The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 7, 1903, Page 4

be said for those good rulers of the English colonies, who are seeking ever 1o keep thelr people east of the Alie- ganies o the Old Worid over again, there in the St. Lawrence,” sald Law. Right you are, Monsleur L'as,” ex- jaimed Du Mesne. “New France is but an extension of the family of Louis. The Intendant reports evervthing to the King. Monsfeur So-and-So is married. Very well, the King must know it! Mon- sieur's eldest daughter is making sheep's eves at such and such a soldler of the regiment of the King. Very well, this is a weighty matter, of which the King must be advised! Monsieur's wife be- comes exnectant of a son and heir. 'Tis meet that Louis the Great should be advised of this! Mother of God! 'Tis a pretty mess enough back there on the St. Lawrence, where not & hen may cackle over its mew laid egg but the King must know it, and where not a family hes meat enough for its children to eat nor clothes enough to cover them. My faith, in that poor mediey of little lords and lazy vassals, bow can you wonder that the best of us have risen and taken to the woods. Yet 'tis we who catch their beaver for them: and If God and the King be willing, some time we sha'l get a certain price for our beaver—pro- vided God and the King furnish cur- rency to pay us; and that the Governor, the priest and the intendant ratify the acts of God and the King!” Law smiled at the sturdy vehemence of the other's speech, yet there was something of soberness in his own re- ply. “Sir,” said he, ** you see here my little Look you, the beaver pass away, but the roots of the corn will never be torn out. Here |Is your wealth, Du Mesne.” The sturdy captain scratched his head. “I only know, for my part,” said he, thet I do not care for the settlements. Not that I would not be glad to see the King extend his arm farther to the West, for these sullen English are crowaing us more and more along our borders. Surely the land \belongs to him who found it.” “‘Perhaps better to him who can both find and hold it. But this soil will one day raise up a people of its own.” “Yed as to that,” rejoined Du Mesne as the two turned and walked back to the stockade, “we are not here to handle the affairs of either Louls or William. Let us e'en leave that to monsieur the intendant, and monsieur the governor, and our friends, the gray owls and the black crows, the Recollets and the Jes- uits. I mind to call this spot home with . if you like. I shall be back as soon “be with the things we need, and we shall plant here no starving colony. but one good enough for the home of any man. Monsieur, I wish you very well, and T may congratulate you on your daughter. A heartier infant never was born anywhere on the water trail between the mountain and the Messasebe. What name have you chosen for the young lady monsieur?”’ “I have decided” call her Catharine. said John Law, “to CHAPTER VIIL TOUS SBAUVAGES. Had nature indeed intended Law for the wild life of the trail, and had he indeed spent years rather than months emong these unusual scenes, he could bardly have been better fitted for the part. Hardy of limb, keen of eye, tire- less of foot, with a hand which any weap- on fitted, his success as hunter made his companions willing enough to assign to bim the ch: of the bison or the stag; so that he became not only patron, but provider for the camp. Some weeks after the departure of Du Mesne Law was returning from the hunt some miles below the station. His tall and powerful figure, hardened by con- tinued outdoor exercise, was scarce bow- ed by the weight of the wild buck which he bore across his shoulders. His eye, accustomed to the instant readfhess de- manded in the vovageur's life, glanced keenly about, taking in each item of the scene, each movement of the little bird on the tree, the rustling of the grass where a rabbit started from its form, the whisk of the gray squarrel’s tall on the limb far overhead. The touch of autumn was now in the @ir. The leaves of the wild grapevine were falling. The oaks had donned gar- ments of somber brown, the hickories had Jost thelr leaves, while here and there along the river shores the flaming senti- nels of the maples had changed their scarlet uniform for one of duller hue. The wild rice in the marshes had shed its grain upon the mud banks. The acorns were loosening in their cups. Fall in the West, gorgeous, beautiful, had now set in, of sll the seasons of the year that most loved by the huntsman. This tall, lean man, clad in buckskin like a gavage, brown almost as a savage, as active and as alert, seemed to fit not 111 with these environments, nor to lack efther confidence or contentment. He walked on steadily, following the path eslong