But why so 
 quick? Hast thou no pity for that young man? 
 Wouldst thou destroy him in the promise of his youth 
 and strength?" 
 
 "The arm of Usquaughne can no more bend the 
 bow against the enemies of his people : his swift feet 
 can no longer race with the deer that his lodge be filled 
 with meat." 
 
 Wallannah the judge had turned into Wallannah 
 the woman. "Wouldst thou darken the light of those 
 eyes ? I see no hatred in them : the look is proud and 
 fearless." 
 
 "The eyes of Usquaughne were as bright. They 
 were like the eagle's searching for his prey : their look 
 too was proud and fearless; but the pale-face made 
 them close in death." 
 
 "Wouldst thou, Ocebee, stop the life of that strong 
 heart?" 
 
 "The blood of our warrior was as red, and his heart 
 was as strong and as happy." 
 
 "He is a comely youth," she said, turning her eyes 
 toward the captive. Then in Motier's own tongue, 
 "Can it be that one whom fire and water hath spared 
 must die by a death of torture !" 
 
 304 
 
Wallannah Manita 
 
 Du Val gave no sign, nor moved a muscle of his 
 face. 
 
 Ocebee fingered his tomahawk with impatience. 
 "Does Wallannah forget Ocebee and his warriors?" he 
 asked. "The law is spoken: give us our captive, that 
 we may bury our dead." He moved toward Du Val. 
 
 Wallannah stayed him with a move of her hand. 
 "Touch him at thy peril !" she cried. "Back to thy 
 place. I have spoken the law ; but thy law is not his. 
 Let the Great Spirit speak." 
 
 "The Great Spirit of the Indian, or the Great Spirit 
 of the pale- face ?" asked Ocebee, with a little sneer. 
 
 "They are one!" was the answer, "Rememberest 
 not that He made the earth to tremble when thou 
 earnest on the way to me ? I must seek His will." 
 
 Ocebee dropped back into his place among the 
 warriors, and folding his arms across his painted chest, 
 waited for Wallannah to do as she had said. 
 
 "The fire!" called the Manita. "Kindle thou the 
 fire!" 
 
 A dwarfed negress, seeming to rise from the 
 ground, bent over a rocky altar by the cabin's end, and 
 lighted the pile of wood that lay upon it. As the flames 
 crept up and licked about the dried faggots, Wallannah, 
 now a priestess in the eyes of the savages, began 
 dropping handfuls of herbs and gums and spices into 
 the flames. The smoke rolled upward, dark and 
 heavily scented, and as it rose the woman watched its 
 writhings as though she read in those fantastic shapes 
 an answer to the invocation which she murmured. Her 
 voice was at first low ; but as her excitement increased, 
 her dark eyes kindled, her face flushed, and with 
 
 305 
 
Wallannah 
 
 slow, sweeping gestures she broke into a loud, 
 wild chant. 
 
 As Wallannah's voice echoed and re-echoed about 
 the rocky ampitheatre, another storm began to rise; 
 and one great cloud from the southwest drew toward 
 another that came up out of the west. The chant rose 
 higher as the lightning brightened and the thunder 
 deepened. Then, when the heavens were aglow and 
 the air shook with the roar of the storm, Wallannah 
 stopped her singing. 
 
 There was one dark, silent moment when the clouds 
 met overhead. Then, slowly but certainly, the 
 medicine-man's chinchone again took up its rattling. 
 The light of Usquaughne's life was returning. 
 Surprise was marked on every face save only 
 Wallannah's. 
 
 The Manita raised her hands to the heavens, and 
 gave one quick, loud call. The clouds were riven by 
 a flash that blinded with its glare. A roaring, splitting 
 crash shook the air and the rocks, and a shower of 
 splinters fell from the oak tree by the spring. 
 Usquaughne, seared and marked beyond all human 
 semblance, was dashed from his litter and fell upon the 
 ground many feet away. 
 
 Ocebee and his brother, followed by the other 
 warriors, rushed to the dead man's side. With a quick 
 glance Motier saw his way clear to the forest. He 
 turned and made a step toward the woods. Freedom 
 seemed within his reach. But a light step sounded 
 behind him ; a pair of strong arms were bound about 
 him ; and with a sudden resistless jerk he was thrown 
 backward into a darkness deeper than the night. 
 
 306 
 
A Pair of Dead Indians 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A Pair of Dead Indians 
 
 U VAL'S first thought was to spring at his 
 captor's throat and fight for his liberty. A 
 week before he would have acted on the 
 impulse ; but now — well, now he knew 
 something of tomahawks and war-clubs, and the 
 knowledge calmed him to discretion. Yielding to 
 the force that pushed him onward through the 
 darkness, he heard the soft closing of a door behind 
 him, and felt a carpet beneath his feet. Then came the 
 creaking of hinges and the closing of a second door, 
 after which he stood beside his captor on a floor of 
 stone, and felt the breath of cool fresh air in his face. 
 
 After the closing of the last door, the man who had 
 held Motier's arms loosened his hold ; and Du Val 
 heard him make a short step away. Then both stood 
 still. "Wait a moment," said a voice at his elbow, "I 
 must see that she is safe." 
 
 Motier gave a great start. "Captain May — " 
 
 "H'sh! Not a word!" 
 
 For a full minute they kept their silence, hearing 
 nothing but the drip, drip, drip, of water round about 
 them, and the subdued rushing of the cascade outside. 
 Then came a confused sound of wailing, broken 
 suddenly by a fierce yell. And Motier knew that some 
 one had missed him. 
 
 307 
 
Wallannah 
 
 One voice rose above the others. The orator of the 
 council lodge was speaking. 
 
 Then followed the answer, in Wallannah's clear 
 voice. "What spirit hath seized upon Ocebee?" she 
 demanded, speaking the Cherokee dialect. 
 
 Ocebee's reply was loud and fierce. "Wallannah 
 promised blood for blood: where is the pale- face?" 
 
 "The Great Spirit hath taken him." 
 
 "Not the Great Spirit of the Cherokees !" 
 
 "Hath Ocebee forgotten his wisdom? Go thou, 
 and see whose shaft hath stricken Usquaughne." 
 
 The savage gave no response. 
 
 "The Great Spirit of the pale-face is the Great 
 Spirit of all the earth," \\^allannah continued. "He did 
 thunder out of heaven, with hailstones and coals of 
 fire, and He sendeth out His arrows to scatter them 
 that fear Him not. He casteth forth lightnings and 
 destroyeth them. Doth Ocebee hearken?" 
 
 "The ears of Ocebee are open." The voice had l®st 
 some of its sneering bravado. 
 
 "Then hear thou, Ocebee ! Because thou hast dared 
 lift thy hand against the judgment of the Highest, that 
 hand shall fail thee in thy greatest need. Because thou 
 hast looked without fear upon the signs of His anger, 
 the fire of thine eyes shall be turned to darkness. 
 Because thou hast spoken foolishly of His justice, thy 
 tongue shall be stiffened in thy mouth. No more shalt 
 thou hurl the weapon against thy foes ; no more shall 
 thine eye guide the arrow to its mark; no more shall 
 thy voice be heard in the councils of thy people. The 
 clouds that spake with the thunder shall pass away in 
 the night and the sun will rise on the morrow, but it 
 
 308 
 
" A Pair of Dead Indians 
 
 will not rise for Ocebee nor for one other. Thou shalt 
 have no grave among thy people ; for the earth 
 shall swallow thee up ; and thy face shall no more 
 be seen among thy warriors. So the Spirit telleth 
 Wallannah !" 
 
 A deep silence followed. 
 
 Alotier felt the grasp of a hand on his arm. 
 "All is well," whispered Maynard. "Walk where I 
 lead." 
 
 For some moments they went m silence. 
 
 "Now, lower your head," said Alaynard, after they 
 had walked several rods. "Bend down until you see 
 the light. There, this is the ante-chamber." They were 
 in a spacious cavern lighted by the flickering flame of a 
 lard-lamp hanging from the rocky wall. 
 
 Motier grasped his companion's hand. "This is the 
 second time you have helped me in my need," he said. 
 "I cannot tell you how grateful I am." 
 
 "Do not try," laughed Maynard, pressing the 
 other's hand. "Come, we cannot stay here." And he 
 led the way down a stone stairway into a well lighted 
 and neatly furnished room. "Sit down," he said, "and 
 tell me how you came into such bad company." 
 
 They seated themselves on a long bench, and 
 Alotier, after some further expression of his 
 indebtedness to Maynard, told the story of his capture 
 and of the march to Yaunocca. "The rest you know," 
 he concluded. 
 
 "Yes ; I know all about the rest." 
 
 "Well, I do not," was Motier's laughing response. 
 'I'm perplexed and somewhat awe-struck. I have 
 heard much that I cannot understand, and have seen a 
 
 309 
 
Wallannah * 
 
 great deal that is hard to believe. Who and what is 
 this wonderful Wallannah?" 
 
 Maynard turned quickly. "You have not guessed?" 
 he asked, with some surprise. 
 
 Motier shook his head. 
 
 Maynard rose and paced two or three times before 
 the bench. "This Wallannah," he said, at last, stopping 
 before Motier, "is my wife. You know some of her 
 story?" 
 
 "Yes ; and a terrible one it is. But I thought Mrs. 
 Maynard dead." 
 
 "No. We have lived here for ten years. You and 
 Boggs are the only ones outside our own little circle 
 who know that she is among the living." 
 
 "And her health has improved ?" 
 
 "Yes, day by day. Boggs comes up here 
 occasionally, and I go frequently to see him. We 
 think that she may recover entirely within a few years. 
 But, to change the subject, you said that you knew 
 nothing of your father's message ?" 
 
 "Not a word. The letter was sealed, and I asked 
 no questions. I Avas curious to know ; for I had heard 
 of no intimacy between you and my father; but, 
 obeying orders, I came as I was bidden." 
 
 A slight cloud rested on Maynard's features. "I 
 knew your father years ago," he said, thoughtfully, 
 "And I loved him as a brother; but something, or 
 somebody, came between us. The time is not distant, 
 I hope, when all will be well again." 
 
 "It will, if my efforts can avail. Father is a man 
 of violent feeling, and is arbitrary to a remarkable 
 degree ; but he seldom nurses a difference." 
 
 310 
 
A Pair of Dead Indians 
 
 "Our meeting again lies in the future. When the 
 time comes I know that your father and I will be as we 
 v»ere in the old days." 
 
 A shuffling step sounded in the stone stairway. The 
 men turned. 
 
 The dwarfed negress stood in the archway. "I 
 done come fer a light, Mars Willum," she said. "Missis 
 is a-comin'." She took one of the lard-lamps and 
 climbed back to the upper room. Both men looked 
 after her. In a few moments she returned, and with 
 her was Wallannah. 
 
 The stately woman crossed the room and stretched 
 out her arms toward her husband. "William, my 
 king," she murmured, softly. "Thou art here ?" 
 
 Maynard stepped toward her. "Here, my queen," 
 he said, taking her hands, and smiling into her great 
 eyes. 
 
 "Let me look at thee," she said, bending slightly 
 forward. Then, slowly but with a ring of gladness in 
 her voice, "Thine eyes show that 'thy soul is clear, all 
 clear. Thou art ready should He call thee. Yet a cloud 
 hangeth about thee, my king ! I cannot pierce it ; but 
 there is a light beyond. If He take thee, dear one, 
 come back here for thy Margaret. The spirits have 
 spoken to Wallannah: danger besets the life of a 
 Maynard; and there is no Maynard here but thee. 
 Watch thou, and pray." She moved away, with bowed 
 head. 
 
 While the two talked together, Motier turned, and 
 approaching a rack of arms upon the wall, took down 
 a long, thin rapier of the French pattern. Glancing at 
 the name graven on the hilt he started a little. He 
 
 3" 
 
Wallannah 
 
 turned to Captain Maynard as Wallannah went toward 
 the door and opened his lips to speak. 
 
 They were startled by a sudden cry from 
 Wallannah. "Look ! Quick !" she screamed, pointing 
 toward the end of the room. 
 
 Maynard jerked Motier to one side. A tomahawk 
 cleft the air and crashed against the wall behind them. 
 Motier looked up quickly. Ocebee and his brother were 
 dashing toward them. Maynard met the younger man 
 half way across the room, and the two grappled and 
 fell to the floor. 
 
 Ocebee, with a terrific whoop, rushed upon Motier 
 with a gleaming hunting knife. Quick as a flash 
 Motier's arm and the keen rapier shot forward. There 
 was a Httle shivering ring as the long blade rasped 
 across the edge of the Indian's knife, then Ocebee sank 
 to the floor with the sword through his heart. Motier 
 hastened to the writhing pair upon the floor. They 
 twisted and turned, first with the one on top, then with 
 the other ; but Motier could find no place to strike with 
 his blade, for a thrust that would kill one would kill 
 both. 
 
 After the struggle had continued several minutes 
 the captain slowly arose, first on one knee and then to 
 his feet, raising the savage with him. They stood for 
 a moment breast to breast, their arms outstretched in 
 cruciform and the captain's fingers gripped about the 
 red-skin's wrists. In the Indian's right hand was a 
 short sharp knife ; but Maynard was unarmed. 
 
 Motier would have thrust the savage through where 
 he stood; but the captain bade him leave the man to 
 him. With a quick move Maynard forced the savage's 
 
 312 
 
A Pair of Dead Indians 
 
 hands together above his head. Ocebee's brother 
 grinned ferociously, and Motier raised the point of his 
 sword ; for it seemed as though a very child could have 
 dropped his hands and struck that knife into Maynard's 
 breast. The Indian tried it; but while his bare arms 
 quivered with the tension of their muscles, Maynard 
 slowly drew their hands more closely together, bearing 
 them down toward his own left shoulder. Motier drew 
 a quick breath, for the knife's point missed the captain's 
 throat by less than an inch. Ocebee's brother, however, 
 failed in compassing that inch. With a sudden move 
 Maynard grasped both the Indian's wrists in his left 
 hand, forced him suddenly backward, and snatching 
 the Cherokee's tomahawk from his belt cleft his skull 
 with a single blow. 
 
 When it was over, Maynard turned to Du Val. 
 "It was the only way," he said, with a quiet smile. 
 "We can keep no prisoners here, and had he 
 escaped we should have paid for it with our four 
 lives. But zounds, man! You gave Ocebee a pretty 
 thrust I" 
 
 Motier, with a sudden thought, looked across the 
 room : Wallannah and the negress were gone. He 
 made a move toward the archway, but Maynard held 
 him back. "Thev have gone to secure the door," he 
 said. 
 
 "But there is danger," protested Motier. 
 
 Maynard smiled. "There were but two of this 
 stamp," he said, pointing to the bodies on the floor. 
 "The others dare not follow." 
 
 Suddenly a burst of song came sweeping through 
 the cavern. 
 
 313 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Says Fanning to Frohawk, 'Tis folly to lie, 
 I rode an old mare that was blind of one eye; 
 Five shillings in money I had in my purse, 
 My coat it was patched, but not much the worse; 
 But now we've got rich, and it's very well known, 
 That we'll do very well; if they'll let us alone." 
 
 Motier looked at Maynard with questioning eyes. 
 
 The captain laughed. "A few of my friends, in 
 the Grand Hall," he said; "but I must stop them. 
 Poor fellows, the music of the dying swan ! A few 
 songs and the memory of their dead is all that is left 
 to the Regulators." And he hastened through one 
 of the five passages that led from the parlor. 
 
 Returning a little later, Maynard brought Husbands 
 and Howell with him. They advanced and shook 
 hands v/ith Du Val. 
 
 Husbands crossed to where Ocebee lay with his 
 handsome savage face upturned to the light. "The 
 pitcher went too often to the well," he said, with a 
 sigh; "and a well-aimed stroke it was that broke it. 
 Ocebee was the boldest of his tribe, seeking danger as 
 a lover seeks his love. Life seemed his plaything. He 
 was a bad man, false alike to friend and to foe ; but he 
 has sown the wind and reaped the whirlwind. 'As he 
 has made his bed, so let him lie.' " 
 
 "Your last proverb doesn't fit," remarked Maynard. 
 "1 can't keep these fellows on my parlor floor. What 
 shall we do with them ?" 
 
 Husbands looked up and smiled. "We'll try 
 another proverb," he said. " 'He that falls in an evil 
 cause, falls into the devil's frying-pan.' Apply that 
 literally." 
 
 314 
 
A Pair of Dead Indians 
 
 "And drop him into the crater, eh? You see," he 
 added, turning to Motier, "this mountain is an extinct 
 volcano. The crater, at the end of that long passage, 
 is roofed now by thousands of tons of rock, but it goes 
 downward to the bottom of everything."' 
 
 Husbands, hurrying to the Grand Hall, returned 
 with two men, each bearing a flaming torch of 
 light-wood. Then he and Howell lifted the body 
 of the younger warrior and carried it through the 
 passage-way to the crater. Maynard and Motier took 
 Ocebee, and led by their torch-bearer, entered the 
 gloomy tunnel. 
 
 Winding through a long passage they finally 
 entered a great vault into which centred many 
 converging caverns. Before them, on a point of rock 
 that extended out into blackness that seemed boundless, 
 stood Husbands and Howell with their torch-bearer. 
 Their figures stood out in bright relief against the 
 gloom, and the torch blazed with vain fury at the 
 darkness which its beams could not dispel. 
 
 'Gone?" asked jMaynard, as he saw that the 
 Indian's body was not on the rock. 
 
 "Miles below — and still going," was Howell's 
 response. 
 
 "Is it deep?" asked Motier, after he and Maynard 
 had laid Ocebee on the floor. 
 
 "Is it deep?" repeated Howell, with a laugh. "Hell 
 can be no deeper." 
 
 "Well," said Husbands, looking down at Ocebee's 
 painted face, "this Cherokee was my friend, if he was 
 the friend of any one. As a brother we mourn him; 
 as an enemy he has our forgiveness. Your grave is 
 
 315 
 
Wallannah 
 
 deep, Ocebee; but not so deep that the Great Spirit 
 cannot find you. He, not we, must judge you. 
 Divinney, tie your torch in the Indian's hand. Now, 
 boys, up with him !" 
 
 The warrior's length stretched between Howell and 
 the one whom Husbands had called Divinney, and the 
 flaming torch svv^ung from the stiffening hand. 
 
 "Dust to dust," said Husbands, solemnly. "Ocebee ! 
 our last farewell !" 
 
 There was a quick forward movement of two pairs 
 of arms, and from the pit came one fleeting glimpse 
 of a handsome painted face shooting downward. Then 
 amid the silence of a tomb the six men leaned over 
 the abyss and watched. The flame grew smaller and 
 smaller, and smaller still, until it seemed like a spark 
 floating in infinite depths below. Then the light went 
 out, like a fire-fly grown weary in the night. 
 
 Husbands' deep voice broke upon the silence. "May 
 God have mercy on his soul," he said. And the men 
 about him murmured something like a quivering 
 Amen. 
 
 Motier remembered Ocebee as he had stood but a 
 few hours before on the ledge above the gorge, with 
 his blood-tipped plumes nodding to heaven through the 
 raging storm; and, bitter though their enmity had 
 been, a quick moisture came to his eyes at the thought. 
 
 The next morning Maynard came to the couch 
 where Motier had slept. He bore a lamp in his hand, 
 for in the cavern day and night were both alike. 
 Leaving the lamp he returned a half hour later and led 
 Motier to the dining-room. 
 
 "We have a splendid house," said Maynard. 
 
 316 
 
A Pair of Dead Indians 
 
 "When we outgrow our apartments we have simply 
 to hang a lamp in another of the hundred caverns and 
 thus add another room to our abode. By the by, your 
 Indian friends left at sunrise, carrying Usquaughne 
 with them." 
 
 "But won't the whole howling tribe come back to 
 find the two missing ones." 
 
 "Come back ! Not for all the gold and all the rum 
 in Christendom. They remember what came of 
 Wallannah's prophecy that Ocebee and one other 
 should be swallowed up by the earth, and I doubt if a 
 Cherokee ever comes near Yaunocca again." 
 
 After breakfast the two men, leaving Wallannah 
 and her faithful servant in the cavern, passed out into 
 the ampitheatre where the priestess had stood in 
 judgment in the twilight of the day before. 
 
 Motier looked across the broad and level green. 
 "What a place for a fight!" he said, pointing to the 
 space between the spring and the basin. 
 
 "I have often thought it," answered Maynard, a 
 fire kindling in his dark eyes. Then he pulled at his 
 mustache. "A good spot for you to pull off that 
 Cantwell matter, eh?" 
 
 Motier laughed. "Bah! Captain. You and I are 
 too bloodthirsty. We finished two yesterday." 
 
 "A case of had-to, my boy. Ocebee seemed hungry 
 for that scalp of yours; and, had you been a second 
 later, his knife would have forestalled your sword." 
 
 "Speaking of the sword, Captain; how did you 
 get it?" 
 
 "It belonged to my half-brother, a soldier of 
 fortune, but a nobleman by blood and by heart." 
 
 317 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "I know that he was," was Du Val's quiet response. 
 "The truest man that ever Hved." 
 
 A quick hght came to Maynard's eyes. "But you 
 did not know him?" 
 
 "Yes ; I knew him — and loved him." 
 
 "And yet you — " 
 
 "Loved the woman ? Yes — until I knew." 
 
 Maynard drew in a quick breath, "Thank God that 
 you found it out !" he said, looking thoughtfully down 
 to the cleft in the gorge. "I knew not how to tell you." 
 
 "It is well that you did not," observed Motier, with 
 a touch of sadness in his smile. "In the days before 
 the night we parted a word against her would have 
 meant some serious trouble." 
 
 "I knew it, I felt that it would ; but I would have 
 faced the trouble. And you, then, are the Frenchman 
 of whom he often spoke ?" 
 
 "Perhaps. I spent a year with him in England. 
 But I never knew until now that he was your 
 half-brother." 
 
 "Yes ; he was. His death was a great blow to me. 
 Well, come and take a jaunt about the gully below us. 
 Got m.y old pistol ? Good : it's always well to carry an 
 armory with you in this land." 
 
 They spent the morning roaming about the 
 ravines below the cliff, and talking as they walked. 
 Approaching Maynard's home when the sun was high, 
 the captain halted before a ragged pile of rocks, 
 covered with moss and sticks and dead leaves. 
 
 Maynard looked at Motier and smiled. "Walk in," 
 he said, waving his hand toward the mass of debris. 
 
 Du Val laughed. "First crush in the mountain for 
 
 318 
 
A Pair of Dead Indians 
 
 me," he said, looking carelessly at the bank before him. 
 " you outweigh me by ten povmds ; shove in the 
 mountain side." 
 
 Maynard reached out one hand and pushed upon a 
 projecting rock. The face of the cliff swung in, and 
 Motier, looking through the ragged moss-fringed 
 opening, stared into a dark passageway ending at an 
 oaken door. 
 
 "Why, man!" said Du Val, as he entered, "you 
 have a key to the very bowels of the earth. Who would 
 have thought that your rocks and rubbish concealed 
 a door !" 
 
