My God! What had she seen in me to love? I sat up and held the book against my bosom. Its cry out of her past filled the world from horizon to horizon. The ox that she had wreathed in roses would have heard it through her silence. But the brutal, slow Bourbon had gone his way, turning his stupid head from side to side, leaving her to perish. Punctuated by years, bursting from eternities of suppression, it brought an accumulated force that swept the soul out of my body. All that had not been written in the book was as easily read as what was set down. I saw the monotony of her life, and her gilding of its rudeness, the pastimes she thought out for children; I saw her nursing the helplessness which leaned upon her, and turning aside the contempt of pioneer women who passionately admired strong men. I saw her eyes waiting on the distant laggard who stupidly pursued his own affairs until it was too late to protect her. I read the entries over and over. When day broke it seemed to me the morning after my own death, such knowing and experiencing had passed through me. I could not see her again until I had command of myself. So I dressed and went silently down stairs. The Pawnees were stirring in the kitchen. I got some bread and meat from them, and also some grain for the horse; then mounted and rode to the river. The ferryman lived near the old stockade. Some time always passed after he saw the signals before the deliberate Frenchman responded. I led my horse upon the unwieldly craft propelled by two huge oars, which the ferryman managed, running from one to another according to the swing of the current. It was broad day when we reached the other shore; one of those days, gray overhead, when moisture breaks upward through the ground, instead of descending. Many light clouds flitted under the grayness. The grass showed with a kind of green blush through its old brown fleece. I saw the first sailing vessel of spring coming to anchor, from the straits of the great lakes. Once I would have hailed that vessel as possible bearer of news. Now it could bring me nothing of any importance. The trail along the Fox river led over rolling land, dipping into coves and rising over hills. The Fox, steel blue in the shade, becomes tawny as its namesake when its fur of rough waves is combed to redness in the sunlight. Under grayness, with a soft wind blowing, the Fox showed his blue coat. The prospect was so large, with a ridge running along in the distance, and open country spreading away on the other side, that I often turned in my saddle and looked back over the half-wooded trail. I thought I saw a figure walking a long way behind me, and being alone, tried to discern what it was. But under that gray sky nothing was sharply defined. I rode on thinking of the book in the breast of my coat. It was certain I was not to marry. And being without breakfast and unstimulated by the sky, I began to think also what unstable material I had taken in hand when I undertook to work with Indians. Instinctively I knew then what a young southern statesman named Jefferson Davis whom I first met as a commandant of the fort at Green Bay--afterwards told me in Washington: "No commonwealth in a republic will stand with interests apart from the federated whole." White men, who have exclaimed from the beginning against the injustice done the red man, and who keep on pitying and exterminating him, made a federated whole with interests apart from his. Again when I looked back I saw the figure, but it was afoot, and I soon lost it in a cove. My house had been left undisturbed by hunters and Indians through the winter. I tied the horse to a gallery post and unfastened the door. A pile of refuse timbers offered wood for a fire, and I carried in several loads of it, and lighted the virgin chimney. Then I brought water from the spring and ate breakfast, sitting before the fire and thinking a little wearily and bitterly of my prospect in life. Having fed my horse, I covered the fire, leaving a good store of fuel by the hearth, and rode away toward the Menominee and Winnebago lands. The day was a hard one, and when I came back towards nightfall I was glad to stop with the officers of the stockade and share their mess. "You looked fagged," said one of them. "The horse paths are heavy," I answered, "and I have been as far as the Indian lands." I had been as far as that remote time when Eagle was not a Cloud-Mother. To cross the river and see her smiling in meaningless happiness seemed more than I could do. Yet she might notice my absence. We had been housed together ever since she had discovered me. Our walks and rides, our fireside talks and evening diversions were never separate. At Pierre Grignon's the family flocked in companies. When the padlocked book sent me out of the house I forgot that she was used to my presence and might be disturbed by an absence no one could explain. "The first sailing vessel is in from the straits," said the lieutenant. "Yes, I saw her come to anchor as I rode out this morning." "She brought a passenger." "Anybody of importance?" "At first blush, no. At second blush, yes." "Why 'no' at first blush?" "Because he is only a priest." "Only a priest, haughty officer! Are civilians and churchmen dirt under army feet?" The lieutenant grinned. "When you see a missionary priest landing to confess a lot of Canadians, he doesn't seem quite so important, as a prelate from Ghent, for instance." "Is this passenger a prelate from Ghent?" "That is where the second blush comes in. He is." "How do you know?" "I saw him, and talked with him." "What is he doing in Green Bay?" "Looking at the country. He was inquiring for you." "For me!" "Yes." "What could a prelate from Ghent want with me?" "Says he wants to make inquiries about the native tribes." "Oh! Did you recommend me as an expert in native tribes?" "Naturally. But not until he asked if you were here." "He mentioned my name?" "Yes. He wanted to see you. You'll not have to step out of your way to gratify him." "From that I infer there is a new face