the bayou bank, and at length paused for a moment, throwing down his burden and stooping to drink at the tiny pool made by the little rivulet which trickled down the face of the bluff. Here he bathed his face and hands in the cool gtream, for the moment abandoning him- self to that rest which the hunter earns. It was when at length he raised his head and turned to resume his burden that his suspicious eve caught a glimpse of some- thing which sent him in a flash below the level of the grasses, and thence to the cover of a tree trunk. As he gazed from his hiding place he saw the tawny waters of the bayou bro- ken into a long series of advancing rip- ples. Passing the fringe of wild rice, swimming down beneath the heavy cord- ege of the wild grapevines, there came on two canoes, roughly made of elm bark, in fashion which would have shown an older frontiersman full proof of their ‘Western origin. In the bow of the foremost boat, as Law could now clearly see, sat a siender young man, clad in the uniform, now soiled and faded, of a captain in the British army. His boat was propelled by four dusky paddiers, Indians of the East. Stalwart, powerful, silent, they sent the craft on down stream, their keen eyes glancing swiftly from one point to the other of the ever-changing panorama, yet finding nothing that would * seem to warrant pause. Back of the first boat by a short distance came a kindred craft, its crew comprising two white men and two In- dian paddlers. Of the white men, one might have been a petty officer, the other perhaps & private soldler. It was, then, as Du Mesne had said. Every party bound into the West must pass this very point upon the river of the Ilint. But why should these be present here? Were they friends or foes? Bo queried the watcher, tense and eager as a waiting panther, now crouched with straining eve behind the sheltering tree. As the leading boat swung clear of the shadows, the man in the prow turned his face, scanning closely the shore of the stream. As he did so Law haif started to his feet, and a moment later stepped from h¥% concealment. He gazed again and again, doubting what he saw. Surely those clean-cut, handsome features could belong to no man but his former friend, Sir Arthur Pembroke! Yet how could Sir Arthur be here? What could be his errand, and how had he been guided hither? These sudden questions might, upon the instant, have confused a brain ready as that of this observer, who paused not to reflect that this meeting, seemingly so Impossible, was In fact the most natural thing in the world; Indeed, could scarce Lave been avolded by any one traveling with Indlan guldes down the waterway to the Mes- sasebe. The keen eyes of the red paddlers caught sight of the crushed grasses at the little landing on the bayou bank, even as Law rose from his hiding place. A swift, concerted sweep of the paddles sent the boat clrcling out Into midstream. and befure Law knew it he was covered by half a dosen guns. He nardly noticed this. His own gun he left leaning agalust a tree, and his hand was thrown out high in front of him as he came on, call- ing out to those in the stream. He heard the command of the leader in the boat and a moment later both canoes swung inshore. “Have down your guns,” Sir Arthur. cried Law, loudiy and gayly. ‘‘We are none but friends here. Come in, and tell me that it is yeurself, and rot some miracle of mine eyes.” The young man so surprisiagly ad- dressed half started from the fawart in his amasement. His face bent into an incredulous frown, scarce cafrying com- prehension, even as he approached the shore. As he left the boat. for an instant else that may follow which will be ill extinguished.” Pembroke flung down his sword upon the ground in front of him. - “You are lucky, Mr. Law,” said he, “lucky as ever. But surely never was man so eminently deserving of death as yourself.” *“You do me very much honor, Sir Ar- thur,” replied Law. ‘“‘Here is your sword, sir.” Stooping, he picked it up and hand- ed it to the other. “I did but Il if I re- fused to accord satisfactlion to one bring- ing me such speech as that. ’'Tis well you wear your weapons, Sir Arthur, since you come thus as emissary of the Great Peace! I know you for a gentleman, and I shall ask no parole for you to-night, but meantime let us walt until to-mor- row, when I promise yfu I shall Be as eager as yourself. Come! We ecan stand here guessing and talking no longer I am weary of it.” ‘e They came now to the gate of the stockade, and there Pembroke stood for A moment in surprise and perplexity. He was not prepared to meet this dark- haired, wide-eyed girl, clad in native dress of skin, with tinkling metals at wrist and ankle, and on her feet the tiny, beaded shoes. For her part, Mary