 "One man found it several weeks ago. Coming in 
 one night I found a paper right where your feet are 
 now. On it was the message, 'I have found you, but 
 you are safe. Pile some more rocks before your 
 entrance. D. B.' " 
 
 "Who was D. B.?" 
 
 "Daniel Boone, a hunter. Poor fellow, I fear he 
 was killed in a recent Indian massacre in the country 
 beyond the mountains." 
 
 "In that wilderness of Augusta county, in 
 Virginia?" 
 
 "The same; but called by the Indians 'Kentucky,' 
 the dark and bloody ground." 
 
 They opened the inner door and stepped into the 
 captain's lamp-lit parlor. There Maynard left him. 
 
 Motier sat, with legs crossed, in a rustic chair, 
 smoking and looking down at the floor. He had 
 thought much of Alice during the day, and she was 
 in his mind now. There came the memory of her as 
 she had pinned the rose upon his coat ; and the thought 
 
 319 
 
Wallannah 
 
 of their parting, hitherto a source of amusement to 
 him, began to hurt, as a wound on the field of battle 
 when a man first sees it after an hour's bleeding. 
 
 Then came the recollection of Esther's letter, with 
 its statement that Alice had kept the rose. "If she 
 kept it," he reflected, letting the fire die out in his pipe ; 
 "if she still keeps it, she must have her reason for doing 
 so. I still keep the thing in my mind ; and I must have 
 my reason for that. One reason and one other reason 
 make two reasons ; and two reasons mean what?" He 
 stared at the toe of his boot and smiled. "Two reasons 
 mean what?" he repeated, speaking aloud. 
 
 "If one is a woman's reason," sounded Maynard's 
 voice at his elbow, "they mean one of two things." 
 
 "And they?" asked Motier, rising and relighting 
 his pipe. 
 
 "Heaven or hell." 
 
 Motier smiled as the memory of the girl in the 
 oaken chair at the table's head came again. "God 
 grant it be the first," he said. And, arm in arm, the 
 two went to ♦he aoonday meal. 
 
 320 
 
Caged Birds 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 Caged Birds — With a Little SwoRd Play 
 
 EN men were congregated in the Grand 
 Hall of the caverns. Rednap Howell, the 
 people's poet, and James Hunter and 
 Samuel Divinney, leaders in the fight against 
 the crown, sat around a table on which stood a jug of 
 wine and several glasses, with the fragments of a recent 
 supper. The light of the iron lamp on the wall 
 revealed the bulky form of Herman Husbands sitting 
 upon a rustic seat near the middle of the room; and 
 six others, all of the host of Regulators, reclined upon 
 the floor in various attitudes, listening to the final 
 words of a story which Hunter was telling. 
 
 After the discussion which followed the ending of 
 the tale. Hunter spoke again. "Sing us a song, 
 Howell," he cried, thumping on the table for silence. 
 
 "I have sung for days like a caged bird," was the 
 poet's response; "but then we still hoped. The hope 
 has died, and the music with it. How can we sing 
 Zion's songs in a strange land? We have hung our 
 harps upon the willows." 
 
 "Bah !" growled Husbands, enclouding himself in 
 a great puff of tobacco-smoke. "Rednap, my boy, 
 thank God that we're all here, and make merry for that. 
 Tat sorrow is better than lean sorrow.' 'Never fight 
 your own shadow.' Sing the song." 
 
 321 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Howell shock his long curls. "What is more to the 
 point," he said, glancing toward the jug. " 'It is ill 
 talking with a dry throat,' to use one of your proverbs. 
 Fill the cups, Divinney." 
 
 "Captain Hunter, a toast!" called Husbands. 
 
 "Willingly," responded Hunter, rising with a filled 
 glass in his hand. "Since we have been branded as 
 traitors for resisting a tyrannous and oppressive 
 governor, let us set ourselves aright. I propose, his 
 Majesty King George — God bless him!" 
 
 "Drink it not !" shouted Husbands, starting to his 
 feet. 
 
 The men put down their glasses. "Why not? 'Are 
 
 we indeed traitors?" 
 
 "No ; but rebels, perhaps. Remember, friends, ttiat 
 our grievances went to the very steps of the throne, 
 and were sent back to Tryon. Our rights are 
 disregarded: we can acknowledge no rights that are 
 not reciprocal. We complain of Tryon, and our 
 complaint displeases the king because 'his Excellency,' 
 William, is a royal favorite. 'Love me love my dog.' 
 The two are one and the same to us. We cannot love 
 the dog, why should we give our blessing to the master 
 who sets him upon us. The truth may as well come 
 out: which of you here can lay his hand over hii 
 heart and say before God that he loves King George 
 of England ? Where is one man to say it ?" He glared 
 about the room. No one answered. 
 
 "I knew it," continued Husbands, exultantly. 
 "There is no man here so craven as to lick the foot 
 that gives him the kick. And I tell you, brothers, 
 there are ten hundred thousand hearts in America 
 
 322 
 
Caged Birds 
 
 ready to respond to the truth I have spoken. A few 
 more acts of royal tyranny, and the people will be 
 kin 
 
 I" 
 
 The men burst into a cheer. 
 
 "1 amend my toast," cried Hunter. "To the 
 sovereign people !" 
 
 *T am with you !" And Husbands crossed to the 
 table. 
 
 "To the people — God give 'em what they want!'' 
 shouted Howell. 
 
 "To the people,'' yelled Divinney. "May their 
 pov/der never fail 1" 
 
 And the men on the floor joined in the cry, "To the 
 people !" 
 
 Silence reigned while the toast was drunk. 
 
 After a full minute Howell spoke to Husbands. 
 "But the time is not yet," he said, brushing back the 
 hair from his eyes. "Where do you go to wait for this 
 day?" 
 
 Husbands answered him. "I ? I must go home — 
 or to Sandy Creek, for I have no home — and arrange 
 to move my family to some place of temporary 
 safety." 
 
 "Openly or in disguise?" asked Hunter. 
 
 "Openly. The governor and his soldiers have gone 
 back by this time. Furtlier caution is unnecessary." 
 
 A welcoming murmur sounded through the hall. 
 Captain Maynard stood in the archway. "Room for 
 me?" he asked, moving forward. 
 
 A laugh went around the circle. "Room for the 
 host!" some one shouted. And Maynard sat by the 
 side of Hunter. 
 
Wallannah 
 
 The room again rang with the speeches of the 
 patriots, and the air was filled with little clouds of 
 smoke from their pipes. 
 
 Suddenly a voice sounded above theirs. "Who 
 keeps house?" 
 
 The men started to their feet, and Howell and 
 Hunter reached for their pistols. A man whose age 
 was somewhere beyond thirty-five stood in the 
 doorway. His sinewy form was clad in the garb of 
 the mountaineer, his rifle-butt rested on the floor, and 
 his face v/ore a frank, cheery smile. 
 
 '•'Who is he?" 
 
 "How did he get here ?" 
 
 "What's his business?" 
 
 The clear eyes never wavered and the firm thin lips 
 changed in no way from their smile as the hunter heard 
 these questions. "Evenin' I" he said, saluting. 
 
 Husbands advanced. "Evening, stranger ! You 
 are — Hello, Dan ! I vow I did not know you. We'd 
 heard you were dead. Gentlemen, my old friend, 
 Daniel Boone." 
 
 "Give him the grip," cried Howell. 
 
 Boone, led by Husbands, came to the knot of 
 men who stood by the table, and shook hands with 
 them all. 
 
 Maynard spoke. "I've never met you before, Mr. 
 Boone," he said, with a smile. "But you did me the 
 honor of leaving your card some weeks ago." 
 
 Boone laughed, showing a row of strong white 
 teeth. "I recollect," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. 
 "You kept me from killin' a deer that day. I had my 
 bead on 'im, when you came along atween us. You 
 
 324 
 
Caged Birds 
 
 were holdin' your head down, an' didn't see me. 
 Then I saw where you went an' noticed a little piece 
 of moss was off one of your hinges. I stuck another in 
 its place an' dropped my note inside the door." 
 
 "I met you once," said Divinney, "near your home, 
 on the Watauga." 
 
 "I remember. You were with a surveyin' party. 
 But that was three years ago — before I left for the 
 Dark and Bloody Ground." 
 
 "And what is the news from the place you call 
 Kentucky?" asked Husbands. "Did Stuart come with 
 you? and Finley? and Cool? and Holden? and 
 Monay? I felt it was a last farev/ell when you left old 
 Pennsylvania." 
 
 "I've left all the boys in Kentucky," said Boone, 
 sadly. "Stuart fell beside me in an Indian fight. He 
 was the last of 'em all ; for the others had disappeared 
 before that, imprisoned or massacred by the Indians, 
 But Kentucky is a glorious country, for all that. I'm 
 goin' back as soon as I can get my fam'ly ready. You 
 can be free there. Come with us. Husbands !" 
 
 Husbands smiled. "We will think of it," he said. 
 "But your pictures are none of the brightest. Now, 
 tell us, what brings you here to-night?" 
 
 Boone threw one leg across a corner of the table 
 and sat there, swinging his moccasined foot. "I've 
 been marchin' twenty miles with a company of light 
 horse," he said, carelessly. "They pressed me into 
 service to guide 'em to the mountain." 
 
 A growl of wrathful surprise came from the men 
 about him. 
 
 "What are the troops?" asked Maynard, quickly. 
 
 325 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Men from New Hanover, of Colonel Ashe's 
 command." 
 
 "What are they after ?" 
 
 "Lookin' for Captain Neale." 
 
 "Nothing else?" 
 
 "Perhaps ; they mentioned your name and that of 
 Husbands. That's why I came here to tell you. My 
 conscience don't trouble me, for they forced me into 
 service. They made me promise to get back by 
 sunrise." 
 
 "How many are there?" 
 
 "Twelve, and an Indian guide. I don't know what 
 sort of Indian he is, for he said nothin' in my hearin' 
 an' kept his face hid by his blanket. They've got your 
 old friend Witten with 'em, too." 
 
 "Witten!" shouted Hunter. "Boys, here's that we 
 steal Witten !" 
 
 "Steal him it is," answered the chorus. 
 
 Motier came into the hall, and approaching Boone 
 each was made known to the other. 
 
 "Get up your sword-arm muscle once more," said 
 Howell, as Motier moved to his side. 
 
 "What's on hand? Cherokees?" 
 
 "Naw ! Cherokees are gentlemen : these fellows 
 are the governor's soldiers." 
 
 "And therefore not gentlemen ? I was a governor's 
 soldier once." * 
 
 "Caesar ! I forgot that. Poetic license, you see. I 
 will make amends." 
 
 "Keep your amends. Let's get together with Boone 
 and the best of your people, and see what we can do." 
 
 They acted immediately, and a council of war was 
 
 326 
 
Caged Birds 
 
 held around the table. As one of its results, two of 
 the men were put on guard, one at the cabin, the other 
 at the secret entrance. 
 
 Motier v^as in the parlor, buckling on a sword-belt 
 with a scabbard that fitted Jack Ashburne's blade. "If 
 it comes to aught," he said, affectionately patting the 
 cold steel, "serve me well, for Jack's sake." And he 
 smiled as the blade grated a little on its way to its place. 
 
 Suddenly a man dressed as a hunter burst into the 
 parlor with the cabin-guard behind him. He stopped 
 short as he caught the glance of Motier's eyes. 
 
 Du Val laughed lightly. "Have no fear, Witten," 
 he said, assuringly. "I'm no longer a king's officer. 
 Go into the other room : they want you there." He 
 followed the hunter, and sent the guard back to his 
 post. 
 
 A suppressed cheer greeted Witten as he broke into 
 the hall. 
 
 "They're a-comin', boys," he said. "The hull gang 
 of 'em. Run half yer men out the front way, an' 
 half — But, Gawd ! Thar ain't no other way !" 
 
 Maynard laughed. "And half the other way," he 
 said, with a smile. "For there is another." 
 
 "Then, cut yer army in two and chase half each 
 way; then ketch 'em when they comes inter the place 
 by the cabin." 
 
 That was the plan, and so they carried it out. In 
 fifteen minutes a corporal with his guard, led by the 
 blanketed Indian, filed past the secret door and went 
 toward the cabin. As they passed from sight Hunter 
 with six men, crept out behind them. When the squad 
 reached the cabin door, they stood a moment and the 
 
 327 
 
Wallannah 
 
 corporal and the Indian spoke a few words together. 
 Suddenly, a swarm of Regulators rushed from the hut, 
 and the other detachment attacked them from the rear. 
 Two or three shots were fired into the air; but the 
 victory was a bloodless one. 
 
 The soldiers were surrounded and disarmed, and 
 Maynard, laughing and chatting merrily, began to 
 parley with the corporal with a view to paroling him 
 and his men upon their oath to keep his whereabouts 
 secret for a month. 
 
 While the captors stood at rest in a circle about the 
 royal soldiery, Motier, apart from the others, saw that 
 the blanketed Indian was not among the prisoners. A 
 suspicion of treachery came to his mind. Stepping 
 back while Maynard talked with the corporal, Duval, 
 loosening his sword in its sheath, crept slowly along 
 beside the cliff wall. Suddenly by the very brink of 
 the pool he saw a dark figure with a great bundle in 
 its arms stealing toward the oak by the spring. 
 
 Silently he followed until the man reached the tree 
 and laid his burden on the ground. Then Motier saw 
 the pale face of Wallannah above the Indian's blanket, 
 which was wrapped about her. Her eyes were closed 
 and she looked as one in a faint. Keeping the oak 
 between himself and the savage, Motier crept closer. 
 Once he peered around the tree-trunk. The Indian's 
 face was turned from him ; but he saw that he wore 
 a buckskin hunting suit with fringed leggings. A 
 sudden move revealed a long sword hanging from his 
 belt. 
 
 Motier gasped with surprise. "An Indian with a 
 rapier!" he muttered. "It passes me!" Keeping 
 
 328 
 
Caged Birds 
 
 behind the tree, he took off his sword-belt and laid it 
 on the grass. Then, stripping off his coat, he rolled 
 up his right shirt-sleeve. He stooped and drew Jack 
 Ashburne's sword from its sheath, and, passing around 
 the tree, noiselessly crossed the grass to where the 
 Indian stood looking down the valley. 
 
 Du Val placed his hand on the man's shoulder. 
 "Surrender that woman to me," he said, in a low voice. 
 
 The man turned on his heel and Motier, scanning 
 the painted features by the moonlight, saw who the 
 fellow was. 
 
 The disguised man uttered a low laugh. "Well, by 
 God 1" he said, "I've got you at last !" 
 
 "Not yet," and Motier smiled grimly as he said it. 
 "Draw !" 
 
 The steel rang as Jake Cantwell, unbuckling his 
 belt let the scabbard slip from his blade. Then, kicking 
 the belt across the green, he raised his rapier. The 
 swords met with a shivering ring. 
 
 Motier spoke. "Will you surrender her to me?" 
 he asked, coldly. 
 
 "She's mine now, and she'll stay mine. If you call 
 the other fellows, I'll kill her before they get here." 
 
 "Guard yourself!" was the curt reply. And those 
 were the last words, save only three, spoken between 
 them. 
 
 From the first touch of the steel Motier knew that 
 he had underestimated the powers of his enemy. 
 Cantwell was heavier and stronger, and his arm and 
 his sword both outreached Motier's. But Du Val was 
 cool and calm, while Cantwell's face was flushed and a 
 little line of foam marked where his lips parted. 
 
Wallannah 
 
 The fight was a fast and a hot one. Du Val was 
 forced to the defensive, and as their blades clashed and 
 clicked and shivered and as spark after spark flew from 
 their contact, Cantwell slowly bore him toward the 
 rock-girt pool. Step by step they went, until Motier 
 could hear the hissing of the torrent's bubbling foam 
 as it broke into the still waters of the basin behind him. 
 Yet, as he parried thrust after thrust and Cantwell's 
 long blade came no nearer to his Vvhite shirt-front, 
 Motier's lips formed in the half-smile which had played 
 upon them that day in the wood when this same man 
 had fired upon him from behind a tree. 
 
 Suddenly a yell came from the group by the cabin. 
 Cantwell muttered a growling curse. The Regulators 
 and their captives, the latter bound by their parole, 
 rushed across the sward. Du Val, still parrying 
 Cantwell's terrific thrusts, heard Maynard's voice. 
 
 "Leave them alone," the captain shouted. "A fair 
 fight for them both !" And the men to the number of 
 over a score formed in a line, watching the two whose 
 swords gleamed and clashed in the moonlight. 
 
 At last they stood, Motier with his heel upon the 
 pool's edge, his arm throbbing with weariness, and 
 Cantwell making a final effort to drive him into the 
 depths of the basin. Du Val wavered a Httle. A 
 murmur came from the crowd. The Frenchman's right 
 foot raised a little from the ground, and his other heel 
 was slowly slipping on the brink of the ledge. 
 
 Cantwell laughed under his breath. He made 
 another thrust. "After you, — Wallannah !" he snarled. 
 But in his moment of exultation he wavered in his 
 guard. A sudden gleam came to Motier's eyes. He 
 
 330 
 
Caged Birds 
 
 gave a quick lunge and the point of his sword ripped 
 through Cantwell's throat, and cut off the fellow's 
 laugh half way. 
 
 Motier stepped over Cantwell's body and 
 approached Maynard. "She is there by the spring," 
 he said, pointing toward the oak 
 
 Maynard looked up in surprise. "Who?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Wallannah. Go and see." 
 
 Maynard rushed across the grass and Motier, 
 bowing to the circle of men, strode over to get his coat 
 and belt. Then he crossed to where the captain held 
 his wife's head upon his knee. 
 
 "She is better nov/," Maynard said, softly. "Was 
 that fellow carrying her away ?" 
 
 "He was." 
 
 "H'm ! I think I begin to see." 
 
 Motier, wiping his sword upon the grass, looked 
 inquiringly at the captain. 
 
 But Maynard did not explain what he had begun 
 to see. "You did your work well, my boy : I never 
 saw a prettier fight. But, heavens ! I thought he had 
 you." 
 
 Motier shrugged his shoulders. "So did he," he 
 answered, quietly. "But he was a dead man from the 
 very draw. Had he not been — " He hesitated a 
 little. 
 
 "Then what?" 
 
 Motier pointed toward Wallannah. "He said that 
 he would have killed her." 
 
 Maynard's eyes flashed. "Did he say that to 
 you?" 
 
 331 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "He did. It was his life or hers ; and that — " But 
 he paused again. 
 
 "And that?" repeated Maynard, eagerty. 
 
 Motier met his eyes. "That was all that kept me 
 from going down to the pool," he answered. And, as 
 Motier turned and left the man and his wife together, 
 the moonlight shone full upon a dark blotch where the 
 blood oozed from a jagged tear in his shirt-front. 
 
 332 
 
Reckoning an Account 
 
 .CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Reckoning an Account 
 
 QUIRE CANTWELL sat at the desk In his 
 motto-embellished office in New Bern. His 
 right hand held a letter which he had 
 received from Captain Maynard a week 
 before informing him of the death of Jacob Cantwell, 
 and his left rested upon the manuscript of an address 
 which he was expecting to deliver at a prayer-meeting 
 on the following Sabbath day. Cantwell was looking 
 toward Simon Fawn, v/ho sat in an easy chair near the 
 middle of the room. 
 
 " 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,' " 
 he said, with resignation ; " 'blessed be the name of 
 the Lord.' " 
 
 Fawn, having his own opinion of Jake Cantwell's 
 character, looked reflectively at the floor. "Yes, 
 'blessed be the name of the Lord,' " he repeated, 
 slowly. 
 
 Cantwell did not catch the deeper significance of the 
 merchant's words. 
 
 Fawn looked up after a moment's pause. "What a 
 good thing it is that you are such a faithful believer 
 in the divine wisdom," he said, sympathetically. "A 
 worldly man would have grieved more. Such faith as 
 yours, friend John, is indeed sublime." 
 
 333 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "No, no," said Cantwell, with humble deprecation, 
 "my faith is but a httle thing; but I thank God for 
 such as it is. It carries me over many a stormy 
 way." 
 
 Simon gave a Httle gasp, which he straightway 
 opened into a sleepy yawn. "We m.ust all die some 
 day, neighbor," he said, rubbing his puffy hands 
 together, and giving a pious leer across the desk, "and 
 Jake — may God bless his spirit ! — had to go some 
 time. It must console you to know that he died bravely 
 in your service, a martyr to filial duty. He will have 
 his reward ; but you, John, have lost your right hand. 
 None other could serve you like Jake." 
 
 "He was a good boy, and a true son." 
 
 "Yes, a true son of a worthy father." Simon's light 
 eyes had something like satire in them, but the 'Squire, 
 looking down at his sermon, failed to catch the gleam. 
 
 Several seconds passed before either spoke. Then 
 Fawn moved in his chair. "Did i^.Iaynard kill him?" 
 he asked, crossing his legs and resting his chin on one 
 hand. 
 
 Cantwell looked up slowly. "Maynard?" he 
 repeated. "No; I think not: he writes me a letter 
 of condolence, but says little of the circumstances of 
 the boy's death." 
 
 "Perhaps Jake found the one for whom he looked." 
 
 "Young DuYal?" 
 
 "None other." 
 
 The 'Squire's head shook with a convinced 
 negative. "No, I should say not. Had he met Du Val 
 the funeral would have been from another quarter. No 
 one could stand before Jake's sword." 
 
 334 
 
Reckoning an Account 
 
 "But setting Du Val aside, I have my doubts about 
 Maynard. He's a hard customer." 
 
 "You are qualified to speak, I believe. He handled 
 you very well in that powder conspiracy." 
 
 "Yes, I can speak as one having authority. And 
 where I fail, you may well be careful yourself. A hard 
 customer, John ! Did he happen to write anything 
 concerning his wife?" 
 
 Cantwell looked a trifle surprised. "His v/ife? 
 Why, she's been dead for fifteen years ! He wouldn't 
 write of her." 
 
 Fawn smiled broadly. 'Oh, no! certainly not. 
 But don't you suppose I know as well as you that 
 Wallannah, the goddess or whatever she may be, is 
 Mrs. Maynard? Had she been dead, you would have 
 given yourself but little concern about the captain. 
 You see, I knov/ this secret ; but its safe, like all the 
 others — for a consideration, you know." 
 
 "I think I do know." 
 
 "No doubt. You see, I have no wish to thwart 
 these virtuous little plans of yours ; for my friendly 
 interest makes we wish to see you rich — the richer 
 the better. Then too, as we have said before, we must 
 cherish the goose that lays the egg of gold. Folly 
 would it be to break up the nest." 
 