at Pierre Grignon's." "Your inference is correct. The Grignons always lodge the priests, and a great man like this one will be certainly quartered with them." "What is he like?" "A smooth and easy gentleman." "In a cassock?" "Tell a poor post lieutenant what a cassock is." "The long-skirted black coat reaching to the heels." "Our missionary priests don't wear it here. He has the bands and broad hat and general appearance of a priest, but his coat isn't very long." "Then he has laid aside the cassock while traveling through this country." The prelate from Ghent, no doubt a common priest, that the lieutenant undertook to dignify, slipped directly out of my mind. Madame Ursule was waiting for me, on the gallery with fluted pillars at the front of the house. "M's'r Williams, where is Madeleine?" Her anxiety vibrated through the darkness. "Isn't she here, madame?" "She has not been seen to-day." We stood in silence, then began to speak together. "But, madame--" "M's'r Williams--" "I went away early--" "When I heard from the Pawnees that you had gone off on horseback so early I thought it possible you might have taken her with you." "Madame, how could I do that?" "Of course you wouldn't have done that. But we can't find her. We've inquired all over La Baye. She left the house when no one saw her. She was never out after nightfall before." "But, madame, she must be here!" "Oh, m's'r, my hope was that you knew where she is--she has followed you about so! The poor child may be at the bottom of the river!" "She can't be at the bottom of the river!" I retorted. The girls ran out. They were dressed for a dance, and drew gauzy scarfs around their anxious faces. The house had been searched from ground to attic more than once. They were sure she must be hiding from them. I remembered the figure that appeared to me on the trail. My heart stopped. I could not humiliate my Cloud-Mother by placing her before them in the act of tracking me like a dog. I could not tell any one about it, but asked for Skenedonk. The Indian had been out on the river in a canoe. He came silently, and stood near me. The book was between us. I had it in the breast of my coat, and he had it on his conscience. "Bring out your horse and get me a fresh one," I said. "Where shall I find one?" "Pierre will give you one of ours," said Madame Ursule. "But you must eat." "I had my supper with the officers of the fort, madame. I would have made a briefer stay if I had known what had happened on this side of the river." "I forgot to tell you, M's'r Williams, there is an abbe here from Europe. He asked for you." "I cannot see him to-night." Skenedonk drew near me to speak, but I was impatient of any delay. We went into the house, and Madame Ursule said she would bring a blanket and some food to strap behind my saddle. The girls helped her. There was a hush through the jolly house. The master bustled out of the family room. I saw behind him, standing as he had stood at Mittau, a priest of fine and sweet presence, waiting for Pierre Grignon to speak the words of introduction. "It is like seeing France again!" exclaimed the master of the house. "Abbe Edgeworth, this is M's'r Williams." "Monsieur," said the abbe to me with perfect courtesy, "believe me, I am glad to see you." "Monsieur," I answered, giving him as brief notice as he had given me in Mittau, yet without rancor;--there was no room in me for that. "You have unerringly found the best house in the Illinois Territory, and I leave you to the enjoyment of it." "You are leaving the house, monsieur?" "I find I am obliged to make a short journey." "I have made a long one, monsieur. It may be best to tell you that I come charged with a message for you." I thought of Madame d'Angouleme. The sister who had been mine for a few minutes, and from whom this priest had cast me out, declaring that God had smitten the pretender when my eclipse laid me at his feet--remembered me in her second exile, perhaps believed in me still. Women put wonderful restraints upon themselves. Abbe Edgeworth and I looked steadily at each other. "I hope Madame d'Angouleme is well?" "She is well, and is still the comforter of his Majesty's misfortune." "Monsieur the Abbe, a message would need to be very urgent to be listened to to-night. I will give you audience in the morning, or when I return." We both bowed again. I took Pierre Grignon into the hall for counsel. In the end he rode with me, for we concluded to send Skenedonk with a party along the east shore. Though searching for the lost is an experience old as the world, its poignancy was new to me. I saw Eagle tangled in the wild oats of the river. I saw her treacherously dealt with by Indians who called themselves at peace. I saw her wandering out and out, mile beyond mile, to undwelt-in places, and the tender mercy of wolves. We crossed the ferry and took to the trail, Pierre Grignon talking cheerfully. "Nothing has happened to her, M's'r Williams," he insisted. "No Indian about La Baye would hurt her, and the child is not so crazy as to hurt herself." It was a starless night, muffled overhead as the day had been, but without rain or mist. He had a lantern hanging at his saddle bow, ready to light. In the open lands we rode side by side, but through growths along the Fox first one and then the other led the way. We found my door unfastened. I remembered for the first time I had not locked it. Some one had been in the house. A low fire burned in the chimney. We stirred it and lighted the lantern. Footprints not our own had dried white upon the smooth dark floor. They pointed to the fireplace and out again. They had been made by a woman's feet. We descended the hill to the river, and tossed our light through every bush, the lantern blinking in the wind. We explored the ravine, the light stealing over white birches that glistened like alabaster. It was no use to call her name. She might be hidden behind a rock laughing at us. We had to surprise her to recover her. Skenedonk would have traced her where we lost the trail. When we went back