Connynrge, filled with woman’'s curigsity, was yet less prepared for that which appeared be- fore her—an apparition, as ran her first thought, come to threater and affright. “Sir Arthur!” she began, her trembling tongue but half forming the words. Her eyes stared in terror, and beneath her dark skip the blood shrank away and left her pale. She recoiled from him, her left hand carrying behind her instinctively Pembroke's hand was half extended ineghe bhabe that lay on her arm. greeting, vet a swift change came over his countenance and his body stiffened. “Is'it indeed you, Mr. Law?’ he said. “I could not have belleved myseif so for- tunate.” “*Tis myself and no one else repiled Law. “But why this melodrama, Sir Arthur? Why reject my hand?” “I have sworn to extend to you no handv but that bearing a weapon, Mr. Law sald Pembroke. ‘“This may be accident, but it seems to me the justice of God. Oh, you have run far, Mr. Law— hat meari you, Sir Arthur?’ ex- claimed Law, his face assuming the dull red of anger. “I have gone where I pleased and asked no man’s leave for it, and 1 shall live as I please and ask no man’s leave for that. 1 admit that it seems almost a miracle to meet you here, but come you one way or the other, you come best without riddles, and still better without threats.” “You are not armed,” said Sir Arthur. He gazed at the. bronzed figure before him, clad in fringed tunic and leggings of deer hide; at the belt with little knife and ax, at the gun which now rested in the hollow of his arm. Law himseif laughed as to that,” sald he, “I had thought myself well enough equipped. But as for a sword, 'tis true my hand is more familiar, these days, with the ax and gun.” “The late Jessamy Law shows change in his capacity of renegade,” sald Rem- broke, raspingly. His face displayed a scorn which jumped ill with the nature of the man before him. “I am what I am, Sir Arthur,” said Law, “and what I was. And always I am at any man’s service who is in search of what you call God's justice, or what I may call personal satisfaction. I doubt not we shall find my other trinkets in good order not far away. But meantime, before you turn my hospitality into shame, bring on your men and follow me."” His face working with emotion, Law turned away. He caught up the body of the dead buck, and, tossing it across his shoulders, strode up the winding path “Come, Gray and Ellsworth,” Pembroke. “Get your men together. shall see what there is to this.” At the summit of the river bluff Law awalted thetr arrival. He noted in silence the look of surprise which crossed Pem- broke's face as at length they came into view of the little panorama of the stock- ade and {ts surroupdings. ““This is my home, Sir Arthur,” said he simply. ““These are my flelds. And see, if I mistake not, yonder is some proof of the ability of my people to care for them- selves.” He pointed to the gateway, from the loopholes guarding which there might now be seen protruding two long dark barrels, leveled in the direction of the approaching party. There came a call from within the palisade, and the sound of men running to take their places along the wall. Law ralsed his hand, and the barrels of the guns were lowered. “This, then, s your hiding place!” Pembroke. “I call it not such. world.” “Tush! You lack not in the least of your old conceit and assurance, Mr. Law!” said Pembroke. “Nay, 1 lack not so much in assurance of myself,” said Law, “as is my patience, which I find, 8ir Arthur, now begins to grow a bit short about its breath. But since the courtesy of the trail demands somewhat, I say to you, there is my home. Enter it as a friend if you like, but if not, come as you please. Did you indeed come bearing war, I should be obliged to signify to you, Sir Arthur, that y:m are my prisoner. You see my peo- ple.” “Sir,” replied Bir Arthur, blindly, “I have vowed to find you no matter where you should go.” “It would seem that your vow is well fulfilled. But now, since you deal in mys- teries, I shall even ask you definitely, Sir Arthur, who and what are you? Why do you come hither and how shall we re- gard you?"” “I am, in the first place,” said Sir Ar- thur, “messenger of my Lord Bellomont, Governor at Albany of our English col- onies. I add my chief errand, which has been to find Mr. Law, whom I would hold to an accounting.” “Oh, granted,” replied Law, flicking lightly at the cuff of his tunic, “yet your errand stlll carries mystery.” ““You have at least heard of the peace of Ryswick, I presume?” “No; how should 1? And why should I care?” “None the less, the King of England and the King of France are no longer at war, nor are their colonies this side of the water. There are to be no mote raids between the colonies of New England and New France. The