 The 'Squire looked gravely at the guileless Simon. 
 "I will be frank with you," he said, dropping his eyes, 
 "for, as you say, your interest is much the same as 
 mine. Now then, let's understand this matter. If 
 Alaynard ever gets his pardon — and he has friends 
 who may prevail upon Tryon's successor — the nest 
 will be broken of its own self. As it now stands, she 
 
 335 
 
Wallannah 
 
 is dead — to the world, I mean — and without a child ; 
 but he may bring her to Hfe again, for I learn that 
 Boggs has been visiting her and entertains hope of her 
 recovery. Under the authority of her brother's will — 
 her brother was Richard Dudley, you recall — under 
 that authority, I felt warranted in taking her property 
 as my own. I have sold some of it, including the lot 
 on which stood the IMaynard house before the fire that 
 caused the death of Maynard's little son Arthur. If 
 Margaret Maynard were left to herself she would never 
 come back to New Bern, and would pass away in the 
 mystery of her singular character as the 'great 
 Wallannah.' But at hom.e again, and in her right 
 mind, she might make it awkward for me. Where 
 then would be the golden egg?" 
 
 "But the property will be yours at last : she has no 
 child." 
 
 "After all these years she may claim one. What 
 proof could I bring against her? The onus probandi 
 would rest on me. No, no, friend ; Maynard must not 
 come back." 
 
 "Well, attend to that end of it yourself. I want you 
 to increase in wealth ; but, as it is now, you have 
 enough to divide. You and I can live on it, can't we, 
 friend John?" 
 
 Cantwell swore inaudibly, but with great earnest- 
 ness. "You have lived on it long enough, I guess," he 
 said, with some show of spirit. "Why don't you fasten 
 your talons in some other lamb?" 
 
 Fawn's massive frame shook with laughter. 
 "Lamb ! Oh, my Lord ! You're a lovely lamb, such a 
 dear, soft spring lamb! How innocently you gambol 
 
 336 
 
Reckoning an Account 
 
 on the green I John, my tender httle lamb, shake off 
 your wool, and settle down to business. Business 
 before pleasure; eh, lambie? How much money did 
 you get for the property you sold Du Val ?" 
 
 Cantwell's face was a little red, and his teeth 
 showed with a wolfish smile. "If you're through with 
 your insane bantering, I'll tell you. I got four hundred 
 pounds for it." 
 
 "Say four hundred — though I know it's a — 
 what's the genteel word ? — a prevar-i-ca-tion. Good 
 word, eh, John? Anyway, two hundred of it will do 
 me for the present." 
 
 "Two hundred pounds ! You're a highwayman : I 
 can't spare that much." 
 
 "Spare isn't the word, John. Be more particular 
 with the king's English, Do not say 'can't spare' ; say 
 'got to pay' : it's more to the point. Let me rehearse 
 my account, then I'll put it onto paper. That's fair and 
 square ; and you won't have to pay a penny beyond it. 
 Let me see. J. M. — No; the Honorable John M. 
 Cantwell to S. Fawn, debtor. For services rendered in 
 helping to keep one wife out of the way of the other, 
 one hundred pounds." 
 
 "I paid that once." 
 
 "On last year's account, yes ; but we're talking of 
 the current year now. Don't squirm; the charge is 
 moderate. Now, item second, services rendered in 
 keeping secret the real parentage of your daughter, 
 AHce Cantwell (known to the world as Alice De Vere), 
 fifty pounds. What say you to that ?" 
 
 "One and the same with the first item. If Alice 
 finds me to be her father, she will necessarily know 
 
 337 
 
Wallannah 
 
 of my marriage to her mother, Mary Ross. I can pay 
 no separate sum for that." r 
 
 "Well enough. That will make the first item one 
 hundred and fifty in.«tead of one hundred. It's all the 
 same to me." 
 
 "Now, before you go on with the rest of your 
 ravings, give me a hearing on another question. Alice 
 is old enough to look out for herself now : suppose she 
 stumbles onto this secret of identity. I'm afraid after 
 all I made a blunder in casting off Mary." 
 
 "I told you I had given you a good wife, and that 
 you were at fault for not having kept her. But what 
 has Alice been doing?" 
 
 "Winning a v/ealthy man for a husband, that's 
 what." 
 
 "You mean the Frenchman ?" 
 
 "Frenchman the devil ! No ; Lord Durham." 
 
 "Lord Durham ! Alice De Vere and he expect to 
 marry ?" 
 
 "Alice Cantwell, you mean." 
 
 "She is Alice De Vere to him and to every one else 
 except you and me: how can you claim her openly? 
 Ah, noble friend ! You are one of these wondrous 
 chess-players who blocks his own pawns, and sticks 
 fast in the middle of the game. You must resign your 
 claim as her sire. But this Durham matter surprises 
 me: he's old enough for her father." 
 
 "In the eyes of the fair, Simon, a nobleman is never 
 old so long as his money lasts." 
 
 "But are you sure of this thing?" 
 
 "Cer-tain-ly," was the emphatic response. "He 
 visits her every day; and they ride together and walk 
 
 338 
 
Reckoning an Account 
 
 together hours at a time. Leaving her the other 
 day, he was seen to put his arm about her and kiss 
 her." 
 
 "But, dear lamb, these lords are tricky fellows. 
 Your unsuspecting honesty may be deceived." 
 
 "Durham is an honorable man." 
 
 "Thank God there's one in New Bern! But I'll 
 wager he's no friend of yours." 
 
 Cantwell did not answer. 
 
 "Now, to return to business," said Fawn, "let's take 
 up the third item — the second as it stands corrected. 
 Services rendered in guarding the street for you, fifty 
 pounds. No ; that's too cheap." 
 
 "Guarding the street? What in thunder is that?" 
 
 "Hush ! Don't get violent, lamb. You're apoplectic 
 anyway, you know. It was on the night that your 
 unfortunate brother-in-law lost his life." 
 
 Cantwell was very pale. He stood up and looked 
 Simon in the face. "What do you mean by that, Mr. 
 Fawn ?' 
 
 "Mr. Fawn? Oh, yes; you mean me? Well, 
 Mister Cantwell, it means just this." He arose and 
 stood facing the 'Squire. "It means that one lovely 
 night in April last I chanced to pass by this fold — a 
 'fold' is proper for a lamb's house, is it not? — and I 
 saw John Ross come from your door and walk up the 
 street. I stepped behind a tree ; and by the shimmering 
 (good word, that!) by the shimmering moonlight saw 
 you follow your brother-in-law, walking on your 
 tip-toes. Thinking that you and he had met in your 
 true relations, I concluded that you were following him 
 to seek an interview in some secluded spot, where the 
 
 339 
 
Wallannah 
 
 powers of your artful eloquence might silence him. 
 And they did. That is what the second item means; 
 for I kept back a friend of yours who had seen you and 
 was anxious to follow. I'll raise that amount from 
 fifty to a hundred pounds. But wait till I set my watch 
 by this handsome new clock of yours." 
 
 Fawn, with provoking calmness, turned his back to 
 the 'Squire and v,^alked toward the tall Dutch clock that 
 stood upon the floor. He set and wound his watch, and 
 was turning to continue the conversation, when his eye 
 caught Cantwell's reflection in the mirror beneath the 
 clock-face. The 'Squire was fingering a dagger which 
 he had taken from a desk drawer. 
 
 Fawn turned quickly and met Cantwell as that 
 worthy crept around the end of his desk. The 
 merchant reached carelessly to an inside pocket and 
 pulled out a pistol. "Lay down your pretty dagger, 
 Johnnie boy; you may cut your fingers." And Fawn 
 chucked the 'Squire under the chin with the muzzle of 
 the pistol. "There now, move the weapon just a little 
 farther from you. That's right ! Now sit down, good 
 friend, and quiet your nerves. Lord ! What a delicate 
 hair-trigger this pistol has! I verily believe that a 
 touch would send it off; and my fingers are subject to 
 sudden spasms, too. Wouldn't it be horrible — " 
 
 "For God's sake, turn that thing the other way!" 
 cried Cantwell. sinking into his chair. "It might 
 go oft*." 
 
 "No such luck, little lamb. I pray you to excuse 
 me for retaining this dagger. I'm fond of relics, you 
 see. Take dov.m the pistol? Why, certainly. I quite 
 forgot it. Now, let's resume our business. No 
 
 340 
 
Reckoning an Account 
 
 apologies, dear John I You were thoughtless, I dare 
 say; and intended no ugly use of this weapon," 
 
 "Believe me, Simon," said Cantwell, contritely, 
 ' you should have known me better than to think such 
 a thing. To tell the truth — " 
 
 Simon held his hand to his ear. "Didn't catch that : 
 to do what ?" he queried. 
 
 "To tell the truth —" 
 
 "Oh, yes ! but the words came clumsily from your 
 mouth. Well, to tell the truth ?" 
 
 "I — I was thinking of Alaynard, perhaps in an 
 unchristian spirit." 
 
 "And had I been Maynard ?" 
 
 "Don't ask, good friend : it pains me to think 
 of it." 
 
 "Of course, you tender-hearted lamb! Then we 
 won't think of it. Now, our account stands : one 
 hundred and fifty plus one hundred, equals two 
 hundred and fifty. That amount will square us for a 
 while. Give me your paper for it." 
 
 Cantwell did as he was bidden, and Fawn slipped 
 the bill of exchange into his pocket. 
 
 Then Cantwell, smoothing the wrinkles from his 
 forehead, swore very softly. "Yor hold me safe for a 
 while longer?" he askec, after a silence. 
 
 "Perfectly, John — a least for quite a time. In the 
 meanwhile, if I can suggest anything to your 
 advantage, command me. One other point, and I'm 
 done. I have written sworn statements of all our 
 dealings, every one of them ; and these documents are 
 in safe keeping to be opened immediately after my 
 death. I only mention this to secure me against 
 
 341 
 
Wallannah 
 
 mistakes in identity. You might make a slip some time 
 while thinking of Captain Maynard. There, take your 
 pretty paper-cutter ; and excuse my precautions in this 
 affair. You dehver that address upon 'Christian 
 HumiHty' on Sunday morning, do you ?" 
 
 "Yes, God wilHng." 
 
 "I promise you to be there. Your pious words will 
 thrill my bosom with awe. Good bye, gentle hypocrite : 
 sleep the sleep of the just." And he went out of the 
 room, leaving Cantwell in a frame of mind not far 
 removed from lunacy. 
 
 342 
 
Cupid Seems in Trouble 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 Cupid Seems in Trouble^ 
 
 OTIER DU VAL sat in his room in the 
 tavern in New Bern. Returning from the 
 mountains he had found the palace deserted ; 
 for Tryon, returning from his march of 
 triumph, had been somewhat hurriedly transferred 
 from the province of North Carolina to the seat of 
 government of New York. There 'his Excellency' 
 found, in due course, ample opportunity for the practice 
 of his refined cruelties. Lady Tryon and Esther Wake, 
 with the entire personal following of the governor, had 
 gone with him ; and the doors of the palace were 
 closed, James Hassel, of the council, preferring to 
 reside in his own home while handling temporarily the 
 reins of government. Lord Durham had taken up his 
 abode in the village, and the senior Du Val had secured 
 rooms at the inn. Thus it was that at four o'clock of 
 the afternoon of August 12, 1771, Motier, having 
 changed his weather-stained traveling suit for his garb 
 of black, sat by his window and smoked the stone pipe 
 which had once been Ocebee's brother's. 
 
 Du Val had reached New Bern an hour before, and 
 had found to his disappointment that his father had 
 left for France on the previous day, answering a 
 summons to claim his share of a large estate. He had 
 
 343 
 
Wallannah 
 
 left a letter for his son, and its expressions were so 
 kindly, and the powers which it conferred in the 
 management of his father's interests in the province 
 were so broad, that Motier was greatly pleased. He 
 had sent Tonta, who was again with him, to Doctor 
 Boggs with a note from Maynard; but reserved 
 another note, to Miss De Vere, for personal delivery. 
 
 Motier's mind still clung to the incidents of the 
 weeks just past. He remembered above all else the day 
 that Herman Husbands had left the cavern of 
 Yaunocca; and he seemed even now to see the bulky 
 form of the leader of the Regulation disappearing into 
 the neck of the rocky gorge. The little band of patriots 
 had watched until Husbands had passed from their 
 view; and Captain Maynard and Motier, with 
 tight-pressed lips and with moisture in their eyes, had 
 stood there with them. It was a pitiful little farewell, 
 without salute or the dipping of flags or the sound of 
 music, and the pathos of that hour recurred to Motier 
 throughout all the remaining days of his life. Herman 
 Husbands had been all in all to these rugged men, 
 who had worked and hoped and prayed and fought for 
 a liberty that still stayed a long way off ; and Herman 
 Husbands, kindly, genial, great-hearted, and noble of 
 spirit, went from their lives with a wrench that brought 
 tears to the eyes of men whose hearts had never before 
 softened. What wonder then, that Howell, trying to 
 say a cheering word as they turned back to the cave, 
 felt his voice choke in his throat, and sat for a long 
 time with his face buried in his hands. Motier 
 remembered the expression of Howell's white, drawn 
 features as he looked up and said, "He was our last 
 
 344 
 
Cupid Seems in Trouble 
 
 hope, my brothers. There's nothing left for us but to 
 go back and say, The friend we loved has gone, and 
 our spirit has gone with him. Come on, boys I" And 
 with bowed heads they went into the Grand Hall to 
 prepare for their journey. Seeing and hearing these 
 things, Motier knew that the words were those of a 
 full heart, and that hope indeed was dead in those who 
 had staked their all on a vain fight for freedom. 
 
 After recalling the days at Yaunocca, Motier, 
 refilling his pipe, began thinking of Alice De Vere. 
 Did he love her? or did he not? And if not, why did 
 she come so persistently into his daily thoughts ? Why 
 had he ridden his horse to exhaustion to reach New 
 Bern as soon as he could ? and why had he told Tonta 
 to let him know when Fleetfoot was ready to carry him 
 to Beechwood? Why? And at every question came 
 the memory of a light-haired girl whose eyes had 
 naught but purity in their depths. 
 
 After an hour Tonta announced that Fleetfoot 
 awaited him; and Motier, thundering down the 
 stairway, bounded into the yard and mounting horse, 
 whispered into Fleetfoot's ear, "To her, boy; to her!" 
 And the dust flew from the road that led to Beechwood. 
 
 Great though his haste, Motier could not pass the 
 door of Boggs' office without seeing the worthy 
 doctor. So he swung from his saddle and entered the 
 doorway. 
 
 Quack met him. "Glad to see ye back from de 
 wahs, sah!" he said, with an expansive smile. "Dey 
 sayed de Injuns done got you, but I knowed you was 
 too much fer 'em." 
 
 "Glad to see you, Quack," answered Motier. 
 
 345 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "You're really looking handsome. And your ruffles 
 have come out again !" 
 
 The negro looked proudly at his shirt front. "Dat 
 Squeecy o' your'n sent de ol' uns back yestiddy — to 
 git 'em washed, I 'spec. Dese is new uns, bran new: 
 Mars Doctor got 'em made 'spressly fer me, sah. But, 
 walk in, sah ! Marster's a-lookin' fer you." 
 
 Boggs came forward, his spectacles shoved up to 
 the top of his forehead, and his face glowing with a 
 genial smile. "Du Val, God bless you !" he cried, "I'm 
 glad to get you back again. Come, sit right down and 
 tell me all about your fun. Here, Quack, wrap up 
 those pills. Du Val, my hearty ! these good people had 
 you drawn and quartered and burned at the stake, until 
 Neale and his party came back and said that you had 
 gone to Wallannah the day before the Cherokees 
 turned him loose. What happened after he left ? Did 
 you go to the mountains? Did you see Wallannah? 
 Tell me all about it." 
 
 Motier, consumed with impatience and eager to get 
 to the De Vere mansion, felt that Boggs, good friend 
 though he was, would never stop talking. But, 
 knowing that the doctor's interest was not that of idle 
 curiosity, he told him all that he knew. 
 
 "You have given me new hope," said the doctor 
 when Motier had told him his opinion of Mrs. 
 Maynard's mental condition. "She is better than when 
 I saw her last. The letter you sent me from the captain 
 says much the same. But, my dear boy, your 
 experiences have been so remarkable that I must put 
 them into a book. I have a fancy for writing, you 
 know." 
 
 346 
 
Cupid Seems in Trouble 
 
 "Let it be the book of your remembrance, tnen. 
 That will satisfy my ambition." 
 
 "Not a whit of it! Not a whit!" protested the 
 loquacious doctor. "Your ambitions demand, or will 
 demand, something better. You shall be known! 
 Whether you realize it or not, you are ambitious. But 
 your ambition is of the higher sort, that which scorns 
 unmerited distinction. There is another sort, of which 
 you know nothing, the ambition that only seeks 
 notoriety, notoriety of any kind. Tony Muckles is a 
 good specimen of that class. Have I ever told you of 
 Tony ? You see, Tony — " 
 
 Du Val interrupted him. "My dear doctor," he 
 said, with a laugh. "Don't tell me about Tony now. 
 It's a good story, and I'll ask you for it to-morrow; 
 but I have an appointment which presses me." 
 
 "Bless my soul! Have I interfered with an 
 engagement ? I beg your pardon ! I forgot you had 
 other friends in town." 
 
 "This errand is not in town, doctor. I am going 
 to Beechwood." 
 
 The doctor pulled down his spectacles and looked 
 sharply at his friend. "You are going to the De 
 Vere's ?" he asked, with some incredulity. 
 
 "Yes," responded Motier ; then, with a smile, "Why 
 not?" 
 
 "Well, you have more magnanimity than I 
 thought." He paused a moment, and noting the 
 puzzled expression of Du Val's face, added, "You have 
 heard, of course?" 
 
 "Heard what?" 
 
 "The news of Alice?" 
 
 347 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "I know no news of Alice. What do you mean ?" 
 
 "It should have been told you," answered Boggs, 
 with a slight embarrassment. "Du Val, my boy, I had 
 suspected that you had a leaning in her direction ; and 
 if you have, cut loose from it. She's on the verge of 
 marriage." 
 
 Motier tapped his boot with his riding whip. "And 
 to whom ?" he asked, with apparent carelessness. 
 
 "To Lord Durham." 
 
 "Durham? Why, my dear doctor, you must be 
 astray in your observations. His Lordship is too old 
 for Miss De Vere; and she is not the kind to sell 
 herself for gold and a title." 
 
 "I thought so — once," answered Boggs, sadly 
 shaking his head, "and I would gladly think so again. 
 She was long my ideal of maidenly perfection. I 
 myself denied the rumor when it first came the rounds ; 
 but the repetitions were too many for my faith. You 
 may as well go, however; and I trust you'll find her 
 the same pure-hearted girl you have always thought 
 her. If so we will both be pleased ; for I am overfond 
 of the child." 
 
 Du Val turned and looked thoughtfully out to the 
 street. Fleetfoot was pawing nervously, and champing 
 upon his bit. "I will go," said Motier, at last. "If ".t 
 ends badly for me, let it end." Then he turned to the 
 doctor. "Until to-morrow, my friend, adieu!" And 
 before Boggs could reach the door Fleetfoot was a 
 quarter-mile up the road. 
 
 Motier began thinking that things were in a pretty 
 stew. First was the firm-seated conviction that he felt 
 something more than friendliness for Alice. If Doctor 
 
 348 
 
Cupid Seems in Trouble 
 
 Boggs had heard the truth Motier's disappointment 
 would be a keen one. Du Val's moral code gave a low 
 mark to any woman whose ambition or avarice led her 
 to a loveless marriage. In his opinion the girl who 
 gave herself for a title and a fortune, without love, was 
 several degrees below the strange woman whose house 
 meant loss of hope to whomsoever went within. And 
 Alice in such a role ? The thought shocked him beyond 
 expression. But he determined to prove that his 
 confidence had not been misplaced. " 'Tis a lie !" he 
 muttered to himself ; and every time that a break in the 
 woods revealed the grey roofs of Beechwood his lips 
 framed that same sentence, " 'Tis a lie !" 
 
 At the door Motier was met by Mr. De Vere. '*Ah ! 
 my dear Motier," exclaimed the old gentleman, 
 grasping his hand, "can it indeed be you? and in 
 flesh and blood? We have mourned you as lost; 
 Captain Neale's reports were so dubious. But you 
 look well. Come in: the ladies are in the parlor. 
 We've been talking of you. Come! We'll greet you 
 en famille." 
 
 "You overwhelm me, monsieur. But I'm truly 
 glad to see you, and to note that you look so much 
 improved." 
 
 "A deceptive flush, my boy. I am no better. But 
 of that later. Come in 1" 
 
 Madame De Vere and Alice and Mary Ross arose 
 as Motier entered; and for the moment the room was 
 filled with a babble of greetings. 
 
 "Had you been a spirit," said Madame De Vere, 
 "we should hardly have been more surprised. But I 
 felt sure that if your Indian captors ever took you to 
 
 349 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Wallannah, you would be safe. How well you do 
 look!" 
 
 "Indeed," said Mary Ross, "you seem as one who 
 has been on a pleasure trip." 
 
 "Quite the reverse," laughed Metier. "If any one 
 had the pleasure it must have been a Cherokee. They 
 gave me little time for enjoyment." 
 
 Alice was the only one who acted under restraint. 
 Her words of welcome were halting and confused. 
 But her hand lingered a moment in his as they spoke a 
 few words to one another; and he saw a Httle flush 
 creep to her cheeks. At first he thought he understood 
 it, and his heart beat more quickly; but he changed 
 his mind in the same moment, and concluded that he 
 had no idea of what it meant. He had learned that 
 the less guessing he did about a woman's secret 
 thoughts, the fewer were his blunders. 
 
 "I have a letter from Captain Maynard to you. Miss 
 De Vere," he said, after an awkvv^ard pause. "He 
 exacted the promise that I deliver it into your own 
 hands." He presented the note with a bow, and she 
 saw that his smile was studiously cold. 
 
 Alice murmured her thanks. 
 
 ''Read it, my dear," said her mother, "while 
 Monsieur Du Val tells us of his adventures." 
 
 Motier followed ]\Iadame De Vere to the sofa with 
 some reluctance. A walk in the garden were more to 
 his liking, and Alice would have been his choice of 
 companion. But he was browbeaten after the gentle, 
 womanly fashion, and related his story, carefully 
 expunging his several deeds of blood. He made "some 
 fellow" the slayer of Ocebee, and "some other fellow" 
 
 350 
 
Cupid Seems in Trouble 
 
 the victor over Cantwell; for he wished to see the 
 effect of these sanguinary stories before he jeopardized 
 his position by talking too much of his own 
 achievements. 
 
 During this recital, Alice, while seeming to read, 
 betrayed by a hundred little glances that her chief 
 interest was in Motier's narrative; and indeed the 
 letter lay, after a few moments, on a chair beside her, 
 unheeded. Motier noticed this ; and a ray of comfort 
 came to him. But he had to confess that Alice had 
 not acted as does a woman v/ho keeps a bruised rosebud 
 in her album. 
 
 "How the time has passed," exclaimed De Vere, 
 when Motier had concluded. "You have actually made 
 me forget my medicine, and my headache as well. 
 Your stories have made my blood tingle. I can hardly 
 realize that you have been through all these things; 
 but, you see, I'm not a man of action, and adventures 
 are all strange to me." 
 
 Motier arose. "I am sorry to leave such friends," 
 he said, "but I must go. I'm afraid indeed that you 
 will make an egotist of me if I remain longer." 
 
 "But not so soon," protested Madame De Vere. 
 "We supposed you would stay to supper, at least." 
 