to the house, dejected with physical weariness, I unstrapped the blanket and the food which Madame Ursule had sent, and brought them to Pierre Grignon. He threw the blanket on the settee, laid out bread and meat on the table, and ate, both of us blaming ourselves for sending the Indian on the other side of the river. We traced the hard route which I had followed the day before, and reached Green Bay about dawn. Pierre Grignon went to bed exhausted. I had some breakfast and waited for Skenedonk. He had not returned, but had sent one man back to say there was no clue. The meal was like a passover eaten in haste. I could not wait, but set out again, with a pillion which I had carried uselessly in the night strapped again upon the horse for her seat, in case I found her; and leaving word for the Oneida to follow. I had forgotten there was such a person as Abbe Edgeworth, when he led a horse upon the ferry boat. "You ride early as well as late. May I join you?" "I ride on a search which cannot interest you, monsieur." "You are mistaken. I understand what has disturbed the house, and I want to ride with you." "It will be hard for a horseman accustomed to avenues." "It will suit me perfectly." It did not suit me at all, but he took my coldness with entire courtesy. "Have you breakfasted, monsieur?" "I had my usual slice of bread and cup of water before rising," he answered. Again I led on the weary trail to my house. Abbe Edgeworth galloped well, keeping beside me where there was room, or riding behind where there was not. The air blew soft, and great shadow clouds ran in an upper current across the deepest blueness I had seen in many a day. The sun showed beyond rows of hills. I bethought myself to ask the priest if he knew anything about Count de Chaumont. He answered very simply and directly that he did; that I might remember Count de Chaumont was mentioned in Mittau. The count, he said, according to common report, had retired with his daughter and his son-in-law to Blois, where he was vigorously rebuilding his ruined chateau of Chaumont. If my mind had been upon the priest, I should have wondered what he came for. He did not press his message. "The court is again in exile?" I said, when we could ride abreast. "At Ghent." "Bellenger visited me last September. He was without a dauphin." "We could supply the deficiency," Abbe Edgeworth pleasantly replied. "With the boy he left in Europe?" "Oh, dear no. With royal dukes. You observed his majesty could not pension a helpless idiot without encouraging dauphins. These dauphins are thicker than blackberries. The dauphin myth has become so common that whenever we see a beggar approaching, we say, 'There comes another dauphin.' One of them is a fellow who calls himself the Duke of Richemont. He has followers who believe absolutely in him. Somebody, seeing him asleep, declared it was the face of the dead king!" I felt stung, remembering the Marquis du Plessy's words. "Oh, yes, yes," said Abbe Edgeworth. "He has visions too. Half memories, when the face of his mother comes back to him!" "What about his scars?" I asked hardily. "Scars! yes, I am told he has the proper stigmata of the dauphin. He was taken out of the Temple prison; a dying boy being substituted for him there. We all know the dauphin's physician died suddenly; some say he was poisoned; and a new physician attended the boy who died in the Temple. Of course the priest who received the child's confession should have known a dauphin when he saw one. But that's neither here nor there. We lived then in surprising times." "Madame d'Angouleme would recognize him as her brother if she saw him?" I suggested. "I think she is not so open to tokens as at one time. Women's hearts are tender. The Duchess d'Angouleme could never be convinced that her brother died." "But others, including her uncle, were convinced?" "The Duke of Richemont was not. What do you yourself think, Monsieur Williams?" "I think that the man who is out is an infinite joke. He tickles the whole world. People have a right to laugh at a man who cannot prove he is what he says he is. The difference between a pretender and a usurper is the difference between the top of the hill and the bottom." The morning sun showed the white mortar ribs of my homestead clean and fair betwixt hewed logs; and brightened the inside of the entrance or hall room. For I saw the door stood open. It had been left unfastened but not ajar. Somebody was in the house. I told Abbe Edgeworth we would dismount and tie our horses a little distance away. And I asked him to wait outside and let me enter alone. He obligingly sauntered on the hill overlooking the Fox; I stepped upon the gallery and looked in. The sweep of a gray dress showed in front of the settle. Eagle was there. I stood still. She had put on more wood. Fire crackled in the chimney. I saw, and seemed to have known all night, that she had taken pieces of unbroken bread and meat left by Pierre Grignon on my table; that her shoes were cleaned and drying in front of the fire; that she must have carried her dress above contact with the soft ground. When I asked Abbe Edgeworth not to come in, her dread of strangers influenced me less than a desire to protect her from his eyes, haggard and draggled as she probably was. The instinct which made her keep her body like a temple had not failed under the strong excitement that drove her out. Whether she slept under a bush, or not at all, or took to the house after Pierre Grignon and I left it, she was resting quietly on the settle before the fireplace, without a stain of mud upon her. I could see nothing but the foot of her dress. Had any change passed over her face? Or had the undisturbed smile of my Cloud-Mother followed me on the road? Perhaps the cloud had thickened. Perhaps thunders and lightnings moved within it. Sane people sometimes turn wild after being lost, running from their friends, and fighting against being restrained and brought home. The gray dress in front of my hearth I could not see without a heaving of the breast.