Hurons are to give back their English prisoners and the Iro- quols are to return all their captives to the French. The Western tribes are to render up their prisoners also, be they French, English, Huron or Iroquois. The errand of carrying this news was offered to me. It agreed weil enough with my own private purposes. I had tracked you, Mr. Law, to Montreal, lost you on the Richelleu, and was glad enough to take up this chance of finding you farther to west. And now, by the justice of I Have said, I have found you said We sald 'Tis public to the “And has Bir Arthur gone to sheriffing? Has my friend become a constable? Is “8ir Arthur a spy? Because, look you, this i= not London, nor yet New France, nor Albany. This {8 Messasebe! This is my val- Jey. I rule here. Now, if kings, or consta- bles, or even spies, wish to find John Law—why, here is John Law. Now watch your people, and go you carefully Lere, Sir Arthur bowed, but found ho word. He could only look questioningly at Law. “‘Madam,” said the latter, “Sir Arthur Pembroke journeys through as the mes- senger of Lord Bellomont, Governor at Albany, to spread peace among the Western tribes. He has by mere chance blundered upon our valley, and will de- lay over night. It seemed well you shuuld be advised.” Mary Connynge, gray and pale, hag- gard and horrified, dreading all things and knowing nothing, feund no maaner of reply. Without a word she turned and fled back into the cabin 8ir Arthur once more looked about him. Motloning to the others of the party to remain outside the gate, Law led him within the stockade. On one hand stood Pierre Noir, tall, sllent, impassive as a savage, leaning upon his gun and fixing on the red coat of the British uniform an eye none too friendly. Jean Breboeuf, his plece half ready and his voluble tongue half on the point of breaking over re- straint, Law quieted with a gesture. Back of these, ranged in a silent yet watchful group, their weapons well in hand, stood numbers of the savage allies of this new war lord. Pembroke turned to Law again. “You are strongly stationed, sir; but I do not understand.” “It is my hom “But yet—why?"” “As well this as any, where one leaves an old life and begins a new,” said Law. “'Tis as good a place as any if one would leave all behind and if he would forget."” ““And this—that is to say—madam?" Sir Arthur stumbled in his speech. John Law looked him straight in the eye, a slow, sad smile upon his face. “Had we here the plank of poor la Salle's ship,” said he, “‘we might nail the message of that other renegade above our deer—'Nous sommes tous sauvages! CHAPTER IX. THE DREAM. That riight John Law dreamed as he slept, and it was in some form the same haunting and familiar dream. In his vis. fon he saw not the low roof nor the rude walls about him. To his mind there ap- peared a little dingy room, smaller than this in which he lay, with walls of stone, with door of iron grating and cot of rough-hewn slabs. He saw the door of the prison cell swing open; saw near it the figure of a noble girl, with large and frightened eyes and lips half-tremulous. To this vision he outstretched his hands. He was almost conscious of uttering some word supplicatingly, almost conscious of uttering a name. Perhaps he slept on. We little know the ways of the land of dreams. It might have been half an instant or half an hour later that he suddenly awoke, finding his hand clapped close against his side, where suddenly there had come a sharp and burning pain. His own hand struck another. He saw something gleaming in the light of the flickering fire which still survived upon the earth. The dim rays lit up two green, glowing, venomous balls, the eyes cf the woman whom he found bending above him. He reached out his hand in the in- stinct of safety. This which glittered in the firelight was the blade of a knife, and it was in the hand of Mary Connynge! In a moment Law was master of him- self. “Give it to me, madam, if you please,” he said quietly, and took the knife from fingers which loosened under his grasp. There was no further word spoken. He tossed the knife into a crack of the bunk beyond him. He lay with his right arm doubled under his head, looking up steadily into the low ceiling, upon which the made ragged masses of shadows. His left arm, round, full and muscular, lay across the figure of the woman whom he had forced down upon the couch beside him. He could feel her bosom rise and pant in sheer sobs of anger. Once he felt the writhing of the body beneath his arm, but he simply tightened his grasp and spoke no word. It was not far from morning. In time the gray dawn came creeping in at the window, until at length the chinks be- tween the logs in the little squarescut window and the {ll-fitting door