 "And through the night also," put in De Vere. 
 "Your old room has been lonely since you left. Really,' 
 Motier, you are leaving us too early." 
 
 "You overpower me with kindness," answered 
 Motier. "But my return must be in response to duty. 
 I am under promise." 
 
 "But, assuredly, not before supper," interposed 
 Mary Ross, pleadingly. "It will be served in a 
 moment." ^cj 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Motier smiled. "Assuredly, before supper," he 
 responded, "but not without great regret." He moved 
 toward the door. 
 
 Of them all, Alice alone had said nothing. 
 
 "But you will come again, very soon?" questioned 
 Madame De Vere. 
 
 "To-morrow, if you will let me." 
 
 "To-morrow it shall be, then. Come at eleven, and 
 the fat of the land shall be yours." 
 
 Motier, leaving them on the veranda, rode slowly 
 back to New Bern. He was puzzled and disappointed 
 by Alice's demeanor. Had all that Boggs told him 
 been true, the girl would have acted as she did: had 
 the rumor been false, why then should she have kept 
 such distance and met him so coldly? Their parting 
 that April morning might have given rise to some 
 feeling of lasting resentment in her; but, if so, why 
 had she kept the rose? Then came another question: 
 had she thrown it away since Esther had seen it? 
 Somehow, he thought that she had. 
 
 Motier keeping his promise, returned to Beechwood 
 on the morrow. Lord Durham was there before him. 
 It was plainly to be seen that his Lordship was in favor 
 with Alice ; and the girl, for her part, made no effort 
 to conceal her affection. Yet Du Val could entertain 
 no envy of Durham, for he was irresistibly drawn 
 toward the nobleman. Notwithstanding, Motier did 
 not feel at ease. But neither by word nor by action 
 did he show that his composure was a well-worn mask. 
 He exerted himself to please, and succeeded with a 
 success that overtopped that of every previous effort. 
 Still, he was glad enough co get away. 
 
Cupid Seems in Trouble 
 
 Several days later Motier, determined to have an 
 interview with Alice, came again to the country 
 mansion. Mr. De Vere had caught a severe cold and 
 was ill in his room, attended by Madame and by Mary 
 Ross. Thus did good fortune leave Ahce to discharge 
 the duties of hostess ; and therefore did Motier go far 
 from the truth when he said that he was sorry not to 
 see the absent members of the household. 
 
 I 
 
 353 
 
Wallannah 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 The Fortune-Teller Plays a Hand 
 
 N the darkened parlor Du Val and Alice 
 talked for a few moments, aimlessly, and 
 with little satisfaction to either, and Alice, 
 realizing the unpleasantness of the situation, 
 proposea a walk in the garden, which suggestion 
 Alotier accepted with unbecoming haste. Together 
 they walked down the broad hallway, he towering far 
 above her, and she smiling as she tried to time her 
 steps to his great strides. At the stone stairway to the 
 graveled walk, Motier, with some return of the old 
 spirit, extended his hand to her as she stood for a brief 
 moment at the edge of the uppermost step. 
 
 "Permit me to hand you down, my Lady," he said, 
 watching for her notice of the title which he gave her, 
 and which, forsooth, he was convinced Durham would 
 scon make good. Alice, frankly meeting his quizzical 
 glance, gave him her hand. 
 
 "You are kind, my Lord," she answered, with no 
 show of embarrassment. So, raising her hand 
 shoulder-high, and keeping always on the step below 
 her, he led her to the garden. She looked down the 
 path with a swift glance. 
 
 "This was once your favorite promenade," she said, 
 lifting her skirt a little from the dust. "Have you 
 forgotten ?" 
 
 354 
 
The Fortune-Teller Plays a Hand 
 
 "Forgotten?" he echoed, vainly seeking a glimpse 
 of her averted face. "A man cannot forget, even when 
 he tries." 
 
 They walked toward the rustic bench. Alice 
 stopped at the bush from which she had picked the 
 white rose and reached out her hand; then, after a 
 moment's hesitation, drew it back again. 
 
 Motier watched her, knowing that the time was 
 near when something would be said. 
 
 She turned toward him, and he saw the color rush 
 to her temples. "M'sieur Du Val," she said, "I have 
 done you a great wrong." 
 
 "Boggs was right," thought Motier, gloomily. ''I 
 can easily admit her wrong." But he did not answer 
 her. 
 
 "I want to explain it to you," she continued, looking 
 down as she nervously fingered the chain which held 
 her fan. "The last time you were here I was misled 
 by your acceptance of an office on Governor Tryon's 
 staff, knowing as I did that the governor was Captain 
 Maynard's bitterest enemy. Remembering that our 
 friend had really saved your life by bringing you here 
 after your runaway accident, I thought it strange that 
 you should repay him by going to war against him. 
 But I have read Captain Maynard's letter. He writes 
 of your gallantry, and of your faithful discharge of the 
 debt of gratitude which you owed him. With all of 
 this before me I want to ask — " But, woman-like, she 
 would beg no forgiveness: instead, she amended her 
 question. "You don't think badly of me, do you ?" she 
 asked, with bewitching frankness. 
 
 "Think badly of you!" Motier smiled into the 
 
 355 
 
Wallannah 
 
 eyes which were upturned to his. "I'm really afraid 
 that I think too well of you — too often, anyway." He 
 knew enough of woman-nature to foresee that his 
 assertion would pass without response; but he made 
 the move, trusting to luck for its effect. 
 
 The cast was a bad one, for she evaded, of course. 
 "I condemned you without a hearing," she admitted, 
 "and that, you know, isn't good law." 
 
 "I trust that vour verdict has been reversed," he 
 said. "I am reasonably independent, but I cannot 
 afford to forfeit your good opinion." 
 
 "My good opinion, M'sieur, was oniy shaken for 
 the moment ; it was never overthrown." 
 
 "I am happy to know it," he said. "But let me ask 
 you : have you forgiven my hasty return of the rose 
 which you gave me that morning?" 
 
 She smiled just a little. "Positively, I can never 
 forgive that; for it did not please me. But perhaps 
 you Vv-ere right ; and, giving you the benefit of the 
 doubt, I will grant a conditional pardon." 
 
 "And the condition?" 
 
 "No second offense." 
 
 "No chance," he thought to himself; but he said 
 aloud: "Then we are friends?" 
 
 She held out her hand, and he raised it to his lips. 
 Then they looked at one another, and she, laughingly, 
 said: "You should be an actor." Then, reaching out 
 and picking the rose which she had left untouched a 
 few moments before, "you say and do things just like a 
 player." 
 
 "Like a good actor, or a bad one?" 
 
 "Like an excellent one." 
 
 356 
 
The Fortune-Teller Plays a Hand 
 
 "I am gratified to have you think that. An excellent 
 actor, as you know, always lives the part he plays. I 
 play the part I live, which is the same — " 
 
 "But decidedly different," she interrupted, turning 
 toward the rustic bench. "Let us seek the shadier 
 spot." 
 
 Seating themselves under a great magnolia tree, 
 they were silent for a very brief time. 
 
 Then Motier broached the subject which was 
 foremost in his mind. "Hov/ forgetful I am!" he 
 exclaimed, with admirable suddenness. "I have 
 neglected to congratulate you." 
 
 She raised her eyebrows and looked at him 
 curiously. "Congratulate me? Upon what, nray 
 tell me?" 
 
 "Upon finding one more worthy than I to wear 
 your colors." 
 
 She gave a short, mystified laugh. "Riddles and 
 enigmas, M'sieur!" was her retort. "I am a poor 
 analyst: what do you mean?" 
 
 "Really now, can you not guess ?" 
 
 "Not if I tried forever." 
 
 He studied her closely; but she was beautiful, and 
 a woman, so his scrutiny availed him nothing. "But 
 you are to be married?" he ventured. 
 
 She laughed. "Am I? Then do congratulate me. 
 Sir Knight; but afterward name me my victim." 
 
 "My congratulations are on record ; and the 
 fortunate one — Lord Durham, of course." 
 
 "Yes, certainly; of course. But how do you 
 know ?" 
 
 "I have heard it all," he answered, hopelessly. 
 
 357 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Well, M'sieiir Dii Val, be good to me now, and 
 tell me all. I myself have not heard a word of it." 
 
 "You are not to marry Lord Durham ?" 
 
 "Positively, no." 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 Alice laughed at his discomfiture. "You are brief," 
 she said. 
 
 "I am paralyzed." 
 
 He scanned her radiant face and tried again to 
 puzzle out her thoughts. Wisely, however, he 
 abandoned the task, "Whence comes the smoke if 
 there be no fire ?" he asked, with unpardonable unbelief. 
 
 "The scandal is not without ground," she replied, 
 glancing down and brushing a tiny spider from the 
 rose in her hand, "for I love Lord Durham dearly; 
 and some day I can tell you all there is to tell. Truly, 
 though, it is not what you think it to be." 
 
 "I am very glad." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 Motier seized upon the encouragement of the 
 half-questioning word. "I am glad," he hastened to 
 say, "because I am now able to tell you what before 
 I could not. Going back centuries into the past, let me 
 talk about the white rose ! Do you know that I have 
 regretted a thousand times that I ever sent it back to 
 you?" 
 
 " 'Centuries,' and 'a thousand times' ! M'sieur, how 
 atrociously you exaggerate ! But you honestly wanted 
 the flower?" 
 
 "Yes; really." 
 
 "I have kept it for you ; but it is sadly withered." 
 
 "You remember what you told me ?" 
 
 358 
 
The Fortune-Teller Plays a Hand 
 
 "That you could have another ?" 
 
 "The very words." 
 
 "Well, here it is. Have you a pin ?" 
 
 "The same one." He flushed a little. "I have kept 
 it ever since." 
 
 "Foolish boyl" she rejoined, reaching out to his 
 coat lapel. "That was very dangerous : old pins give 
 people lockjaw, they say." 
 
 "Handle it carefully, then; it's millions of years 
 old." 
 
 "Have no fear," she answered, pinning the rose into 
 place, "women never have lockjaw." 
 
 Motier, yielding to a great temptation, pressed his 
 lips upon the fingers which rested on his coat. Alice 
 drew her hand quickly away. She reddened, and -.at 
 looking straight before her with a little line between 
 her brows. 
 
 After a very long silence Motier bent slightly 
 forward. "Did I understand you to say," he 
 questioned, with assumed seriousness, "that women are 
 never afflicted with lockjaw?" 
 
 She turned her eyes until they met his. But she 
 did not answer him. After a moment she averted her 
 face. 
 
 Motier, resting his hand upon the back of the 
 settee, moved closer to her. "Alice," he said, gently, 
 "perhaps I v/as wrong, and perhaps I can only make 
 matters worse by speaking; but, candidly, I had no 
 wish to resist the temptation which came in my way 
 when you pinned that flower to my coat. Measured 
 by a man's standard, the act was a little one ; but, truly, 
 it carried mv whole heart with it. I kissed the hand 
 
 359 
 
Wallannah 
 
 because I loved the woman to whom it belonged." He 
 stopped and waited ; but she did not answer. Then he 
 slipped one hand toward hers. His heart gave a quick 
 leap as her fingers closed about his. But still her eyes 
 were fixed on a far-off boxwood hedge. 
 
 "Alice,"' he said, taking up the thread of his 
 declaration, "I have told you what I should have kept 
 secret for a longer time. You know me but httle, 
 while I have known and loved you all my life, first in 
 the ideal and afterward in its incarnation. 
 
 "You were with me in every hour of the weeks I 
 spent in the army and in the wilderness," he continued, 
 desperately. "Nothing but my thoughts of you gave 
 me comfort in the days of my imprisonment ; and 
 when the Cherokees had me in their council lodge, I 
 wondered if you would care if their verdict went 
 against me." 
 
 The clasp of her hand tightened perceptibly. 
 
 "Then," he went on, "when death twice looked me 
 in the face, I thought, 'would she care, if she knew?' 
 But I had to come back to Beechwood for the 
 answer." 
 
 She did not turn, but he noticed a slight trembling 
 of her lips. "Don't talk like that, Motier," she 
 entreated, in a voice such as he had once heard in a 
 dream. "You do not know how it hurts me." 
 
 "Would you really have cared?" he asked, quickly. 
 
 She turned her gaze full upon his eager, questioning 
 face. "Would I have cared?" she repeated, softly. 
 "Must I tell you that I would have cared ?" 
 
 "No ; but tell me you are glad that I have told you 
 this." 
 
 360 
 
The Fortune-Teller Plays a Hand 
 
 "I think — " she faltered, lowering her eyes, ''I 
 think that I am very glad." 
 
 He slipped his arm to her waist. She looked up, a 
 vivid jflush overspreading her cheeks, and he kissed 
 her quickly upon the lips. 
 
 "That was wrong, Motier," she admonished, 
 playing with the seal-ring on his finger. "I'm afraid 
 you're terribly — terribly — " 
 
 "Bashful?" he suggested. 
 
 "No ; not at all bashful." 
 
 "Dull of comprehension ?" 
 
 "Lamentably." 
 
 "What have I failed to comprehend ?" 
 
 "You have comprehended, Motier ; but — " 
 
 "But I took so long, do you mean?" 
 
 "You were a little slow in seeing." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "That secret is mine. But, truly, Motier, do you 
 love me as you say ?" 
 
 "Do I, dearest ? Yes ; devotedly and reverently. 
 And are you fully convinced that I meet the 
 requirements?" 
 
 She shook her head. "Less than half of them." 
 She arose, brushing some rose leaves from her skirt: 
 "I will say, however, that fifty per cent, is very, very 
 high." 
 
 "I shall try for a hundred," he said, as he rose and 
 walked up the path with her, 
 
 "Useless, Motier. You would fail; and then, you 
 see, I'm — I'm satisfied." 
 
 Motier took her face between his hands and kissed 
 her until her laughing protests were smothered. 
 
 361 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Then she broke away from him. "You have 
 lowered your standing to ten per cent.," she cried, from 
 a safe distance. 
 
 "If it works that way," retorted Motier, overtaking 
 her and securing her arm with his, "I shall try to cut it 
 to zero." 
 
 Thus it was that Motier hummed gayly-timed 
 ballads as, an hour or so later, he let Fleetfoot find the 
 way back to New Bern. 
 
 There was great happiness in the days that 
 followed. Motier was a frequent visitor at Beechwood ; 
 for feeling now that he was preferred far above Lord 
 Durham, he determined that his Lordship should stay 
 in the background as long as he could keep him there. 
 Of Alice's truth and purity of purpose he had no 
 doubt. Boggs's ill-born chimera had been laughingly 
 stowed away in his hall of visionary relics. 
 
 The garden soon oppressed this couple with its 
 smallness ; and they found a leafy bower, built by the 
 sprites of the wood, where the slow-TOing waters of I 
 the Neuse ebbed and rose again to lass the grass and 
 flowers at their feet. Thither Du Val had brought one 
 day — to Alice's great amusement — a woodsman's 
 axe ; and, with strong blows that made the white chips 
 fall showering, had felled a thick cypress tree across 
 the tiny glade. This was their pew in God's own 
 temple, where they sat and listened to the sermons of 
 the river and of the wood and of the birds that swept 
 over the one and lingered hiding in the other. They 
 listened, moreover, to other sounds; for each said 
 much, and the words they spoke were in low tones, 
 and went side by side with the glance of the eve -^nd 
 
 362 
 
The Fortune-Teller Plays a Hand 
 
 the touch of the hand that make mere words seem 
 empty and meaningless. 
 
 One morning, after a week of cloudless happiness, 
 Motier and Alice, hearing a slight sound behind them, 
 turned and saw a stout, red-faced woman enter their 
 bush-girt bower. She wore a huge sun-bonnet, was 
 dressed in blue calico, and swayed as she walked. 
 
 "Gentle folk," she said, with an awkward curtsey, 
 "can I tell yer fortunes ?" 
 
 Alice answered her. "My good woman," she said, 
 with a smile, "there is no need: we are quite 
 well satisfied with our present ignorance. But, 
 notwithstanding, you shall have your penny." And 
 she held out a small coin. 
 
 The woman gave a resolute shake of the head. "I 
 don't want no money, purty one," she said, drawing 
 nearer to Alice. "But I'd like to tell yer fortunes jes' 
 the same : thar ain't no harm in it ; not a bit. I like 
 yer sweet face, missis; an' p'r'aps I mought do you 
 some good. Lemme see yer han' : 'twon't do you no 
 hurt." 
 
 Alice held out her shapely hand and the woman 
 took it in her broad, hard palm. "To gratify your 
 wish," she said, laughingly, "here is my hand; but, 
 remember, good woman, the fortune must be a bright 
 
 one." 
 
 "Mebbe not; but I'll tell it jes' the same. Well, 
 well, I never! See the little lines a-running' down 
 thar, an' all a-crossin'? That's whar yer life has its 
 beginnin'. An' thar's heaps o' trebble thar." An' 
 here — poor gal 1 An' here yer line o' life gits tangled 
 up 'ith another what ain't your'n; an' it gits kinder 
 
 363 
 
Wallannah 
 
 lost. An' bless me ! How it shifts about ! Fer here 
 youVe come clean out in the wrong place. Why you 
 ain't yerself, missis ; yer somebody else !" 
 
 JMotier laughed and began chopping at the tree with 
 his knife ; but Alice paled a little and shook her hand 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Go on !" the girl said, in a low voice. 
 
 "I'm a goin' to," replied the woman, slowly tracing 
 the palm-lines with her rough finger. "Smooth enough 
 down to here; but now comes trebble ag'in. Purty 
 one, thar's danger ahead o' you. I give you plain 
 warnin'. You love somebody as loves you ; an' he's all 
 right hisself." 
 
 Motier looked sharply at the woman. But, meeting 
 his gaze, she did not waver. 
 
 "But this man ain't fer you," she went on, "nor you 
 ain't fer him. You mustn't marry him, missis. You'd 
 better go jump in the river then to do it. I'm mons'ous 
 sorry; but it's so. He's a dark-haired man." She 
 turned toward Motier. "Jes' sich a lookin' one as you, 
 young master; an' it may be you, sence you two's 
 a-settin' here so companion-like together. Can't you 
 let me see yer han', sir ?" 
 
 "Not to-day," answered Motier, coldly. "And 
 on general principles I must advise you to stop 
 looking at hers. You can do no good with your 
 guess-work." 
 
 Alice was looking fixedly toward the river, and her 
 eyes wore a look of trouble. 
 
 The fortune-teller turned back to the girl. "I'm 
 sorry ef I've hurt yer feelin's, missis," she said, with 
 some tenderness, "but it couldn't be helped. Think a 
 
 364 
 
The Fortune-Teller Plays a Hand 
 
 bit on what I said. "You'd better heed the warnin'. 
 Good bye t' ye both." 
 
 "Why do you let this worry you, Alice?" asked 
 Motier, when the woman had gone. "You surely give 
 no weight to her words?" 
 
 "Perhaps not, Motier; but I'm sorry she came 
 here." 
 
 "Dismiss the thought," said Motier, "and remain, 
 with me, in the highlands of hope 1" 
 
 305 
 
Wallannah 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 Unpleasant Revelations — With a Few 
 Reflections on Paternity 
 
 IDING homeward nearly two hours later, 
 Motier, meeting at a turning in the road the 
 woman who had told Alice's 'fortune,' 
 reined in his horse. 
 
 "My good woman," he said, bending over 
 Fleetfoot's neck and looking beneath the sun-bonnet, 
 "who paid you to come to us with your fortune-telling ? 
 You had some purpose; for women of your vocation 
 do not practice their art for nothing." 
 
 The woman raised her face and smiled broadly. 
 "An' you don't know me, young master?" she asked. 
 "I'm ol' Peggy McFaddin, the woman you fou't for on 
 the p'rade groun' that day. I never forgot yer 
 goodness ; an' I ain't never goin' to. I've waited a 
 long time fer a chance to do you good. When I heerd 
 you was in a dang'rous place, I come to see you, soon 
 as I could." 
 
 "And you think, Peggy, that you have done me 
 good by giving trouble to this young friend of mine." 
 
 The smile faded from her lips, and tears came into 
 her eyes. "I tried moughty hard to do you good, sir, ' 
 she said. "But, young master, it's God's truth, you 
 mustn't marry that 'ere gal. She's a sweet un; an' I 
 
 366 
 
Unpleasant Revelations 
 
 reckon you love 'er; as Bob sez, 'twould be ag'in' 
 natur' ef you didn't. But still, you can't marry 'er. 
 'Twould make the both o' you mis'rable when you come 
 to know the hull thing." 
 
 Motier crossed one knee over the saddle-bow and 
 sitting side-wise of the horse regarded the old woman 
 with a sternness that would have abashed a less honest 
 person. "Suppose you explain this remarkable thing 
 to me," he suggested, coolly. "Your story interests 
 me through its very absurdity." 
 
 "I kinder hoped what I said this mornin' was goin* 
 to stop the match ; but young folk is hard to convence 
 nowadays. You mean you don't believe me ?" 
 
 "You have told me nothing to be believed — at least 
 nothing that I can understand. If you are the friend 
 you claim to be, tell me whv I must not marry Miss 
 De Vere?" 
 
 "It's a secret I said I wouldn't tell. But you helped 
 me in my trebble, an' I'm a-goin' to help you in your'n. 
 To tell you the fust thing : I nussed you when you was 
 a babby." 
 
 "You ? Have you ever lived in France ?" Motier's 
 question had in it more of sarcasm than of inquiry. 
 
 "No, master ; I ain't no outlandisher : I'm Car'lina. 
 But I nussed you jes' the same." 
 
 Du Val swung back into the saddle. "You carry 
 your story too far, my good woman," he said, with a 
 dry laugh. "I was born in France ; and if you nursed 
 me, it must have been there. Step aside, please, and 
 give me the road." 
 
 "Jes' wait a bit ! Don't go on so brash. You must 
 hear me." 
 
 367 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "When you fout fer me that day, so bold an' 
 gentleman-like, I seed a mark like three cherries on yer 
 arm 'bove yer wris'. I knowed you from that; and 
 when I seen them eyes o' your'n, thar warn't no 
 mistake. On the other arm, jes' 'bove the elbow, you've 
 got a anchor 'longside the letter M. Bob worked it in 
 ink afore he took you off to sea. Ain't it thar ?" 
 
 Motier had whitened a little, and he restrained 
 impatient Fleetfoot with an iron hand. "Yes; it is 
 there," he said, in a hard, tense voice. "Go ahead 
 with your story." 
 
 She reached down to her pocket. "Mayhap you 
 have seen the match o' this," she said, bringing out a 
 child's bracelet with ruby settings. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, with a strange look in his eyes. 
 "I had the mate of it at home — in France. Now, in 
 God's good name, tell me what you know of me." 
 
 "Sence you b'lieve me now," she said, dropping the 
 bracelet back into her pocket, "I can be the frien' you 
 need. The Lord knows you need one bad. But I can't 
 tell you nothin' now. Come to my house to-morrer, 
 'bout ten o'clock — Bob'll be gone then — an' I'll tell 
 you all I knows. Cross over the Trent River, an' ride 
 down 'bout two mile. Then ask fer McFaddin's house : 
 anybody'll tell you whar it is. Will you come, sure?" 
 
 "If I live, I will. But tell me one thing before you 
 go. Why must I keep from marrying Miss De Vere ?" 
 
 "Because the gal's yer own sister !" 
 
 The blow was a stunning one. Riding on to New 
 Bern, with Peggy McFaddin far behind him in the 
 road, Du Val felt that the cup of bitterness had been 
 
 368 
 
Unpleasant Revelations 
 
 handed him filled to overflowing. Were these things 
 true, France was not his home, M. Du Val was not his 
 father, and Alice could never be his wife. For France 
 he cared but little, seeing that he had been driven from 
 her shores ; but the man he had called father from his 
 toddling childhood ? and the woman he loved as a man 
 loves but once in a life? — these two were all the world 
 to him. 
 
 Then, the complications concentrated into one ; for 
 each seemed to hinge upon the other. If M. Du Val 
 was not his father, who was? Mr. De Vere? He was 
 Alice's father, and if he and she were brother and 
 sister, must it not be so? Yet how could these two 
 people have lost him, or having lost him, why had they 
 spoken of Alice as the only child that had blessed their 
 marriage ? These were perplexing questions : who am 
 I? and who is my father? and who is my mother? 
 and how is Alice my sister? and what does the 
 whole thing mean? Conspirators, Indians and love 
 affairs combined had never produced such cause for 
 sleeplessness. 
 
 When Motier and Tonta met before breakfast the 
 next morning, the Indian looked at his master 
 with v/ide-open eyes, "Caiheek sick?" he asked, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 "Yes, Tonta ; sick as a stag with an arrow through 
 the shoulder. Find me my pipe and some tobacco." 
 
 But Tonta still looked at Motier's face. "Brown 
 Eyes come 'g'in ?" he questioned, acutely. 
 
 "Brown eyes? What the devil do you know about 
 brown eyes!" 
 
 Tonta recoiled a little from his master's scowl. 
 
 369 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Know plenty," he said, sturdily. "Know Caiheek 
 Lieuten't in Charl'ton." 
 
 "Well, confound it! So did I. Get me my pipe 
 and tobacco: I don't feel like talking." 
 
 Tonta had never seen Motier in such a frame of 
 mind ; and it troubled the boy. He brought the filled 
 pipe to Du Val, who had seated himself by the window. 
 
 "Bad Spirit make Caiheek sick," he ventured, with 
 much trepidation. "Good Spirit cure Caiheek: call 
 Good Spirit." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" Motier was looking 
 at the boy from beneath close-drawn eyebrows. 
 
 "Mean what say. Caiheek call Good Spirit. Good 
 Spirit save Caiheek at Yaunocca — make him cure 
 now." 
 
 Motier lit his pipe, and looked reflectively at the 
 smoke which wound in a blue spiral from the stone 
 bowl. His face cleared a little as he thought. "Weil, 
 Tonta, you beat me," he said, at the end of a lengthy 
 pause. "You can preach better than you can practice,' 
 
 "Caiheek call Good Spirit?" he persisted, still 
 looking into Motier's haggard face. 
 
 "I will see, Tonta," answered the master. Go 
 down now, and see that Fleetfoot is fed." 
 
 After the Indian had left, Motier sat for a long 
 time smoking and looking down at the floor. When the 
 pipe had gone out, he leaned forward with his elbows 
 on his knees and with his hands hanging listlessly 
 below. The pipe which he held in the grasp of his 
 fingers rested with its bowl upon the floor. After a 
 time he began muttering something in a lov/ tone, 
 mechanically tapping the while with the carved calumet 
 
 370 
 
Unpleasant Revelations 
 
 upon the bare floor. When he straightened np, his 
 jaws were firmly set, and his expression calm. 
 
 "Any one who takes that Indian for a fool misses 
 by a full mile," he said; and something like a ray of 
 cheerfulness crossed his clear-cut features. 
 
 Motier found the McFaddin house with but little 
 difficulty. Peggy, arrayed in her best, awaited him; 
 and 'Bob' was not there. When they had seated 
 themselves the old woman opened the conversation. 
 
 "I tell you, young master," she said, with a twinkle 
 in her eyes, "when Bob took you out o' this here door 
 years an' years agone, my ol' eyes never did hope fer 
 the sight o' you ag'in. Bob hed to take you to furrin 
 lan's to save yer little life ; fer them as ought to took 
 keer o' you, went ag'n' natur' and was yer wust 
 enemies. But Bob an' me carcumvented 'em — that 
 is him ; fer thar warn't but one we was afeerd of. But, 
 Massy on us ! How things is turned about ! Here you 
 be ag'in, a fine growed-up man as is able to stand fer 
 yer own rights ! You'll git yer rights, too. Mark my 
 words: the finger o' God is in this 'ere thing: he's 
 a-helpin' you now, or you couldn't 'a' stood it so well." 
 
 "I agree with you, Peggy," answered Motier. 
 "Now, tell me what you can of my history. I'm rather 
 eager to know the truth." 
 
 "I knows you must be that, young master. An' I'll 
 be as short as I can, fearin' somebody mought come in." 
 
 Peggy's story was, in effect, that Motier had been 
 stolen from his mother many years before by an Indian 
 woman who lived about the white settlements. 
 McFaddin chancing to meet the squaw, had so alarmed 
 her that she dropped the infant in the road and made 
 
 271 
 
Wallannah 
 
 her escape. There Bob picked up the child and brought 
 it home to Peggy. On the baby's arm was a mark, a 
 red blotch, like in form to three clustered cherries with 
 tiny scarlet lines for the stems. She was very 
 circumstantial in her account of the visit of a certain 
 well-known man to their house a few days after Bob 
 had found the child, and she narrated with great 
 fidelity the incidents of the offering of the medicine, 
 and the poisoning and the burial of Bowzer, the dog. 
 But Peggy refused flatly to divulge the name of this 
 visitor. "That mought git Bob into trebble," sha 
 insisted, "an' I couldn't tell it 'less Bob said so. P'r'aps 
 ef you ask him, he'll tell you." 
 
 "But suppose he won't tell," remarked Motier. 
 "Then what?" 
 
 "I reckon he will tell. I'll make him do it. You've 
 got a right to know, seein' the man's yer own father. 
 It wouldn't be nat'ral fer to keep it from you." 
 
 Motier looked thoughtfully out of the window ; but 
 his features gave little sign of the tumult that raged 
 within. "You think that this ma — this fellow was my 
 father ?" he asked, in a constrained voice. 
 
 "So Bob found out," answered Peggy, her eyes 
 flooding with tears. "But, young m.aster, don't fret 
 yerself no more 'n you can help. It warn't no fault o' 
 your'n; an' p'r'aps after all the man warn't so bad. 
 He may have made a mistake 'bout the p'ison. Folks 
 sez he's a good man; an' I hope fer yer own sake 
 he is." 
 
 "Well, tell me the rest of it," he said, wearily. "It's 
 not a pleasant story; but I guess it means something 
 to me." 
 
 372 
 
Unpleasant Revelations 
 
 "Well, long after Bob took you to the furrin lan's," 
 she continued, "we found out yer mother was the good 
 missis, Mary Ross." 
 
 Motier started. "Mary Ross?" he said, stupefied. 
 "You don't mean the De Vere's friend ?" 
 
 "She's jes' the one, sir. Her husban' run ofif an' 
 lef her with two childer — you an' Miss Alice. Then 
 he married some other woman. Miss Mary reckoned 
 f er a long time as her husband war dead ; but she was 
 a-hopin' an' a-hopin' all the time to find the Injun gal 
 what stole her babby boy. Miss Mary was that proud 
 she wouldn't have nothin' to do with her husban' when 
 she foun' him ; an' she ain't been to see 'im sence, 
 neither. So, after a long time, when Miss Mary made 
 up her min' the boy was dead (we couldn't tell her 
 nothin' you see, 'cause we never knowed whar the boy 
 was after Bob lef him in the furrin country) after she 
 reckoned the boy was dead, an' havin' nothin' to keep 
 her from starvin', she let the little gal be 'dopted by 
 Madam De Vere an' her husban', who didn't have no 
 chick ner child o' their own. All that she asked was to 
 be 'lowed to live with the gal as her gov'ness." 
 
 Motier listened to this recital with a composure that 
 brought wonder to Peggy's simple heart. But his 
 feelings were playing havoc with his nerves. 
 
 "You make out a bad case for this 'good man,* as 
 you called the scoundrel you think is my father, but, 
 thank God ! I'm not ashamed of the one you think my 
 mother." 
 
 "' Shamed o' her ! Lordy, boy ! She's a true 
 woman, an' a lady borned an' bred." 
 
 "She doesn't know that I'm alive, then?" 
 
 373 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Not as we knows on." 
 
 "Who was the Indian woman who is thought to 
 have stolen me ?" 
 
 "I ain't got much use fer Injuns, you see; an' I 
 don't know none of 'em — praised be God! But I've 
 heerd this one was Seeky or Cheeky, or some sich 
 name." 
 
 "H'm ! I half knew it : Sequa, you mean." 
 
 "You knowed her?" 
 
 "I met her once — a very handsome woman." 
 
 "Awful bad an' shameless lookin', I'm a-thinkin'; 
 but you see, I don't keer much fer Injuns." 
 
 And these were the things that Motier Du Val, or 
 whosoever he might be, learned concerning himself 
 from the Hps of Peggy McFaddin. The situation was 
 a little clearer. Accepting as true all that Peggy had 
 told him — and, M. Du Val being in mid-ocean, Motier 
 had no other source of information than the sailor's 
 wife — he knew who his mother was; but his father? 
 Motier felt something akin to bloodthirstiness at the 
 thought. The man must needs be a betrayer or a 
 bigamist, perhaps the principal in Sequa's kidnapping 
 venture, undoubtedly a would-be child-poisoner, and 
 certainly a hypocrite of deepest dye. And this was his 
 father? Faugh! the word father, applied to such a 
 Thing, tasted badly in the mouth. 
 
 Motier contrasted this type of creature with the 
 high-minded, noble-hearted man whom he had called 
 father until now, and whom he would still call father 
 until M. Du Val with his ovv^n lips disclaimed the tie. 
 Never had man been kinder to a son than had this one 
 been to Motier ; wealth and position, love and fatherly 
 
 374 
 
Unpleasant Revelations 
 
 protection, and a perfect sympathy in all things : these 
 were what M. Du Val had given to him. 
 
 And that other man! What was his heritage? A 
 clouded birthright, a name that stood for dishonor and 
 unmeasured deceit, and the mark of Cain upon that 
 paternal brow. 
 
 Then Mary Ross, his mother? His heart warmed 
 toward her ; but yet not as a son's toward his mother. 
 Time alone could bring that affection. She had been 
 terribly wronged ; and his first act would be to seek an 
 interview with her, and learn his father's name. After 
 that would come the righting of the wrongs. He 
 turned Fleetfoot's head toward Beechwood. Then he 
 remembered Peggy's words and feared that undue 
 haste might involve the good woman and her husband 
 in deep trouble. He decided, rather reluctantly, to 
 defer his talk with Mary Ross until after his interview 
 with McFaddin. 
 
 Stopping at the inn he wrote a note to the sailor, 
 and dispatched it post-haste by Tonta. This was to 
 keep Peggy from the wrath v;hich might fall upon her 
 should her husband learn that she had divulged the one 
 great secret of their lives. 
 
 When Tonta had clattered down the road on his 
 speckled pony, Motier came down again to the stable 
 yard; and, swinging into the saddle, he turned 
 Fleetfoot's head again toward Beechwood. For he 
 would risk yet another talk with Alice before that which 
 stood between them became known. As he saw the 
 grey gables in the distance, and traced the outlines of 
 the trees that overhung the garden, he saw again the 
 girl in white, and feit the touch of her lips on his, 
 
 375 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Alice ! Alice ! The name came to his Hps on the tide 
 of a half -choked sob, and he felt that nothing was left 
 in the world but misery. 
 
 Arriving at Beechwood, Motier, meeting the 
 footman and receiving the assurance that Alice was 
 alone in the parlor, strode down the hall to the 
 half-opened door. 
 
 "Alice!" he called, softly, as he thrust his head 
 through the opening and glanced about the dimly 
 lighted room. 
 
 The sound of voices came from the corner by the 
 harpsichord. Motier turned and looked. Alice, fairer 
 than ever, stood there; but Lord Durham was with 
 her. More than that, his arms were about her, and 
 their lips were met in a kiss. In that moment Alice 
 caught sight of Motier's face, and gave a startled cry ; 
 but he shut the door behind him, and hastily leaving 
 the house rode back to New Bern. 
 
 "Boggs was right," he growled, as Fleetfoot 
 galloped down the road. "Durham has the lucky dice. 
 I wish him joy." But in his heart was the longing love 
 for Alice — Alice as he had thought her in the other 
 days. 
 
 Motier went to his room at the inn, and wrote a 
 hurried letter. He worded it thus : 
 
 "Dear AHce : I have made an unfortunate discovery 
 which so alters our relations that the recollection of our 
 past happiness is embittered. It seems that the 
 fortune-teller spoke better than we knew. I shall 
 always regard you with such love as a man can give a 
 sister, but the warmer attachment seems ill-advised at 
 present. For a while, farewell. Motier Du Val/'- 
 
 376 
 
Unpleasant Revelations 
 
 "There!" he said, as he folded the sheet. "If she 
 can find what that means, she'll know more than I do. 
 I can read it two ways ; she may read it a hundred." 
 He rang for Tonta. 
 
 "Tonta," he said, when the boy appeared, "take that 
 letter to j\Iiss De Vere." 
 
 "Want go fast?" asked the Indian, taking the note 
 from the table. 
 
 "Take as long as you please — all the afternoon if 
 you wish." 
 
 Tonta's eyes opened. Hitherto his missions to 
 Beechwood had been with orders to "ride like thunder." 
 
 "But Caiheek want answer ?" he suggested. 
 
 "Not one word ! If you bring back an answer, boy, 
 I'll — " He shook his pipe in Tonta's wondering 
 face — "I'll dig out your heart and feed it to the 
 landlord's dogs! Take this shilling, and buy yourself 
 poor." 
 
 When Motier was alone he stood up with a great 
 yawn, and walked to the window, 
 
 "Were I not a fool," he reflected, staring through 
 the grimy pane, "I Avould cut loose from North 
 Carolina, and from all of the good people who are 
 mixing my affairs, and would keep father — that is, 
 Monsieur Du Val — in France for the rest of his life. 
 Then we might live as we have always lived: father 
 and son, son and father, with none to molest us. 
 Hanged if I don't think I'll do it! But — no; that 
 would be the act of a coward. The situation is here: 
 here will I face it." 
 
 A sudden thought came to him: "If women 
 swarmed about my cradle as they do around other 
 
 377 
 
Wallannah 
 
 babies," he reflected, "some one in this little town must 
 be familiar with the mark on my arm — the three red 
 cherries. Question: who can that person be?" 
 
 Then he looked down at Ocebee's brother's pipe. 
 "That's a curious looking snake the heathen carved on 
 that bowl," he mused. "If a serpent typifies the devil, 
 his Majesty must be a joyful fellow ; for the Cherokee 
 has carved him with a grin on his face." 
 
 378 
 
Murder 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 Murder 
 
 ONTA found McFaddin at home with his 
 wife and handed him the note. 
 
 "A letter fer me!" exclaimed the sailor. 
 "Be n't you oft* yer course, boy? I never 
 got no letter in my life." 
 
 "Him for you — Caiheek send him," replied Tonta. 
 
 "Blast my peepers!" said Bob, turning the paper 
 about in his hands. "I can't make nothin' out 'n these 
 here fish-hooks. Peg, ol' gal, read it fer me." 
 
 Peggy adjusted her spectacles. " 'Mr. McFaddin : 
 My good friend' — " she started. 
 
 "Mister, eh? Well, that's polite. An' I reckon 
 I'm his good frien' too. It's him what tackled Jake 
 Cantwell, ain't it?" 
 
 "Yes, it's him ; an' you know him besides, too." 
 
 "Well, pay out some more of it." 
 
 " 'Dear Mr. McFaddin'—" 
 
 "You read that wunst." 
 
 "I'm a-startin' from the fust — it's easier. 'Dear 
 Mr. McFaddin'—" 
 
 "That's three times. Fer Gawd's sake read the 
 letter !" 
 
 "I'm a-readin' it the bes' I can; but yer so 
 interrupshus." 
 
 379 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Ain't you never goin' to swing cl'ar? Too much 
 foolin' with yer anchor, Peggy. Haul in yer bow-Hnes." 
 
 " 'Dear Mr. McFad — " 
 
 " 'Dear Mr.' dev — But go on, Peggy. I ax yer 
 parding." 
 
 " 'My good friend : you told me once that you felt 
 under obligations to me' — " 
 
 "I did, Peggy; an' so did vou. I don't forgit : go 
 on." 
 
 "'I have a great favor to ask of you — one that 
 none else can grant me' — " 
 
 "Hoi' hard, thar, Peggy ! Lemme see that." He 
 took the paper and scanned it curiously. 
 
 "I don't see it," he said, at last. 
 
 "You got it wrong side upwards, Bob ; but I s'pose 
 it's all the same to you." 
 
 "I tell 5^ou, Peg, edication's powerful! That 'ere 
 thing looks like shoal water to me. I can't make 
 nothin' out'n it : steer me out yerself." 
 
 " 'Please meet me to-night under the big maple by 
 the river, below 'Squire Cantwell's. - H you come in 
 your boat, that place will suit you best. A good time 
 would be about moonrise. I will be there at that hour ; 
 and if you micet me, you will greatly oblige, Motier 
 Du Val.' " 
 
 Peggy folded up the note. "He's heard somethin* 
 'bout hisself ; an' he's foun' out you knows." 
 
 "Reckon so, Peggy?" 
 
 "Sartin." 
 
 "An' what must I do?" 
 
 "Go an' see 'im, Bob ; an' make a clean breast of it. 
 The boy's got a right to know; an' you said yerself, 
 
 380 
 
Murder 
 
 it's ag'in' natur* thet he shouldn't. He's smart enough 
 to fin' it out hisself ; but yer an hones' man, an' you 
 owe it to 'im to tell 'im. Remember, Bob, he fou't fer 
 us ; an' you promised." 
 
 "I'll go, Peggy. Here you Injun! What's yer 
 name? Tawnter? Well, Tawnter, tell him I'll be 
 than" 
 
 Tonta swung into the saddle and galloped off. 
 When he had gone McFaddin turned back to Peggy. 
 
 "I've got to see the 'Squire anyhow. One trip'U do 
 fer the both. He's been at me ag'in to-day." 
 
 "What's he want now ?" 
 
 "Wants us to go on another cruise." 
 
 "Wharto?" 
 
 "Anywhar to git cl'ar of us. But he'll have to come 
 down han'some. We're a-ridin' easy here; an' we 
 can't cut cl'ar our moorin's jes' to 'bleege the 'Squire. 
 'Twould be ag'in natur' to go fer nuthin'." 
 
 In the meantime Tonta, hurrying back to New 
 Bern, met Sequa by the shores of the Trent. The 
 woman seemed to feel a great anxiety for the safety 
 of Tonta's Caiheek ; and she extorted from the boy all 
 the knowledge which he had gained at the McFaddin 
 house. Then her dark eyes glowed, and her lithe figure 
 trembled as she told the boy that she would go to the 
 maple tree at moonrise and would hear what passed 
 between Motier and the sailor. 
 
 McFaddin announced about dusk that it was time 
 for him to start for Nev/ Bern. 
 
 Peggy, brushing off his coat, began giving advice 
 to her liege-lord. "Bob, I've been a-thinkin' 'twould 
 be better fer you to keep off from the 'Squire to-night. 
 
 381 
 
Wallannah 
 
 I've got some notion meetin' him won't be good fer 
 you : he's too tricky. Did you promise 'im pos'tive ?" 
 
 "No, not pos'tive; but I said I'd come ef I 
 could." 
 
 "Then you can't, Bob ; an' that means you mustn't. 
 He'd turn you off yer duty. Promise me you'll go 
 straight to the boy." 
 
 "I answered the gentleman I would, didn't I ? No 
 'Squire can't keep me from it." 
 
 "But don't risk 'im, Bob. Hev I ever tol' you 
 nothin' that warn't fer yer own good?" 
 
 "Never, ol' woman: true es a compass." 
 
 "Then promise me. Bob." 
 
 "Sartin sure. Give us a kiss, ol' gal." 
 
 "Good bye, Bob !" 
 
 "Good bye? Why not good ev'nin'? I ain't goin' 
 fer good." 
 
 "I feel kinder queer 'bout yer goin', Bob, but I 
 reckon it's all right." 
 
 "Don't bother yer head, Peggy," he shouted, as he 
 started up the road, "they can't cut my riggin'." 
 
 Reaching New Bern and moving toward his 
 rendezvous, McFaddin saw the light from Cantwell's 
 window shining bright and clear across the front lawn. 
 He felt tempted to go in, thinking the 'Squire might 
 speak of something to his advantage. But remembering 
 his promise to Peggy he passed by the house. Then he 
 slowed down in his walk and looked back over his 
 shoulder. He fancied he saw Cantwell moving about 
 in his parlor. McFaddin stopped short. "What harm 
 can thar be in findin' what the 'Squire vv^ants to see me 
 fer ?" he muttered. " 'Twon't do no hurt, an' Peggy'll 
 
 382 
 
Murder 
 
 never know it. He can't turn me from doin' the squar' 
 thing by the boy." And he retraced his steps and went 
 to Cantwell's house. 
 
 'Squire Cantwell, smooth-shaven and ministerial, 
 sat within his sanctum. 
 
 "If I could be sure now of McFaddin," he was 
 thinking, "all would go well; for with Mary's pride 
 and generosity, and with McFaddin's mouth shut, I 
 can defy Fawn — the villian ! the cormorant ! He 
 would feed on my very bones I And he was my friend 
 once ! Damn such people !" 
 
 A knock sounded on the door. 
 
 "Come in !" called Cantwell. 
 
 Bob McFaddin entered, and sat down in a chair by 
 the door. 
 
 "Glad to see you, McFaddin," said the 'Squire. 
 "I've just been thinking of you. But why so late? I 
 expected you much sooner." 
 
 "I had to steddy over the situat'on, yer Honor," 
 replied the sailor. 
 
 Cantwell gave him a swift glance. "Ah, yes ! I 
 have studied it too, McFaddin. I've been thinking that 
 you and Peggy are getting along in years ; and I 
 believe it my duty to provide for you — you've been in 
 my service so long. My agent in Habana writes me 
 that Americans all do well in that city. What do you 
 say to a snug little store there? I'm willing to start 
 you on two hundred pounds. Will you go ?" 
 
 McFadden looked carelessly about at the mottoes 
 on the wall. "Thankee, yer honor!" he answered, 
 dryly. "That looks like cl'ar sailin' ; but I think I'll 
 ship in another craft." 
 
 383 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Cantwell frowned. "What! Leave me? Where 
 would you go ?" 
 