were flooded with a sea of sunlight. As this light grew stronger, Law slowly turned and looked at the face beside him. Out of the tangle of dark hair there blazed still two eyes, eyes which looked steadily up at the celling, refusing to turn either to the right or to the left. He calmly pulled closer to him, so that it might not stain the garments of the woman beside him, the blood-soaked shirt whose loose- ress and lack of definition had perhaps saved him from a fatal blow. He paid no attention to his wound, which he knew was nothing serious.” So he lay and looked at Mary Connynge, and finally re- moved his arm. “Get up,” sald he, ‘woman obeyed. “The fire, madam, if you please, and breakfast.” These had been the duties of the Indian woman, but Mary Connynge obeyed. “Madam,” sald Law, calmly, after the morning meal was at last finished in si- lence, “I shall be very glad to have your company for a few moments, if you please.” Mary Connynge rose and followed him into the open air, her eyes still fixed upon the dark-crusted stain which had spread upon his tunic. They walked in silence to a point beyond the cabin. ““You would call her Catharine!” burst out Mary Connynge.. “‘Oh! I heard you In your very sleep. You believe every lying simply, and the word Sir Arthur tells you. lHeve—"" John Law looked at her with the sim- ple and direct gaze which the tamer of the wild beast employs when he goes among them, the look of a man not afraid of any living’thing. “Madam,” sald he at length, calmly and evenly, as before, “what I have said, sleeping or waking, will not matter. You have tried to kill me. You did not suc- ceed. You will never try again. Now, madam, I give you the privilege of kneel- ing here on the ground before me and asking of me, not my pdrdon, but the pardon of the woman you have foully stabbed even as ydu have me.” The figure before him straightened up, the blazing yellow eyes sought his once, twice, thrice, behind them all the fury of a savage soul. It was of no avail. The cool blue eyes looked straight into her heart. The tall figure stood before her, unyielding. She sought to raise her eyes once more, failed, and so would have sunk down as he had said, actudlly on her knees before him. John Law extended a hand and stopped her. “There,” sald he. “It will suffice. 1 cannot demean you. There {s the child.” “You called her Catharine!” broke out the woman once more in her ungoverna- ble rage. “You would name my child—" “madam, get up!” said John law, sharply and sternly. “Get up on your feet and look me in the face. The child shall be called for her who should have been its mother. Let those forgive who can. That you have rumed my life for me is but perhaps a falr exchange; yet vou shall say no word against that wom- an whose life we have both of us de- spoiled.” You be- CHAPTER X. BY THE HILT OF THE SWORD. Law passed on out at the gate of the stockade and down to the bivouac, where Pembroke and his men had spent the night. . “Now, Sir Arthur,” said he to the lat- ter, when he had found him, “come. I am ready to talk with you. Let us go apart.” Pembroke joined him and the two walked slowly away toward the en- circling wood which swept back. of the stockade. Law turned upon him at length squarely. sald he, “I think you would tell me something concerned with the Lady Catharine Knollys. bring any message from her?” The face of Pembroke flamed scarlet with sudden wrath. ‘Message!” said he. “Message from Lady Catharine Knollys to you? 'By God! sir, her only message could be her hope that she might never hear your name again.” “You have still your temper, Sir Ar- thur, and you speak harshly enough. “Harsh or not,”” rejoined Pembroke, "I scarce can endure her name upon your lips. You, who scouted her, who left her, who took up with the lewdest woman in all Great Britain, as it now appears—you who would consort with this creature—" “In this matter,”” sald John Law, sim- ply, “you are not my prisoner, and I beg vou to speak frankly. It shall be man and man between us.” “How you could have stooped to such baseness is what mortal man can never understand,” resumed Sir Arthur, bit- terly. “Good God; to abandon a woman like that so heartlessly—"" “Sir Arthur,” said John Law, his voice trembiing, I do myself the very great pleasure of telling you that you lie!” For a moment the two stoad silent, facing each other, the face of gach stony, gone gray with the emotions back of it, “There is light,” said Pembroke, “and abundant space.” They turned and paced back further toward the open forest glade. Yet now and again their steps faltered and half paused, and neither man cared to go for- ward or to return. Pembroke's face, stern as it had been, agamn took on the imprint of a growing hesmation. “Mr. Law,” sald he, “there is something in your attitude which I admit puzzles me. 1 ask you in all honor, I ask you on the hilt of that sword which I know you will never disgrace, why did you thus flout the Lady Catharine Knollys? Why did you scorn her and take up with this woman yonder in her stecad?”’ “Sir Arthur,” said John Law, with trembling lips, “I must be very low in- deed in reputation, since you can ask me question such as this.” “But you must answer!” cried Sir Ar- thur, “and you must swear!"” “If you would have my answer and my oath, then I give you both. T did not do what you suggest, nor can I conceive how any man should think me guilty of it. I loved Lady Catharine Knollys with all my heart. ‘Twas my chief bitterness, keener than even the thcught of the gal- lows itself, that she forsook me in my trouble. Then, bitter as any man would be, I persuaded myself that 1 -cared naught. Then came this other woman. Then I—well, I was a map and a fool—a fool, Sir Arthur, a most miserable fool! Every moment of my life since first I saw her I have loved the Lady Catharine; and, God help me, I do now!” Sir Arthur struck his hand upon the hilt of his sword. ‘“You were more lucky than myself, as I know,” said he, and from his lips broke half a groan. “Good God!" broke out Law. “Let us not talk of it. I give you my word of honor, there has been no happiriess to t?lu. But come! We waste time. Let us ctoss swords!"” “Wait. Let me explain, since we are in the way of it. You must know that ‘twas within the plans of Montague that Lady Catharine Knollys should be the agent of your freedom. I was pledged to assist her, though, as you may perhaps see, sir,” and Pembroke gulped in his throat as he spoke, *’'twas difficult enough, this part that was assigned to me. It was I, Mr. Law, who drove the coach to the gate, the coach which brought the Lady Catharine. 'Twas she who opened the door of Newgate jail for you. My God, sir, how could you walk past that woman, coming there as she aid, with such a purpose!” At hearing these words the tall figure of the man opposed to him.drooped and sank, as tho under some fearful blow. He stagi d to a nearby support and sank weakly to a seat, his head fall- ing between 'his hands, his whole face convulsed. “Ah! said he, “you did right to cross seas in scarch of me! God hath indeed found me out and given me my punishment. Yet I ask God to bear me witness that I knew not the truth. Come, Bir Arthur! Come, I be- geech you! Let us fall to!” “I ghall be no man’s executioner for his sentence on himself. I could not fight you now.” His eye fell by chance upon the blotch in Law's blood-stained tunic. “And here,” he sald, “see! You are already wounded.” “'Twas but one woman's way of show- ing her regard,” said Law. *'Twas Mary Connynge stabbed % “But why “Nay, I am glad of {it, since it proves the truth of all you say, even if it proves me to be the most unworthy man in all the world. Oh, what had it not meant to Do you, me to know a real love! God! How couid 1 have been so blind?” “*"Tis the ancient puzzle.” “Yes!” cried Law. “And let us make an end of puzzles! Your quarrel, sir, I admit is just. Let us go on.” X “And again I tell you, Mr. Law,” re- plied Sir Arthur, “that [ will not fight ou.” 4 “Then, sir,”” sald Law, dropping his own sword upon the grass and extending his nd with a broken smile, ** 'tis I who am your prisoner!"” CHAPTER XL THE IROQUOIS. Even as Sir Arthur and John Law clasped hands there came a sudden inter- ruption. A half-score yards deeper in the wood there arose a sudden, half-choked ery, followed by a shrill whoop. There was a crashing as of one running, and immediately there came into the open space the figure of an Indian, an old man from the village of Illini. Even as his staggering footsteps brought him within gaze the two startled observers saw the shaft which had sunk deep within his breast. He had been shot through by an Indian arrow, and upon the instant it was all too plain whose hand had sped the shaft. Following close upon his ‘heels there came a stalwart savage, whose face, hideously painted, appeared fairly demoniacal as he came bounding on with uplifted hatchet seeking to strike down the victim already impaled by the silent arrow. “Quick!” cried Law, in a flash catching the meaning of this sudden spectacle. “Into the fort, Sir Arthur, and call the men together!” Not stopping to relieve the struggles of the vietim, who had now fallen forward gasping, Law sprang on with drawn blade to meet the advancing savage. The lat- ter paused for an uncertain moment, and then with a shrill yell of defiance, hurled the keen steel hatchet full at Law’s head. Tt shore away a piecé of his hat brim and sank with edge deep burled in the trunk of a tree beyond. The