 "To them as might pay better," was the easy 
 response. "Not to say two hundred pounds ain't 
 han'some either ; but the fac' is, money ain't the pay I 
 wants : I wants a quiet conscience. Can you give me 
 that ? or ain't you got none to spar' ?" 
 
 The 'Squire bit his Hp and looked angrily across 
 the table. "What are you talking about?" he asked, 
 frigidly. 
 
 "Nuthin' much. But I'm goin' to clean out. The 
 boy we hurried is come to life ag'in ; an' I don't keer 
 to get jerked up fer babby-stealin'." 
 
 "I know all that," said Cantwell, testily. "It's this 
 young fellow Du Val. Now tell me what you know. 
 You see you can't deceive me. I know all about the 
 dog you 'jacked up' in a coffin and called Mary Ross's 
 baby." 
 
 For a moment the 'Squire seemed the master of the 
 situation ; but the sailor rallied his forces. 
 
 "If you know the hull thing, yer Honor," he 
 laughed, "you don't need nothin' from me. But you 
 don't know : yer only guessin'. You can't weather the 
 storm that-a-way. Too much sail fer the wind, master. 
 Jes' double-reef yer mains'il, an' take the bonnet 
 off'n yer jib. Come down easy; an' p'r'aps I'll tell 
 you." 
 
 "Can't you talk English?" 
 
 "Good enough English for you to understand," he 
 bantered. "Now, here's fer the hull bus'ness!" And 
 he told Cantwell all that he knew, and all that he had 
 planned. 
 
 384 
 
Murder 
 
 When McFaddin concluded his observations, the 
 'Squire brought his fist down upon his desk with a 
 thump that jarred his Bible to the floor. "McFaddin, 
 you're a scoundrel!" he shouted, turning very red in 
 the face. 
 
 " 'Bleeged fer the compliment, yer Honor. I'm 
 a-goin' now. But, if you can read — bein' 's we was 
 frien's so long — this here paper shows what I'm 
 a-goin' fer." And he handed Motier's note to the 
 'Squire. 
 
 Cantwell read the letter and saw that his fancied 
 security was slipping through his fingers. The 
 proposed interview would ruin him. He handed the 
 paper back to the sailor. 
 
 "McFaddin !" 
 
 "Yer Honor!" 
 
 "Listen now, and don't be a fool. Suppose you 
 tell this story to the boy ? What good will it do him ? 
 As the son of M. Du Val he is rich and happy. Would 
 you make his condition better? or worse? Don't you 
 know it would be worse ?" 
 
 The sailor scratched his head. "P'r'aps it would," 
 he said, doubtfully. 
 
 "The way to get a good conscience is to do good, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "Sartin." 
 
 "Do good then. Do as you would be done by. 
 That's the Golden Rule, McFaddin ; and that's my rule. 
 Others can't always see it — as in the present case, for 
 instance. But the Christian's path is a thorny one: 
 our feet may bleed in following it. But, my friend, 
 we have our reward ; if not in this world, then in the 
 
 385 
 
Wallannah 
 
 hereafter. And there's happiness, too : there's always 
 happiness in doing right." 
 
 "You talks like a preacher, yer Honor." 
 
 "Ah, no ! I am not worthy to be called a preacher. 
 I am only a poor sinful man." The 'Squire's voice was 
 softened v/ith sublime humility. "I do many things I 
 ought not to do; but we are all erring, benighted 
 mortals. We can only try to do our duty : I try to do 
 mine ; and I want to do my duty by you in this matter." 
 He paused for a reply ; but the sailor was looking down 
 at the floor. "I will do this duty if you will let me," 
 he continued. "And I must be quick, for the hour of 
 your appointment is almost at hand " 
 
 "Yes ; it's nigh 'bout time." 
 
 "Tell me now, upon your word: does any one 
 besides you know about this boy ?" 
 
 "None but Peggy." 
 
 "What does she know?" 
 
 "Not much — 'cept 'bout the dog. I held back 
 the partic'lar bus'ness 'cause, you know, v/omen's 
 women." 
 
 "Does she know that young Du Val is the child 
 you carried to France?" 
 
 "How could she?" he answered, quickly, evading 
 the point for Peggy's sake. "I never foun' it out myself 
 till I met the old Frenchman on the street a month or 
 so back." 
 
 "But didn't you tell Peggy?" The 'Squire's voice 
 was sharp and quick. 
 
 "Not on yer Hfe !" came out McFadden's lie. "Take 
 me fer a damned fool!" 
 
 The 'Squire looked at him as a shrewd man looks 
 
 386 
 
Murder 
 
 upon one who is without guile. He rubbed his hands 
 together and smiled. 
 
 "The coast is clear, then," he said. "Now, 
 McFaddin, here is my proposition. Meet your man 
 and put him on the wrong track. As a reward I will 
 send you and Peggy to Habana, or wherever else you 
 please, with five hundred pounds. That is more than 
 you could make in twenty years' hard work. It would 
 make you comfortable, McFaddin; and at the same 
 time it would be doing the right thing by the 
 Frenchman." 
 
 The sailor's eyes sparkled. The temptation was 
 beyond his resistance. "But you mought back out," 
 he ventured to say. 
 
 "You can have the money now." 
 
 "An' you'll trus' me to tell 'im right?" 
 
 "Honest men "are not suspicious, McFaddin: I will 
 trust you." Then a sinister gleam shot from the 
 'Squire's eye. "But," he added, "I must know just 
 what you say, and what he says. This I must know 
 to steer my own course clear. I will go with you and 
 hide in the bushes behind the maple. We have just 
 half an hour to moonrise. Speak quick ! Will you put 
 him off on some other man?" 
 
 "I'll do it — 'twould be ag'in natur' to say no — so 
 git out the articles. But mebbe you'd as lief pay me 
 some money down, an' the rest in a bank dockyment." 
 
 "Very well, if it suits you that way." 
 
 So McFaddin was enriched by a Bank of England 
 note of one hundred pounds, and by a paper which the 
 'Squire said was a draft for four hundred more. 
 
 Then they made ready to go to the maple by the 
 
Wallannah 
 
 river. While McFaddin scrutinized the picture of 
 Ananias and Sapphira, Cantwell took a queerly-shaped 
 dagger from a desk drawer and shpped it into the inner 
 pocket of his coat. 
 
 They went together into the night. Approaching 
 the last cross-street before the woods, they saw a 
 watchman slowly walking toward them. 
 
 The 'Squire drew Bob back against a high fence. 
 "Let's wait until that fellow turns the corner," he 
 whispered. "He might follow and spy upon us." 
 
 The regular tramp, tramp, tramp grew fainter until 
 it died out in the distance. 
 
 "We can go now," laughed Cantwell. "The rocks 
 are out of our course." 
 
 "Be you cold, yer Honor?" asked McFaddin, 
 turning quickly toward his companion. "Teeth's 
 a-chatterin'." 
 
 "A little chilly, but not cold," was the answer. 
 
 "I fin' it bracin'," said McFaddin, throwing out his 
 great chest. "Fac' is, I feels uncommon strong 
 to-night, anyhow. A rig'lar nor'wester wouldn't shake 
 me. It's all in a man's sperrits, yer Honor. I've had 
 a gusty v'yage in life, but its all clear now fer me an' 
 Peggy." 
 
 "Down yonder in Habana you'll have a good time, 
 I guess," remarked Cantwell. 
 
 "Ef I don't go somewhars else. Thar's plenty o' 
 waters to cruise in." 
 
 "But you won't come back here?" 
 
 "No, unless— " 
 
 "Unless nothing ! You must never come back." 
 
 "My kin folks is all here ; an' Peggy's, too." 
 
 388 
 
Murder 
 
 "You can get along without them. You must swear 
 to me that you'll never come back." 
 
 "Can't swar to nuthin' like that, yer Honor. I 
 mought be driv' in by a storm." 
 
 "That won't do." The 'Squire's face whitened, and 
 his hand stole into the bosom of his coat. "The path 
 is narrow here,'' he said, falling a step behind the 
 sailor. "We must take it single-file. Walk ahead, my 
 friend : I'll follow." 
 
 They passed into the darkness of the wood, the 
 good, pious 'Squire and the sturdy, unsuspecting 
 seaman. 
 
 A moment later Cantwell returned alone, and 
 quickly reached the street along which the watchman 
 had passed. The man was there again, approaching at 
 a distance of a hundred yards. Just then the moon 
 struggled through the mist that lay low and heavy in 
 the east. Its light fell upon the white face of John 
 Cantwell, and it fell also upon his hand, where glistened 
 a tiny drop of blood. The 'Squire hastily wiped off the 
 blot. 
 
 Suddenly from the path behind him came a loud 
 cry. "Hoi' Watch! Help!" 
 
 The watchman sounded his rattle; another rushed 
 out from a side-street, and the two ran forward 
 together. Drawing nearer to Cantwell the first called 
 out : "Run down, Hans, and see what's to pay. I must 
 see who this is." He approached Cantwell. 
 
 "Ah! It's you, 'Squire?" 
 
 "Yes," answered^ Cantwell, steadily. "I heard a 
 noise like a struggle down there, and I came out from 
 the house to see what it was." 
 
 389 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "I thought I saw you come the other way." 
 
 "You did. I had crossed the road; but finding 
 everything quiet I had started back, when I heard that 
 cry. Hurry down there! Some one seems in 
 trouble." 
 
 A third watchman came running toward them. 
 "Where's the row?" he called to the man who was just 
 leaving Cantwell. 
 
 "Down the path by the river," answered the other. 
 Then, saluting Cantwell with a touch of the cap, 
 "Ev'ning, 'Squire!" 
 
 "Good evening, sir. If you find anything, and need 
 me, I'll be in my office." 
 
 Returning to his home, the first care of the worthy 
 'Squire was to give attention to his toilet. He expected 
 company ; and a disordered apparel would not comport 
 with the dignity of his office as magistrate. So he 
 examined his sleeves, his vest, and his coat, and looked 
 well at his knee-breeches and his silk hose. After this 
 he polished his shoes and washed his hands — Justice 
 is always white-handed — afterv;ard combing his hair 
 and smoothing each strand into its wonted place. After 
 thus preparing himself, he sat down to await his 
 visitors. 
 
 A few minutes later, with much confusion and 
 stamping of feet came the three watchmen, leading 
 IMotier Du Val, calm and unresisting, into the presence 
 of the honorable magistrate to answer for the murder 
 of Robert McFaddin. 
 
 "My poor, honest mate!" exclaimed the 'Squire, 
 when the watchmen had told their story. "You don't 
 say that he is murdered I He was with me only 
 
 390 
 
Murder 
 
 to-night, in the vigor of health and manhood. Then 
 it was his voice which cried for help?" 
 
 Motier's head was held very high, and his eyes 
 gleamed. "You are in error," he said, coldly. "It was 
 my voice you heard. I found the man dying in the 
 path ; and I called the watch." 
 
 "That's won't do, young man," was the grufif retort 
 of the chief-watchman. "It was the sailor's voice. 
 And who was a-hurtin' you? what should you want 
 help for? No, no; that's a good dodge, but it don't 
 go here." 
 
 "Are you the magistrate?" asked Motier, glancing 
 down at the pufifed-up man. 
 
 "No; but—" 
 
 "Silence, gentlemen," requested Cantwell, with 
 dignity. "The prisoner is entitled to a fair examination. 
 But let us have everything in order. Now, Mr. 
 Clincher, make your report in writing. Here are pen 
 and paper. Sit down." 
 
 The evidence was conclusive enough. McFaddin 
 had been found with two wounds — one in the back, 
 the other in the breast. The external shape of both of 
 these stab-marks was that of a cross. In the prisoner's 
 possession was found a dagger of the form necessary 
 to have made such a wound. Cantwell's astonishment 
 was genuine. He could in no way account for Du Val's 
 ownership of such a dagger. But those who watched 
 thought that his surprise came from the shock of the 
 knovrledge of Du Val's guilt. 
 
 "I regret, Mr. Du Val," the 'Squire observed, 
 looking into Motier's unmoved face, "I regret that I 
 must keep you in custody to-night. The law, you see 
 
 391 
 
Wallannah 
 
 is rigid." Cantwell bent forward, with his elbows on 
 his desk. "It is a sad thing, young man," he said, 
 with a kindly ring in his voice, "to see one of your 
 promise so early in the path of crime. I recommend 
 to your prayerful consideration the pious maxim, 
 'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy 
 youth.' " 
 
 "Spare your sermon," retorted Du Val ; then with 
 biting sarcasm. "Do your duty only — if you know it." 
 
 "I think I know it," returned the 'Squire, sharply. 
 
 Cantwell wrote two brief notes. "Mr. Clincher," 
 he said, "hand this note to your captain. This other 
 is your order for the close confinement of the prisoner. 
 Good night, gentlemen ! Good night, M. Du Val !" 
 
 The next day the prisoner was committed, without 
 bail, to await the convening of the superior court. 
 
 392 
 
627 Jeremiah Lane 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 627 Jeremiah Lane 
 
 U VAL had been three days in iron-chained 
 durance before anything occurred to vary 
 the monotony of his imprisonment. The 
 hours and the days went by with no signal 
 from the outside world; with nothing to tell him of 
 what took place in the streets beyond his prison walls. 
 Now and then, at long, irregular intervals, came the 
 striking of a bell, or a rising in the town's dull murmur, 
 or the sound of a loud voice near his window. And 
 he knew that the sun had risen thrice and had set 
 twice. This knowledge came from the brightening and 
 the fading of the patch of sky which showed through 
 the tiny grated window high up in his cell wall. 
 Compared with this later experience, his captivity in 
 the Cherokee village had been pleasant ; and he had 
 wished many times for the rattle of the medicine-man's 
 chinchone to aid him in measuring the passing time. 
 
 On one of these days Motier had heard the tolling 
 of the bell which marked the hour of !McFaddin's 
 funeral. The sound was not a cheerful one ; for 
 Peggy had been his friend, and on her account he 
 regretted the sailor's death. But he wondered if she 
 believed the watchmen's story. 
 
 The evidence, as Motier heard it at the inquest, was 
 
 393 
 
Wallannah 
 
 damning'. In all that the witnesses told there were but 
 three kernels of truth: but those three! Motier 
 shrugged his shoulders as he thought of them. He 
 had been found with blood upon his hands, and bending 
 over the body of a man who had been killed by just 
 such a dagger as the one which had been found in 
 his possession; and m McFaddin's pocket was the 
 Frenchman's letter arranging the meeting of the two 
 on that very spot and at that precise time. What would 
 a jury do with these facts? Assuredly the case had a 
 black look. 
 
 It had taken Motier but a few moments to decide 
 who had killed McFaddin. The fact that the dead 
 - man's wounds had been made by a dagger like his own, 
 pointed conclusively to one man. That man was the 
 father of the one who had dropped the poniard on the 
 day that he fired upon Du Val in the forest. Alotier 
 remembered the thought which had come to him when 
 he took the oddly-shaped dagger from Tonta and 
 dropped it into his satchel : 'T wonder if the other one 
 will ever turn up." And, verily, it had — in most 
 unpleasant manner. He had carried its mate on the 
 night of McFaddin's death, and on many previous 
 occasions, as all men in that country at that time bore 
 some weapon of defense. In this instance, however, 
 the dagger had become an instrument of offense, and 
 that without any man's design. 
 
 Little of comfort came to Mouers mind in those 
 days. A week earlier his thoughts of Alice would have 
 served him as well as they had among Ocebee's people ; 
 but now even that was taken from him. The Alice of 
 the present brought reflections that were gall and 
 
 394 
 
627 Jeremiah Lane 
 
 wormwood to him : the AHce of the past filled his heart 
 with an unutterable longing, and he strove hard to keep 
 that memory from the sullying touch of her later 
 faithlessness. Fair and radiant, with the glory of the 
 sun in her golden hair, and with heaven's own blue in 
 her eyes, he saw her a thousand times a day ; and when 
 the picture came to him, he would bend his forehead 
 to his knees, and with the cold iron of his chains 
 pressing against his face, would think and wonder : 
 "Does she care ?" And he could see her face and hear 
 her voice as the ansv/er would return : "Must I tell you 
 that I do care?" Then the image would fade away, 
 and the light would go out of the world ; and Motier 
 would reach out his arms with the clanking of chains 
 and would cry from the depths of his heart, "O God ! 
 Take anything else ; but give her unto me !" 
 
 On the third day Motier evolved an idea concerning 
 the identity of his father, and his mind was working 
 swiftly through a tangled maze of fact and theory. 
 Then it was that a measure of relief came to him ; for, 
 though he knew it not, the De Veres and Boggs and 
 Durham had v/orked with tireless energy for his release 
 under bond, and, failing in that, for the betterment of 
 his condition. In the latter effort they succeeded and, 
 at the moment when Motier had all but solved the 
 problem of his parentage, the jailer brought in a 
 blacksmith and relieved him of his irons. Then, when 
 he had straightened out his stiffened limbs, and had 
 learned to walk v^rithout his weight of chain, Motier 
 was taken to an upper room, bright with sunshine and 
 comfortable in its furnishings. 
 
 In this room, within an hour after his removal, 
 
 395 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Metier resumed his work upon the problem. He was 
 interrupted by the entrance of 'Squire Cantwell. 
 
 Du Val arose and looked his visitor in the face 
 until the eyes of the magistrate sought the floor. 
 
 "You honor me, monsieur," said Motier, with 
 extravagant politeness, "pray take my chair, and tell 
 me why you grace my cell with your presence." 
 
 Cantwell, flushing a little, took the proffered seat. 
 Motier saw that he labored under excitement. 
 
 "Mr. Du Val, circumstances have come to my 
 knowledge," began the 'Squire, with a forced benign 
 smile, "which induce me to believe you innocent, 
 notwithstanding the weight of the evidence against 
 you. These circumstances, however, would hardly 
 admit of proof in a court of justice; and I cannot, 
 therefore, give you legal aid. But, as I committed you, 
 and as the matter has been a great deal on my mind, I 
 wish to help you by the only means within my 
 power." 
 
 Motier, seeing nothing to be gained by kicking the 
 'Squire from the room, affected a diplomatic 
 composure. "You are kind, Mr. Cantv;ell," he said, 
 quietly. "It will please me to meet you on any 
 reasonable suggestion you may make. Your plan, 
 sir?" 
 
 Cantwell smiled benevolently. "It is simply this," 
 he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I can 
 manage your escape from prison, and send you off on 
 my vessel, the Leopard, to France, where you will be 
 safe. Giving you your freedom in this manner, I make 
 but one condition." 
 
 "And that condition ?" asked Du Val coldly. 
 
 396 
 
627 Jeremiah Lane 
 
 "That you promise never to return. For if you 
 came back to New Bern, however late the day, it might 
 Jead to an exposure of my part in your escape." 
 
 A faint smile played about Motier's lips. "Again 
 let me say that you are kind, Mr. Cantwell. Your 
 proposition is a generous one; but, with your single 
 condition, its acceptance by me is impossible." 
 
 Cantwell started with surprise. "But why not?" he 
 queried, with an angry look in his eyes. "You know 
 that if you stand your trial you must be condemned 
 and hanged." 
 
 "Oh, yes; I dare say you are right," Motier 
 answered, carelessly. "The testimony of the watchmen 
 is largely stupid invention; and the dagger seems to 
 have fitted the wounds quite well, considering that 
 those wounds were made by another weapon. I will 
 be condemned, no doubt ; and then they will hang me. 
 It will all be in God's own time. I will say, however, 
 that were the doors of the prison open now, I would 
 walk out; but it would be with the settled purpose 
 of coming back again when my friends learned whose 
 dagger is the mate to mine ; for when they know that 
 they will know who killed Bob McFaddin !" 
 
 Cantwell quailed under the eyes of the prisoner; 
 but he maintained a wonderful composure. "Well," 
 he said, with some asperity, "my skirts are clear. If 
 you are hanged it is your own fault." 
 
 "In a measure, sir; but primarily some one else's 
 fault. I cannot consent, however, to live with the stain 
 of murder on my name when I know that it belongs 
 somewhere else ; and, more than that, when I know on 
 whose name it does belong." 
 
 397 
 
Wallannah 
 
 The 'Squire turned abruptly away, "You will not 
 repeat this offer of mine?" he asked, as he walked 
 toward the door. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, I'm sorry for you. I've done all I can. Good 
 morning, sir!" 
 
 "Good morning !" 
 
 After Cantwell had left the cell Motler walked to 
 the barred window and stood looking reflectively 
 toward the wall of the adjacent building. He had come 
 as near as was prudent to facing Cantwell with his 
 accusation. Had not the proofs been in Cantwell's 
 own hands, he would have dared more. Then, too, his 
 present comforts meant something to him; and an 
 open breach with the 'Squire might send him back to 
 the down-stairs cell. 
 
 While pondering upon these matters he heard 
 through a broken window-pane two voices from the 
 nearby street. One he recognized in its first word. 
 
 "Good morning, Simon 1" it said, in well-modulated 
 tones. "It seems strange to see you walking about the 
 streets. The store usually buries you from human 
 gaze." 
 
 The other voice was full and round, and Motier 
 knew it to be Fawn's. "My good friend," was the 
 answer. "I was going to your house. But how came 
 you in the jail?" 
 
 "It's a sad thing, my dear Simon. I've been trying 
 to impress some spiritual truths upon that graceless 
 young Du Val; but he gives no heed to the blessed 
 Word. He's a bad character, Simon, a very hardened 
 young wretch." 
 
 398 
 
627 Jeremiah Lane 
 
 ''Well, he ought to be," was the quick retort, 
 "seeing he's your own — " 
 
 "H'sh !" warned Cantwell. "He may hear you." 
 
 "Why, doesn't he know ?" 
 
 The answer was inaudible, and the rest of the 
 conversation was lost as the two men passed up the 
 street. 
 
 Motier's face was a little pale as he sat down, raised 
 his legs to the table and filled and lit the corn-cob pipe 
 which some one's influence had procured for him, 
 
 "Fawn saved me further work on my problem," he 
 mused, with a bitter smile. "But the result confirms 
 my theories. So Cantwell, who preaches layman's 
 sermons on Christianity, and who has the honor of 
 being an abductor, a poisoner, a murderer, and several 
 other kinds of nice fellow, is my father ! Therefore, I 
 did spill my own brother's blood by the pool of 
 Yaunocca. Cain and Abel, wath an Eve who mistook 
 the devil for her Adam ! Truly, a delightful situation !" 
 And as he reflected upon it he threw back his head and 
 sent a twisting smoke-ring up toward the ceiling. "I 
 think," he muttered, "that England's greatest poet 
 wrote : 'The miserable have no other medicine, but only 
 hope.' That goes to prove that Monsieur William 
 Shakespeare never tried to find a dose of his own 
 prescription within the walls of the New Bern 
 jail." / 
 
 Three days more went by, on the first of whichV 
 Motier was given books to read and paper on which to 
 write. He noticed, however, that everything which 
 came to him was carefully examined, lest it might 
 contain a deadly weapon, or some instrument to aid 
 
 399 
 
Wallannah 
 
 in his escape. This scrutiny amused Motier, and 
 it also revived the thought, first suggested in 
 impracticable form by Cantwell, of ending his captivity 
 by some other means than that of being tried and 
 hung. 
 