savage turned; but turned too late. The blade of the swordsman passed through from rib to rib under his arm, and he fell chok- ing, even as he sought again to give vent to his war cry. And now there arcse in the woods be- yond, and in the flelds below the hill, and from the villages of the neighboring Indians, a series of sharp, ululating yells. Shots came from within the fortress, where the loopholes were already manned. There were borne from the nearest wig- wams of the 1ilini the screams of wound- ed men, the shrieks of terrified women. In an instant the peaceful spot had be- come the scene of a horrible confusion. Once more the wolves of the woods, the Iroquois, had fallen on their prey! Swift as had been Law’'s movements, Pembroke was but a pace behind him as he wrenched free his blade. The two turned back together and started at speed for the palisade. At the gate they met others hurrying in, Pembroke's men join- ing in the rush of the frightened villag- ers. Among these the Iroquois pressed with shrill yells, plying knife and bow and hatchet as they ran, and the horrified eyes of those within the palisades saw many a tragedy enacted. “Watch the gate!” cried Plerre Noir from his station in the corner tower. As he spoke thewe came a rush of screaming Iroquois, who sought to gain the en- trance. Now!" cried Plerre Noir, discharging his piece into the crowded ranks below him, and shot after shot followed his own. The packed brown mass gave back and esolved ftself into scattered units, who Lroke and ran for the nearest cover. “They will not comie on again until dark,” said Plerre Noir, calmly leaning his plece against the wall. ‘“‘Therefore I may attend to certain little matters."” He passed out into the entry way, whera lay the bodles of three Iroquois, aban- doned, under the close and deadly fire, by their companion where they had fallen. ‘When Pierre Noir returned and calmly propped up again the door of slabs which he had removed, he carried in his hand three tufts of long black hair, from which dripped heavy gouts of blood. 'Good God. man!"” sald Pembroke, must not be savage as: these Indians! “Speak for yourself, Monsleur Anglais,” replied Plerre, stoutly. “You need not save these head pleces if you do not care for them. For myself, 'tis prt of the trade.” ssuredly,” broke in Jean Breboeuf. 'We keep these trinkets, we voyageurs of the French. Make no doubt that Jean Breboeuf will take back with him full tale of the Indians he has killed. Pres- ently ,I go out. Zip! goes my knife, and off comes the topknot of Monsfeur Indfan, him I killed but now as he ran. Then I shall dry the scalp here by the fire, and mount it on a bit of willow, and take it back' for a present to my sweetheart, Susanne Duchene, on the seignieury at home." “Bravo, Jean!" cfied the old Indian fighter, Plerre Noir, the old bares:rk rage of the fighting man now rising hot in his blood. *“And look! Here come more chances for our little ornaments.” Plerre Nofir for once had been mistaken and underestimated the courage of the warriors of the Onondagos. Lashing themselves to fury at the thougit of their losses, they came on agaln, now banding and charging in the open close up to the walls of the palisade. Again the little party of whites malntained a steady fire, and again the Iroquols, baffled and e raged, feil back into the wood, whence they poured volley after volley rattling against the walls of the sturdy fortress. “1 am sorry, sir,” said- Sergeant Gray to Pembroke, “but ‘tis all up with' me.” The poor fellow staggered against the wall and in a few moments all was in- deed over with him. A chance shot had plerced his chest. “Peste! If this keeps up,” sald Plerre . “there will not be many of us lef bN)?‘:narnln‘. I never saw them fight so well. 'Tis a good watch we'll reed this night.” In fact, all through the night the Iro- quois tried every stratagem of their savage warfare. With earspiitting yells they came close up to the stockade, and in one such charge two or three of their young men even managed to climb to the tops of the pointed stakes, though but to meet their death at the muzzledof the muskets within. Then there arose curv- ing lines of fire from witnout the walls, half circles which terminated at last in little purring thuds, where blazing arrows fell and stood in log, or earth. or un- protected roof. These projectiles, wrapped with lighted birch bark, served as fire brands, and danger enough they carried Yet, after some fashion, the little gar- rison kept down these Incipient blazes, held: together the terrified Iilini, repulsed each repeated charge of the Iro- quois, and so at last wore through the long and fearful night. The sun was just rising across the tops of ‘the distant groves when the Iroquois made their next advance. It came not in the form of a concerted attack, but of un appeal for peace. A party of the sav- ages left their cover and approached the fortress, waving their hands above their heads. One of them presently advanced alone. “What 1is it, Plerre?” asked What does that fellow want?” T care not what he wants,” said Plerre Nolr, carefully adjusting the ldck of his piece and steadily regarding the savage as he approached: “but I'll wager you a #ear's pay he never gets alive past yon- der stump.” “gtay!” cried Pembroke, the barrel of the leveled gun. he would talk with us.” “What does he say. Plerre Speak to him If you can.” He wants to know.”