 He walked about his cell many hours in each day, 
 trying to devise the means by which he might free 
 himself, yet balking his every plan by asking himself 
 the one question: "What would my guards be doing 
 all this time?" He rather fancied that they would be 
 pounding him upon the head with clubs, and shooting 
 at him with blunderbusses ; so all his projects dissolved 
 into thin air. 
 
 On the sixth day of his imprisonment the jailer 
 brought him a pocket Bible, handsomely bound, and 
 fastened with a gold clasp. Motier sat in his chair 
 with his elbows on the table and turned the book over 
 and over in his hands; for the binder's workmanship 
 had made it a volume of rare beauty, and as such it 
 pleased him. 
 
 "Who brought this?" he asked, turning toward the 
 door. 
 
 But the jailer was gone, and the door was barred. 
 
 Holding his head to one side to clear his eyes from 
 the cloud of smoke which had just escaped his lips, 
 Motier unfastened the clasp and opened the Bible. He 
 turned back to the fly-leaf. 
 
 There, in exquisitely formed letters, was the name 
 Lucille Creighton Ashburne. 
 
 Motier gave a little gasp ; and his pipe, half slipping 
 from his teeth, showered burning tobacco down his 
 waistcoat front. 
 
 400 
 
627 Jeremiah Lane 
 
 "Lucille!" he muttered, brushing the sparks from 
 his clothing, "at this time, of all times I" And 
 bewildered he stared at the name upon the page. 
 
 "The serpent on Ocebee's brother's pipe couldn't 
 smile at this," he said, at last, laying down the book 
 and refilling his corn-cob. "There's something vast 
 and mysterious about the whole thing." 
 
 Lighting the tobacco, he threw his tinder-box on 
 the table. Then, puffing up his pipe, he again picked 
 up the book. After staring for several minutes more 
 at Jack's widow's name, he turned over the page. 
 
 "H'm ! the plot thickens ! Here she is again — but 
 different. 'Lucille Creighton, 627 Jeremiah Lane, 
 Norwich, England.' Curious! Norwich is all right; 
 and so is England. But Jeremiah Lane! The worlcj 
 never heard of that." But there stood the line: 627 
 Jeremiah Lane. Motier was perplexed. But, smoking 
 furiously, he began to make deductions. Lucille was 
 once more in New Bern : else how came the book to 
 him? But was her mind deranged? 'Jeremiah Lane' 
 certainly seemed an indication of raving idiocy, yet 
 the inscription was clear and beautifully penned, while 
 the writing of lunatics frequently degenerates with 
 their minds. Then, if the woman was sane, what 
 meant 627 Jeremiah Lane ? 
 
 Motier, with a growl of disgust, started on a new 
 train of argument. With Lucille in New Bern, and 
 sane, and trying to help him, was she just the one to 
 send him a Bible ? Piety she had not, and why should 
 her thoughts turn to giving spiritual aid to other 
 people, when she had never sought it herself ? Lucille's 
 talents were intensely practical; her mind was quick 
 
 401 
 
Wallannah 
 
 and acute; her powers of intrigue were unsurpassed: 
 what then lay behind 627 Jeremiah Lane ? 
 
 Motier reflected. Jeremiah? He knew no man of 
 that name : nor had he ever heard of a city, or a ship, 
 or a horse, or a book — But stay ! yes ; a book ! 
 
 He hurriedly ran through the pages of the Bible, 
 past the Proverbs, past Ecclesiastes, past the Song of 
 Solomon, over the pages of Isaiah, to the Book of the 
 Prophet Jeremiah. 
 
 Here was the Jeremiah : what was the 627 ? 
 
 Laying his pipe upon the table, he bent over the 
 book. "Jsrs'^^i^h' six twenty-seven," he whispered, his 
 hand trembling as he turned the leaves. "J^^^^iiah, 
 three ; Jeremiah, five — and six. Now, verse nine — 
 eighteen — twenty-seven." He read the verse through : 
 
 ''I have set thee for a tower and a fortress among 
 thy people, that thou mayest know and try their 
 way." 
 
 Motier shook his head. "Clear enough, no doubt ; 
 but how does it fit my case? 'That thou mayest know 
 and try their way !' Whose way? 'Squire Cantweil's 
 way ? God help me, no ! Or Lord Durham's ? Bah ! 
 Or Lucille's? Had the chance once, and refused it. 
 Or my own? I couldn't if I would. Well; there's a 
 misfit somewhere." 
 
 He looked thoughtfully down at the book. The 
 paper was slightly rumpled. He ran his fingers across 
 the page to smooth it down. A quick light leaped to 
 his eyes. Again he passed his finger-tips up and down 
 over the words of the prophet, and his lips formed in 
 a smile. 
 
 Bending down until his eyes were close to the book 
 
 402 
 
627 Jeremiah Lane 
 
 he scanned it eagerly. Here and there about the page, 
 without apparent rule or order, were tiny punctures in 
 the paper. He counted them. There were thirty-eight ; 
 and each of them was in the centre of a printed letter. 
 The first pin-hole was in the second word of the 
 twenty-seventh verse of Jeremiah vi. : and that 
 accounted for 627 Jeremiah Lane. The last puncture 
 was beyond the middle of the fifth verse of the next 
 chaDter. 
 
 ''Good for Lucille !" he murmured. "Now let's get 
 the pin-stabbed letters in their order." 
 
 A brief silence followed. 
 
 ''H'm! 'Assistant — jailer!' Didn't know there 
 was any." 
 
 Another silence, while Motier's eyes crept down 
 the page. 
 
 " 'Your — friend.' Thank heaven I've got one ! 
 'Assistant jailer your friend.' Yes; I expect I'll find 
 him a very congenial fellow." 
 
 A longer silence. Then Motier began spelling, one 
 letter at a time. 
 
 " 'E-s-c-a-p-e — t-o — ' To what? Ah! 'to-night!' 
 And that checks off all the pin-holes. Lucille, I don't 
 love you much ; but I swear you're a wonder ! But 
 how are you going to work it ? Escape ? and to-night ? 
 My dear girl — " 
 
 Motier stared at the wall ; and the smile faded from 
 his lips. "The assistant jailer," he muttered, softly. 
 "When he enters the scene, something may happen to 
 him. But how ? and what ?" 
 
 The hours passed, and the afternoon grew late. 
 Motier sat in his chair, and now and then "to-night" 
 
 403 
 
Wallannah 
 
 would come to his lips; and he would smile, for he 
 knew that, somewhere upon the broad Atlantic, 
 To-night on wings of sable was sweeping 
 Carolina-ward. 
 
 Twilight came, and still the gruff voice of the jailer 
 sounded in the corridor. Motier lit his candle, and 
 began reading the rest of the book of the Prophet 
 Jeremiah. 
 
 Eight o'clock — nine o'clock — ten o'clock — yet 
 the assistant jailer had not come. 
 
 Suddenly Motier started. The sound of a slipping 
 bolt grated on his ears. A mouse, like a tiny ball of 
 grey fur, scurried across the cell floor. Then the door 
 opened with rasping hinges. A keen-eyed man, 
 enveloped in a long cloak and wearing a broad slouched 
 hat, stepped upon the threshold. 
 
 Motier half arose from his chair. The man turned 
 on his heel and leaned lazily against the door-jamb, his 
 back toward the prisoner. Du Val felt the cool night 
 breeze on his face, and knew that the outer doors were 
 open. He crept, half crouching, toward the man. The 
 assistant jailer stood as motionless as a statue. 
 
 With a tigerish spring Motier was upon the man, 
 and had him down on the corridor floor. 
 
 Half stunned though he was, the fellow looked up 
 with a short laugh. "Howlin' Whales ! Don't bust out 
 my brains !" he growled. "Lemme up, an' take my hat 
 an' coat an' run like the devil !" 
 
 Du Val gasped with astonishment. Then he pulled 
 the man up; and, holding him with one hand by the 
 slack of his under coat, he pulled off the cloak and the 
 hat, and threw them into place on himself. 
 
 404 
 
627 Jeremiah Lane 
 
 "Who are you?" he asked, as he loosened his grip 
 on the man. 
 
 "Don't you keer who I am. Skin up the street like 
 you was a musket-ball ; an' when you meets anybody 
 say, 'What o'clock is it?' The first man what sez, 
 'Deep in the night,' is yer friend. Now, fer Gawd's 
 sake ! cut out an' run fer yer neck ! Screechin' Crabs ! 
 never mind me! Run!" 
 
 And Motier ran. 
 
 When the prisoner had gone, the assistant jailer 
 pinched his arms and felt nervously about his ribs. 
 "They calls that 'ere feller a Frencher," he mumbled, 
 with a broad smile. "Perhaps he is one ; but French 
 or Car'lina, he durned near smashed me to glory." And 
 the Man who sat on the Barrel in Fawn's store locked 
 the empty cell, blew out the lights, slammed the outer 
 doors behind him and darted down toward the river. 
 
 Motier walked rapidly up the street. A block 
 beyond the jail he met a man staggering toward him. 
 
 "What o'clock is it ?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 "Shoo ! Shink you shteal m' watch, donsher ? Try 
 s'mother feller, an' leave me 'lone !" And with a hoarse 
 guffaw the inebriate made a wide veer and crashed 
 cursing into the fence. 
 
 Motier, laughing under his breath, went swiftly 
 onward. A second man met him further up the street. 
 
 "What o'clock is it?" asked Motier. 
 
 "Something near eleven," was the answer. 
 
 "Thanks! Goodnight!" 
 
 Close at this man's heels came another. 
 
 "What o'clock is it?" 
 
 "Deep in the night !" 
 
 405 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Motier drew a long breath. "And shoaling off 
 toward morning," he laughed, 
 
 "Keep your mouth shut !" 
 
 "Did you say 'please ?' " 
 
 The man laughed ; and, linking his arm in Motier's, 
 led him on to the confines of the town. There he 
 stopped and turned. Motier tried to see his face by 
 the starlight, 
 
 "Don't you know me?" the man asked, in familiar 
 accents, 
 
 "Captain Maynard — again !" 
 
 "Luckily, yes." 
 
 "God is good," 
 
 "You ought to think so by this time," 
 
 A few minutes later the heads of five horses were 
 turned southward, entering into the forest that lay 
 between them and Charleston. Tonta led the way; 
 next came Captain Maynard, and Mr, Hadleigh 
 Creighton, of Norwich, England, and, after them all, 
 Motier Du Val, and Lucille Creighton of 627 Jeremiah 
 Lane. 
 
 The last two rode with horses close together, and 
 the sound of their voices was low and earnest. But the 
 wind in the pines seemed to bear on its breath, "Motier ! 
 Alotier!" and he turned in his saddle, and looked 
 back through the darkness toward the gardens at 
 Beechwood ; and as he looked into the gloom the voice 
 in his heart cried "Alice ! Alice ! God keep her safe." 
 
 406 
 
"To My Mother— God Bless Her!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 "To My Mother — God Bless Her!" 
 
 HE authorities sought long and fruitlessly 
 for Motier Du Val. Likewise, and vainly, 
 did they search for the person who had 
 drugged the jailer and the guards, and who 
 had released the Frenchman from the prison ; but not 
 a clue could be found. 
 
 A year after Du Val's escape, Captain Maynard 
 (whose pardon had been granted by Tryon's successor, 
 Governor Martin, after strenuous effort on the part of 
 Lord Durham) brought his wife from the caverns of 
 Yaunocca, and reestablished their home in New Bern 
 in a house patterned after that which had burned nearly 
 nineteen years before, and standing upon the same 
 ground. Airs. Maynard, amid familiar surroundings 
 and under the constant care of Doctor Boggs and his 
 colleague, Doctor Gaston, improved beyond all 
 expectation; and after two or three years of this life 
 her mind v/as as clear and as active as it had ever been. 
 Tonta was in Captain Maynard's service ; and the 
 boy's closest companion was Brown, the gardener, a 
 keen-eyed man who spoke with a lazy drawl. 
 
 Mr. De Vere, weakened by a pulmonary trouble of 
 many years' standing, had died a few months after 
 Motier last saw him; and three years later — as is 
 
 407 
 
Wallannah 
 
 often the way with handsome widows — Madame 
 De Vere gave her hand in marriage to Lord Durham. 
 
 Five years passed by — the greatest years in 
 American history. Lexington and Concord and 
 Bunker Hill had roared their shotted thunder against 
 the hosts of King George ; the North CaroUnians had 
 Voiced their patriotic sentiments in the Mecklenburg 
 Declaration of Independence; the Liberty Bell had 
 pealed out the death of tyranny; and Washington, 
 with the Continental armies at his back, was waging 
 iron-handed war against the country's foemen. Then 
 came the battle of Moore's Creek Bridge, at that time 
 the greatest of North Carolina victories; and in that 
 fight were men whose names stand high on the roll of 
 American patriots. 
 
 There, fighting under Lillington and Caswell, was 
 a stranger whose fame went throughout the Carolinas 
 with the news of the fight. At first none knew who 
 the man was. Then the wounded came home. Among 
 them was Jemmie Dow, who years before had helped 
 in the vain search for Mary Ross's child. And Jemmie 
 told the whole story : 
 
 "I was cleanin' the colonel's mare at six o'clock 
 one mornin'," he said to a group of friends at his 
 bedside, "when I heard a horse comin' down the road 
 like thunder. Jim Maxton was doin' sentry duty, an' 
 Jim he sez, 'Halt!' an' the feller kept on comin'. I 
 looked up thinkin' to see Jim perforate Mister Man 
 right there. But Jim he yells again, 'Halt, or I'll 
 shoot!' Then the man pulled in his horse a little an' 
 smiled at Jim. Jim sez 'Good Gawd !' an' let the feller 
 pass him. Sez I to myself, this must be Washin'ton or 
 
 408 
 
"To My Mother— God Bless Her!" 
 
 some other big gun; but fearin' mistakes I takes a 
 pistol and goes out to have my say at the feller. I 
 hadn't no more'n got to the road when he come by like a 
 cannon-ball. 'Who's there?' I yells. 'Look out!' he 
 sez; an' he was gone afore I could pull a trigger. 
 Thinkin' thet this wasn't right I ran to the Colonel's 
 tent. An' there was the feller's grey horse standin' 
 outside, an' in the tent the Colonel was shakin' the 
 feller's hand. An' who d'you s'pose he was? That 
 'ere Du Val what they sez killed Bob McFaddin." 
 
 A murmur of astonishment came from his auditors. 
 
 "Yes, it was him," repeated Jemmie, vehemently. 
 "An' he stuck by us through it all, too. I never seen 
 such a man. If ever anybody played in luck Du Val 
 v/as that feller. If some crazy red-coat tried to capture 
 our regiment all by hisself, Du Val was the feller that 
 caught the blasted Britisher and toted him into camp 
 on his shoulder like a meal bag. One night a company 
 of 'em rushed our pickets an' nigh scared us to death ; 
 an' what did Du Val do but jump on his horse an' yell, 
 'Come on boys !" an' he led us into the mess, an' cleaned 
 out four of 'em hisself before we caught up with 'im." 
 
 Jemmie dropped back into his pillows for a 
 moment's rest. Then he continued his story : 
 
 "When the real fightin' started," he said, with a 
 sparkle in his eyes, "that 'ere Du Val mixed in the 
 thickest of it. A crowd of red-coats in a clump o' pine 
 woods was givin' us fits, an' we couldn't stop 'em. 
 Then Du Val he goes to the Colonel, an' very respectful 
 he sez, 'Colonel, give me ten men an' I'll drive the 
 enemy to the devil.' So the Colonel sez yes; an' 
 Du Val, a-sittin' on his horse, looks around a-smilin' 
 
 409 
 
Wallannah 
 
 an' sez in his easy-goin' way, 'Who's the ten that wants 
 to go?' An' fifty of us sez 'We are !' Then he laughs 
 an' pulls out his big sword an' sez, 'Eat 'em up, boys !' 
 An' gosh! we did eat 'em up, too. Du Val he went 
 acrost that field like bullets wasn't made that could hit 
 him. They was shootin' at us simply terrible, an' the 
 Frenchman's horse went down first pop. He landed 
 on his feet, an' yells, 'Clean 'em out, boys! clean 'em 
 out !' An' we kept a-goin'. 
 
 "I swear it was awful. Bullets was hummin' like 
 yellow- jackets. Du Val's hat flew off his head with 
 two holes shot in it at once, an' a minute afterwards 
 he wrapped his sword hand in his handkerchief an' 
 stood laughin' at the Britishers in the woods. Our 
 boys was droppin' fast. We closed in on 'em, an' little 
 Rush Gibson from Hillsboro' runs ahead of Du Val 
 wavin' a flag an' yellin', 'Charge ! charge !' like he was 
 a general of a brigade. Du Val tries to hold him back, 
 but Gibson goes crazy an' runs right at 'em, shoutin' 
 an' wavin' his flag. Then Du Val he chases Gibson 
 an' the two gets to the woods together, with us 
 a-follerin' fifty yards behind. A red-coat officer steps 
 out an' shoots a pistol squar' in Gibson's face, an' the 
 boy drops in a heap. Quicker than lightnin' we seen 
 Du Val's sword shine, an' the Britisher goes down with 
 his head split down to his grinnin' mouth. Then 
 Du Val, his head bare an' his black hair flyin' in the 
 wind, looks back an' smilin' soft like a woman sez, 
 'Come on boys, fer Gibson's sake!' An' did we come? 
 Well, I reckon so ! We drove 'em pilin' into the creek 
 an' put 'em out o' business in two minutes. Then 
 Du Val, comin' back, picks up little Gibson an' sez, 'Is 
 
 410 
 
« 
 
 To My Mother— God Bless Her ! '* 
 
 the boy's mother livin'?' An' I sez yes; an' he sez, 
 'Wrap 'im in his flag an' bnry him ; an' tell his mother 
 that her boy charged the hull British army an* died a 
 soldier's death." 
 
 "Then," said Jemmie, with a weary sigh, "they shot 
 me in the back as we was gettin' round to the lines, an' 
 I had to drop out. But Du Val's a-fightin' yet. I never 
 seen such a man. When he laughs an' throws back his 
 head an' sez, 'Come on, boys !' there ain't a man in the 
 hull army that wouldn't foller him straight to hell 
 if he started that way. I only wish I was with 'im 
 
 now." 
 
 And so did the news of Motier Du Val come to the 
 little town of New Bern. And the people wondered 
 how it would all end. 
 
 Months passed, and as the war waxed fiercer 
 Du Val's name became more frequently heard, until 
 every fireside in the Carolinas echoed the praise of his 
 daring. 
 
 Then one noon, when the devout townspeople were 
 closing a service of prayer for the Continental arms, 
 some one whispered at the church door that Caswell, 
 with a dozen men, was coming down the road. The 
 benediction was pronounced, and the congregation filed 
 into the street, where had gathered already a throng 
 numbering many hundreds. Up the road, in a cloud of 
 dust, was a party of horsemen. Nearer they came, 
 until Colonel Caswell's martial figure brought a cheer 
 from the throats of the people. At the sound of 
 applause one horse bolted, and a broad-shouldered 
 young fellow, in uniform of blue and buff, and mounted 
 on a plunging grey charger, dashed down the street. 
 
 411 
 
Wallannah 
 
 As he passed before the church the horseman halted 
 and looked up. A voice in the crowd yelled, "Du Val !" 
 
 Motier gave a swift glance over the multitude of 
 faces before him. Within the church's portal he saw 
 Lord Durham and his wife. He raised his hat and 
 smiled ; and at the salutation a great yell went up from 
 the crowd. 
 
 "Du \"al ! Du Val !" 
 
 Reining in his horse with an iron hand, he bowed 
 again and again at the crowd that thronged about him. 
 
 Then some one cried, "Remember Gibson !" 
 
 That had been Motier's battle-cry ; and a hundred 
 voices picked it up. Arms were waved with wild 
 enthusiasm, hats were tossed in the air^ and 
 handkerchiefs fluttered in the breeze. Again the shout 
 was raised, and the crowd carried it on and on, until 
 New Bern rang from the river to the forest with the 
 soldier's cry : "Remember Gibson !" 
 
 Then followed the hoarse yell, "Du Val ! Du Val !" 
 And while the air quivered with the mighty shout, 
 Motier rode down between the -lines of cheering 
 villagers, and with his head held high and with a touch 
 of pride about his firmly-set lips, delivered himself into 
 the hands of Justice, to stand trial for the murder of 
 Robert McFaddin. 
 
 The news of Du Val's voluntary return swept 
 through the town like wildfire. Some who knew him 
 had thought that he might some time come back for 
 trial; but the greater number, believing him guilty, 
 scouted the idea. Yet, he was there ; and few believed 
 that he could escape the penalty of the crime which 
 was laid at his door. 
 
 412 
 
Hk raised his hat and smiled. 
 
"To My Mother — God Bless Her!" 
 
 On the day of the trial the courthouse was filled 
 to the uttermost. Throughout the long ordeal the 
 prisoner faced the throng with a coldness that bordered 
 on indilTerence. Witness after witness told of the 
 circumstances immediately following the murder ; and 
 when Cantwell, the last witness for the prosecution, 
 took the stand, few within those walls doubted that 
 Du Val would hang within the month. 
 
 But Lawyer Writman did wondrous things in the 
 cross-examination of the 'Squire. When the attorney 
 had concluded his work in that line, the court-room was 
 in an uproar; for the reputation of Cantwell — the 
 good 'Squire Cantwell — had been torn to shreds. 
 When the defense opened, Writman continued his fight 
 against the 'Squire ; and that gentleman, his face pallid 
 and his hands shaking as in an ague, began edging his 
 way toward the door. Motier's attorney proved, among 
 other things, that Cantwell had hired the Indian girl, 
 Sequa, to steal Mary Ross's child; that he had told 
 Peggy McF'addin the baby was in his way ; that he had 
 made an attempt, during the infancy of the prisoner, to 
 compass his death by poisoning; that in April of 1771 
 he had conspired with his own son to shoot Du Val 
 from an ambush ; that three months afterward he had 
 sent this same son to the mountains to engage Du Val 
 in a duel, with a view to his death ; and that by every 
 means within his power he had sought to persecute the 
 man who was now the prisoner at the bar. And why ? 
 Because he knew Du Val to be his son by Ivlary Ross, 
 and feared that discovering this fact the young man 
 might seek to adjust his mother's wrongs and thus 
 disclose the fact that the virtuous Cantwell had two 
 living wives. 41^ 
 
Wallannah 
 
 Then by Sequa (who had risen to the dignity of a 
 "Christian Indian") Writman showed that Cantwell 
 had killed AIcFaddin and had thrown his dagger among 
 the bushes, where Sequa had found it the moment it 
 fell. He reinforced this testimony by that of Doctors 
 Boggs and Gaston, and by Simon Fawn. 
 