/sald Plerre, as the messenger at length’ stopped and be- gan a harangue “whether we are Eng- lish or French. He says something about there being a big peace between Corlaer and Onontio; by which he means. gen- tlemen, the Governor at New York and the Governor at Quebec.’ “Tell him, cried Pembroke, with a sudden thought, “that I am an officer of Corlaer, and that Corlaer bids the Iro- quols to bring in all the prisoners they have taken. Tell him that the French are going to give up all their prisoners to ue, and that the Iroquois must leave the war path, or my Lord Bellomont will take the war trail and wipe their villages off the earth."” Something in this speech as conveyed to the savage seemed to give him a cer- tain concern. He retired, and present his place was taken by a tall and stately figure, dressed in the full habiliments of an Iroquols chieftat He came on calm- 1y and proudly. his head erect, and in his extended hand the long stemmed pipe of peace. Plerre Noir heaved a deep sigh of relief. “Unless my eyes deceive me,” said he, “'tis old Teganisoris himself, one of the head men of the Onondagos. If so there is some hope, for Teganisoris is wise enough to know when peace Is best.” 1t was indeed that noted chieftain of the Troquois who now advanced close up to the wall. Law and Pembroke stepped out to meet him beyond the palisade, the old voyageur still serving as Interpreter from the platform at their back. “He says—Ilisten, Mmessleurs!—he says he knows there is going to be a big peace; that the Iroquois are tired of fighting and that their hearts are sore. He says—a most manifest lie, T beg you to observe, messieurs—that he loves the English and that, although he ought to kill the Frenchmen of our gar- rison, he will, since sonie of us are Eng- lish, and hence his friends, spare us if we will cease to fight.” Pembroke turned to Law with question in his eye. ‘“There must be something done,” said the latter in a low tone. ‘““We were short enough of ammunition even before Du Mesne left for the settlements and your ¥n_men have none too much left.” Reflect! Bethink yourselves, Eng- lishmen! he says to us,” continued Plerre Noir. “‘We came to make war upon the Illinf. Our work here is done. 'Tis time now that we went back to our villages. If there be a big peace, the Iroquols must be there; for unless the Iroquois demand it, there can be no peace at all. And, gentlemen, I beg you to remember it i3 an Iroquols who is talking and that the truth is not in the tongue of an Iro- quols.” *“'Tis a desperate chance, Mr. Law.,” said Pembroke. ‘““Yet if we keep up the fight here, there can be but one end. “'Tis true,” sald Law; “and there are others to be considered.” It was hurriedly thus concluded. Law finally advanced toward the tall figure of the Iroquois head man and looked him straight in the face. “Tell him.” sald he to Plerra Noir, “that we are all English and that we are not afraid; and that if we are harmed the armies of Corlaer will destroy the Ir- oquois, even as the Iroquols have the “1l- linl. Tell him that we will go back with him to the settlements because we are willing to go that way upon a journey which we had already planned. We could fight forever if we chose and he can ses for himself by the bodies of his young men how well we are able to make war.” “It is well,” replied Teganisoris. “You have the word of an Iroquols that this shall be done, as I have sald.” “The word of an Iroquois!™ cried Plerra Noir, slamming down the butt of his musket: “The word of a snake, say rath- er! Jean Breboeuf, harken you to what our leaders have agreed! We are to go as prisoners of the Iroquois. Mary, Mother of God, what folly! And there is madame and la pauvre petite, that infant 80 young. By God! Were it left to me, Plerre Berthier would and here d fight to the end. I know these Iroquois!™ (Continued Next Sunday.) Law. catching at “T belleve asked Law. Thin Women Made Stout by wearing our H. W. Melba Bust Per- fector. 'Dressmaker’s and man tailor’s friend because it makes fitting easy. 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