 The physicians swore that, on exhuming the body 
 of the sailor, they had found in the front surface of a 
 vertebral bone a pointed piece of steel a quarter of an 
 inch in length. The poniard which had been taken 
 from Motier on the right of the murder was unbroken ; 
 but the one which Sequa had picked from the ground 
 where Cantwell had thrown it was without its point. 
 And the bit of steel in the vertebra fitted the broken 
 blade of Cantwell's dagger. Furthermore, it w^as 
 proved by measurement that the dagger blades were 
 not originally of the same length, and that the one 
 found upon Motier was too short to have pierced from 
 the chest to the backbone of any man. 
 
 Then the evidence turned to the Bank of England 
 note which Cantwell had sworn that he paid McFaddin 
 half an hour before his death, and which was not found 
 upon the body. Simon Fawn testified that Cantwell 
 had come to him on the afternoon before the murder, 
 saying that he wanted for immediate use a bank note 
 of one hundred pounds. Fawn lent him the money, 
 which he promised to refund the next day. The 
 following morning Cantwell returned the note, which 
 Fawn identified by its number. Upon this bill was a 
 bloodstain, marked over and half concealed by several 
 ink lines. The note had been fresh and clean when 
 Fawn had lent it to the 'Squire. Then came the mute 
 
 414 
 
"To My Mother— God Bless Her!'' 
 
 evidence of the rough paper wallet which was found in 
 the dead man's pocket, and which was soaked through 
 and through with a bloodstain of the very size and 
 shape of the one upon the banknote. 
 
 Thus came testimony upon testimony, until the 
 evidence was closed; and the judge, without charge, 
 gave the case to the jury ; and the jury, without leaving 
 the court-room, returned a verdict of "not guilty," 
 Then, despite the thunderings of the judicial gavel, and 
 the efforts of the sheriff and his deputies, the crowd 
 surged to the front, and lifting Du Val into midair, 
 carried him from the court-room amid such shouts and 
 cheers as had never before sounded within the confines 
 of New Bern, except on that morning when the people 
 had cried, "Remember Gibson !"' 
 
 "When the sheriff, with a bench-warrant, sought for 
 Cant well, the good man was gone. And within the 
 hour the 'Squire, in the stable behind his house, sought 
 the death that Judas sought upon the Field of Blood; 
 for he went out and hanged himself. His funeral 
 cortege was a smaller one than McFaddin's, five years 
 before. 
 
 Breaking from the crowd, Motier sought refuge in 
 the inn. There he made the landlord take Ocebee's 
 brother's pipe from the wall where his wife had hung 
 it with a red ribbon four years ago, and with a bagful 
 of tobacco he went to his old room to think over some 
 things and to plan about some others. 
 
 His theory of his relationship to Cantwell and Mary 
 Ross had been borne out by the little that M. Du Val 
 (whom Motier, after his escape, rejoined in France) 
 knew about the case. But such a father Motier would 
 
 415 
 
Wallannah 
 
 never seek. So he straightway and unnecessarily 
 excluded the 'Squire from his calculations. The 'Squire 
 was doing, at that very moment, his own excluding. 
 
 Then, taking up the question of Mary Ross, Motier 
 determined to see her at once, and to place her beyond 
 all care and want. He would build a mansion near 
 Beechwood and would persuade Mrs. De Vere — or 
 Lady Durham, as she now was — to relinquish her hold 
 upon Alice. Thus could all three, mother and son and 
 daughter, live together in peace and happiness beneath 
 one roof. 
 
 Then came a thought that struck Motier like a 
 knife-thrust. By what name would he call himself? 
 and by what name would he call his mother and his 
 sister ? Cantwell ? Heavens, no ! Not while a shred 
 of honor lived in him would he ever take that name. 
 
 Motier was pacing up and down the floor. 
 Suddenly, without a warning knock, the door burst 
 open and Captain Maynard rushed into the room. 
 
 "Motier," he said, excitedly, ''for heaven's sake 
 come to my house !" He dragged Du Val toward the 
 door. 
 
 "Hold on ! Hold on ! Let me get my hat and — 
 Look out ! you'll break my pipe ! What's the matter at 
 the house?" 
 
 Maynard pulled impatiently at Du Val's arm. 
 "Something's in the wind," he said hurriedly. "Never 
 mind locking your door. Come ahead. Your father's 
 just come here from the South; and, hearing of your 
 acquittal, came to my house. IMargaret recognized him 
 as her brother — " 
 
 Motier stopped short. "As what?" 
 
 416 
 
I 
 
 "To My Mother — God Bless Her!" 
 
 "As her brother, Richard Dudley. Come ahead 1 I 
 knew it all the time, but never spoke of it. He assumed 
 the name for some political reason. Then Margaret 
 asked him how you came to be his son — " 
 
 "Well, did he tell you?" Motier's question broke 
 off in a laugh. They were now in the street, and were 
 walking rapidly toward Maynard's house. 
 
 "Yes," answered Maynard, "he says you're 
 Cantwell's son ; but — " He stopped. 
 
 Motier pulled him around with a jerk. "But what?" 
 he roared, glaring into Maynard's face. 
 
 "But I know better. Come on! Everything's in 
 a mess. Your fa — Dudley, I mean, says that the will 
 giving his estate to Cantwell instead of Margaret must 
 have been forged by the 'Squire during his clerkship 
 in a lawyer's office in Salisbury; and he has a letter 
 bearing my forged signature, which explains the 
 trouble between Richard and myself; then he says that 
 en Margaret's account he bought the land that 
 Cantwell, by the forged will, got when he thought 
 Richard dead ; and that he had it re-recorded in her 
 name. Tonta says — " 
 
 "Hold on ! You'll smash me into this tree. What's 
 your everlasting hurry, anyway?" 
 
 "Don't be a mule : come on faster !" 
 
 Motier quickened his pace. "You were telHng what 
 Tonta said," he suggested. 
 
 "Tonta says that the baby you thought grew into 
 yourself died in the woods." 
 
 "Died in the woods! Then who in thunder 
 am I ?" 
 
 "That's what I'm hurrying to find out." 
 
 417 
 
Wallannah 
 
 "Hurry up, then ! For heaven's sake ! look out for 
 that fence!" 
 
 "It's my own fence. Don't bother with the gate; 
 jump over." 
 
 The two men rushed across the lawn and went 
 through the doorway. The gardener at work in a 
 lily-bed, looked up with a grin. "Squealin' 
 Mud-turtles !" he muttered. "They've turned the 
 Frencher loose. But he ain't no spider-legged flooer 
 dc lee ! Ef he ain't Car'lina from his skelo to his heels, 
 Tm a bloody, bat-eyed lunytic." 
 
 ]\Iaynard pulled Motier into the parlor. Wallannah 
 stood with Doctor Boggs near the centre of the floor. 
 At one side of the room were Lord Durham and Lady 
 Durham and M. Du Val — or Richard Dudley, as it 
 now appeared. 
 
 Boggs began the conversation. "Mrs. Maynard," 
 he said, gently, watching her face with eyes that 
 gleamed piercingly under their shaggy brows, "look 
 carefully into this young man's eyes ; then raise his left 
 coat-sleeve and look at his arm." 
 
 The room was breathlessly silent. Mrs. ^Maynard 
 stepped forward and looked at Motier as she had that 
 afternoon at Yaunocca. Then dropping her eyes she 
 took his hand and lifted the sleeve. The light fell upon 
 the triple mark of the clustered red cherries. 
 
 "Arthur ! My son !" she cried, as sobbing she threw 
 her arms about his neck. 
 
 Boggs held back Maynard with a grip of iron. 
 Lord and Lady Durham and Mr. Dudley started to 
 their feet, but were warned back by the look of the 
 doctor's eyes. 
 
 418 
 
"To My Mother — God Bless Her?" 
 
 Motier stood like a carven statue, with one arm 
 about Mrs. Maynard. His handsome face, with a sad 
 smile on its Hps and a look of pity in its eyes, was bent 
 over Wallannah's head. She was sobbing brokenly as 
 Motier with his one free hand softly smoothed her 
 hair. 
 
 Then she raised her head, and again looked into 
 his face. "Arthur," she said, with a low laugh, ''I 
 knew it all the time, for the spirits told me." 
 
 Boggs and Maynard exchanged quick glances as 
 they heard Wallannah's laugh; for they feared the 
 shock had thrown her back into the cloud of her former 
 days. 
 
 Motier, sorely puzzled, knew not what to answer. 
 "What did the spirits tell you ?" he asked, tenderly. 
 
 "They told me that day on the mountain that 
 Ocebee's prisoner was my son — the boy whom we all 
 thought dead." 
 
 Her voice was grov/mg stronger, and the light in 
 her eyes was calm again. Boggs and Maynard each 
 drew a long breath; for they knew that the danger 
 had passed. 
 
 "I could not see you then as I do now," she went 
 on, "for I lived in a dream for many, many years ; but 
 now I know that you are my own dear boy !" 
 
 Motier gave a helpless look at Boggs. The doctor 
 answered with a smile. Maynard whispered a few 
 words into his wife's ear. She smiled, and kissed 
 Motier twice upon the cheek. Then Boggs led her 
 from the room. 
 
 When the doctor returned he had a bundle oi papers 
 in his hand. Motier and Maynard were standing in 
 
 419 
 
Wallannah 
 
 the middle of the room, each looking into the other's 
 eyes, and each about to speak. 
 
 Motier had the first word. "I deeply regret, 
 Captain, to have been the cause of any return of Mrs. 
 Maynard's troi!ble — " 
 
 "Tut! tut! boy!" broke in Boggs, in thunderous 
 tones. "Are you blind ?" 
 
 Motier turned toward him. "Not blind," he 
 answered, "but I'm verv badly muddled, to say the 
 least." 
 
 "Well, I'll unmuddle you." The doctor slammed 
 a paper onto the table. "There's one affidavit ; there's 
 another; there's another; and there are six more." 
 He glared defiantly at Motier. 
 
 The young man laughed. "Well, what about 
 them?" 
 
 "They prove that you are Arthur Maynard. That's 
 what about them !" 
 
 "But Sequa stole me from Mary Ross," protested 
 Motier, looking from Boggs to Maynard and back 
 again 
 
 "Sequa stole Mary Ross's baby ; and it died in her 
 arms before she got to New Bern. She came by 
 Captain Maynard's house when it first caught afire. 
 She knew where the child's room was, and ran up 
 there to see if it was safe. She had Mary's dead baby 
 in her arms and found Mrs. Maynard's live one on the 
 bed. So she changed the one for the other; and this 
 bunch of affidavits proves that you're the live one and 
 not the dead one. That's a twisted sentence, but I 
 guess you know what it means." 
 
 Motier, with a half-chokcl laugh, turned t© grasp 
 his father's hand. 420 
 
"To My Mother — God Bless Her!" 
 
 The sudden report of a musket made them start. 
 
 A drawling voice drifted in at the window. 
 "Croakin' Snails! Blowed his head clean ofif his neck. 
 That 'ere kingfisher's been a-squawkin' long 'nough ; 
 an' durned if I didn't stop his suflf'rin's this time." 
 
 An hour later Motier stood at the head of the table 
 in his father's dining-room. At his right hand stood 
 Captain Alaynard, tall and broad-shouldered like his 
 son. Beyond him was Lady Durham, handsome and 
 stately ; and at her side stood Lord Durham, his noble 
 height and classic features marking him for a man 
 among men. At Motier's left was Richard Dudley, 
 graceful and patrician in every line; and Mary Ross, 
 with the light of goodness in her comely face; and 
 Ignatius Boggs, M.D., shaggy-browed but kindly-eyed, 
 smiling quietly as one who has attained his dearest 
 desires. 
 
 Motier raised his glass of Catawba, and looked over 
 the glowing candles at the queenly, dark-robed figure 
 at the table's foot. His throat tightened a little at the 
 gladness of it all ; then with a smile, and in a voice 
 that thrilled to the hearts of all within the room, he 
 called : 
 
 "To my mother — God bless her !" 
 
 And she smiled back at him with tears of joy in 
 her eyes. 
 
 421 
 
Wallannah 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 In Which the Expected Happens 
 
 FTER supper Motier, leaving the guests in 
 the parlor, stole through the back door and 
 ;v2nt down the lane toward the stable. The 
 moon was still below the forests, but its 
 light was in the sky; and Motier, pausing for a 
 moment on his way, could see in clear-cut silhouette 
 the familiar shapes of the mansions round about the 
 town. There were the great trees that guarded the 
 governor's palace — the princely house whose halls 
 now rang with the steps of strangers, but whose every 
 niche and alcove teemed with the whitening bones of 
 its dead memories. And there, so far away that his 
 eyes could scarcely pierce the gloom, were the elms 
 that lined the graveled walkways of Beechwood, 
 Under the elms had been the roses — roses white as her 
 own pure brow — but all of that had been years and 
 years before. The roses, perhaps, were dead ; and 
 she — he knew not where she was. 
 
 With a quick compression of the lips he turned and 
 walked down the path. 
 
 A lantern's feeble light glimmered in the open 
 stable door. Motier, with quick change of mood, 
 laughed softly to himself. 
 
 "Tonta!" he called, "Tonta, you copper-colored 
 rascal ! Come here, or I'll thrash your hide to ribbons !" 
 
 422 
 
In Which the Expected Happens 
 
 The lantern dropped to the floor and went out. 
 From the gloom came a wild cry. 
 
 "Caiheek come back !" 
 
 A lithe figure cleared at a single bound a rod of 
 flower-bed and a waist-high hedge. 
 
 "Tonta told Cap'n Caiheek come back. Cap'n say 
 no. Tonta tell Great Spirit if Caiheek no come Tonta 
 make church burn. Great Spirit know Tonta no 
 'fraid — Caiheek come back." 
 
 Motier laughed. "Same crazy Indian," he said, 
 grasping Tonta's arm with a grip that made the boy 
 wince. "Come; we'll go to the stable." 
 
 Amid a babble of Indian extravagance, plentifully 
 embellished with clumsy oaths in French and English 
 and Cherokee, Tonta led the way. Together they 
 entered the stable, and Tonta relighted the lantern. 
 
 "Where is he ?" asked Motier, sharply. 
 
 Divining his master's meaning, Tonta guided him 
 to a stall where a great black horse pawed the floor 
 with restless hoofs. "Fleetfoot !" The horse whinnied 
 and turned his head toward the light. 
 
 Motier stepped into the stall. 
 
 "No go there," cried Tonta, in terror. "Horse kick 
 'em Caiheek." 
 
 "Kick your grandmother," growled Motier. "Don't 
 I know him ?" And running his hand over the glossy 
 back, he stepped in beside the horse. 
 
 Tonta relapsed into an awe-stricken silence. 
 
 "Fleetfoot," said Motier again. 
 
 The animal dropped his head into Motier's hand, 
 and looked with almost human understanding into his 
 master's face. Then with a low sound, something 
 
 423 
 
Wallannah 
 
 between a whinny and a growl, he rubbed his nose 
 against Motier's shoulder. 
 
 "I'd like to saddle you and tear some of these roads 
 into powder, old fellow," said Motier, "but I've got a 
 new father and a new mother and a crowd of friends at 
 the house, and I can't go." Then, with a farewell pat 
 on the velvety nose, Motier turned and left the stable. 
 
 Tonta was still silent. 
 
 "Thought he'd kick, did you, Cherokee?" laughed 
 Motier. 
 
 "Horse no like Tonta," responded the Indian. 
 "Tonta say 'good horse,' and horse feet go 'bang!' 
 Dam ! Tonta keep 'way." 
 
 Half way up the path Motier stopped. "Ho, boy !" 
 he called. From the darkness came back a neigh, loud 
 and clear and long. Motier chuckled softly. "He 
 knows me now, doesn't he ?" he asked of his companion. 
 
 "Horse no like Tonta," was all the answer the boy 
 could give. 
 
 Du Val, entering the house, ascended to his room 
 and made his evening toilet. This completed, he 
 started down the hall. Near the head of the stairway 
 he met Richard Dudley. 
 
 "Motier," said the elder man, in an unsteady voice, 
 "you've been so much to me as my son through all the 
 past years that I've persuaded your father and mother 
 to keep your old Uncle Richard in the room next to 
 yours, until such a time as you want to ship me back to 
 France. You've been all the world to me, and — Bless 
 you, boy ! you're all the world yet !" 
 
 Motier took Dudley's hand and pressed it tightly. 
 "You found mother and father easy to persuade, I 
 
 424 
 
In Which the Expected Happens 
 
 guess; for I arranged the matter an hour ago. Did 
 you think for one moment that my foster-father, the 
 man who has cared for me from the cradle, would have 
 to go back to that grimy old castle in Auxerre? No, 
 sir ! You'll never get out of my clutches. Now come 
 down — " 
 
 They heard a step behind them ; and turned to greet 
 Captain Maynard. 
 
 "Cap — father, I mean — confound it! I can't 
 realize this blessed thing yet — come down with Uncle 
 Dick (Great Caesar ! Uncle Dick !) — come down with 
 us, and see the good people. I've sent Tonta to the 
 inn after Ocebee's brother's pipe; and I've got my 
 freedom, and my father and my mother, and my uncle, 
 and old Fleetfoot, and everything and everybody, 
 except — Well, come down, father mine, and uncle 
 mine, and see what makes the laughter in the 
 parlor." 
 
 And the three men went arm in arm down the broad 
 stairway, the two great brawny fellows on either side, 
 with the slight white-haired man between them. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs they met Mrs. Maynard, 
 her handsome face wreathed in smiles. She drew her 
 son to one side and whispered something in his ear. 
 Then he kissed her. 
 
 "As you say, mother dear," he laughed. "But 
 where is his Lordship ?" 
 
 "In the back-parlor, Motier. Don't keep him 
 waiting." And she went with her husband and her 
 brother into the parlor. 
 
 Motier's face wore a little frown as he went down 
 the hall toward the back-parlor door. He had always 
 
 425 
 
Wallannah 
 
 been irresistibly drawn toward Lord Durham ; but he 
 still remembered him as the one who had wooed Alice, 
 only to set her aside and marry her mother. And Alice 
 had been much in his mind to-night ; for, since she was 
 not his sister — But nonsense ! That was five years 
 ago. 
 
 He opened the door. Lord Durham stood in the 
 middle of the room; and by his side was a slight, 
 fair-haired girl, dressed in black. 
 
 "Motier," said the nobleman, "permit me to present 
 my daughter, Alice Noel!" 
 
 There was a glad cry and a quick rush of silken 
 skirts. 
 
 "Motier!" 
 
 "Alice!" 
 
 And thus they met. 
 
 After Durham had stolen from the room, and when 
 the two pairs of lips had parted, they looked into each 
 other's eyes, and Alice buried her face against Motier's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Those were long, long years; weren't they, 
 Motier?" she said, with a tremor in her voice. 
 
 "Yes, dearest ; so long that they seemed to have no 
 end." 
 
 "And you did not understand about — about father ? 
 and you even thought me your sister? and still you 
 loved me ?" 
 
 He held her closer to him. "Yes, sweetheart. I 
 have loved you since the day that you pinned the first 
 white rose on my coat ; and I'll cease to love you when 
 roses cease to grow." 
 
 She looked up wath love's bright light in her eyes. 
 
 426 
 
In Which the Expected Happens 
 
 "You have made me so happy," she said, "for I 
 iCared you had forgotten." 
 
 "Forgotten?" he repeated, with gentle reproach. 
 "Did I not tell you, back there in the distant ages, that 
 a man never forgets, even when he tries?" 
 
 "Then you have tried to forget?" 
 
 "Am I not here now?" he asked, evading her 
 question. 
 
 "Yes." Her voice sank into a whisper. 
 
 "And you love me?" 
 
 Her lips quivered. "Now and forever," she said, 
 very softly, 
 
 "Then let the past be as it may. Look again into 
 my eyes, sweetheart, and tell me — " 
 
 "Yes, my knight — I love you." 
 
 He took her face between his hands, as he had 
 that morning years before, in the rose-garden at 
 Beechwood. 
 
 They walked across to the open window and looked 
 over toward the river. The moon was climbing up 
 from the level of the tree tops, and a broad beam of 
 shimmering silver spread across the Neuse. 
 
 "More than once did I fear never to see our river 
 again," said Motier. "And the thought was not a 
 pleasant one; for I have seen life at its best beside that 
 stream — and with you." 
 
 "Were the days by the river happier than the two 
 white rose days ?" she asked, returning the pressure of 
 his hand. 
 
 "Nay, lady mine; there were no days like those 
 two." 
 
 "Yea, verily — for me as well as for you. But wny 
 
 427 
 
Wallannah 
 
 did you think the river would be yours no more ? Was 
 there much danger through those last long years?" 
 
 "A little; by land and by sea. And some of 
 bitterness, also." 
 
 "Did she come much into your life?" 
 
 "Lucille? Yes; but not as before. She and her 
 father sailed with me to Liverpool. There I left 
 them." 
 
 "Have you never seen her since ?" 
 
 "Not as Lucille. Once I saw her, but she bore 
 another name."- 
 
 "Has she married ?" 
 
 "No; save in the spirit. I saw her in the chapel 
 of the con\'«nt of Saint Sylvestro, when the cardinal 
 gave his benediction and the black-robed sisterhood 
 chanted her welcome. Now she is Sister Berenice; 
 and she wears the coarse garb of a Franciscan and 
 looks at the world through a grated window." 
 
 Alice shuddered. "It seems so terrible, doesn't it? 
 for she was so beautiful and so queenly." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And do you think that before she took the veil 
 she — she was better ?" 
 
 "That lies between herself and her God, dear one. 
 I do not know." 
 
 They were silent a long time. A dark ship with 
 sails outspread crept up the river and dropped anchor 
 in the middle of the silver path of the moonlight. From 
 a tree by the window a whippoorAvill gave its mournful 
 call; and its mate in the cypress groves by the 
 river-shore echoed a soft response. 
 
 From the parlor came the subdued music of the 
 
 428 
 
In Which the Expected Happens 
 
 harpsichord, with an under-melody of laughter and 
 conversation. 
 
 While they stood there, with the moonlight 
 streaming in upon them, Alice's eyes sought her lover's 
 face. "You are happy to be again with me ?" she asked, 
 with a soft, wistful ring in her voice. 
 
 He bent down and kissed her. "Happy? Aye., 
 happier than it is right that man should be. The dark 
 days have gone by. Even their memory is lost in my 
 love for you." 
 
 "In your love only? Then does mine count for 
 naught ?" 
 
 "It counts for so much that we shall call it the love 
 that spanned the gulf of sorrowful years. From the 
 first white rose day to this night within my father's 
 house, all is forgotten, sweetheart, save only your love 
 and mine." 
 
 His hand and hers, his heart and hers, were joined 
 forever ! Looking to the years yet to come, they knew 
 that love had wrought its crown of gold — of gold 
 without dross — from the midst of a fiery furnace. 
 And before their eyes and upon their hearts was the 
 sign of the pure white rose. 
 
 Through paths that were dark and winding, through 
 days and nights that seemed as years upon years, and 
 tlirough years that seemed to have no end, Love, though 
 blind, had found its way. The stony highways had 
 been cleared and smoothed and straightened by the 
 touch of the Hand of hands. 
 
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