CHAPTER XLVIII.

Calm, and bright, and beautiful, the Sabbath morning broke over the woody world around Edith Prevost. Through the tall pine-trees left standing within the earthwork, the rosy light streamed sweetly; and though no birds deserving the name of songsters inhabit the forests of America, yet many a sweet short note saluted the rising day.

Edith, with the good negro woman lying near, had slept more soundly than she had hoped; but she was awake with the first ray, and rousing her dark companion, she said,--

"We must not forget that this is Sunday, Bab. Call in our good friend, Woodchuck; and we will pray before the noise and bustle of the day begins. I am sure he will be glad to do so."

"But you have no book, missy," answered the woman.

"That matters not," returned Edith; "I know almost all the prayers by heart, from reading them constantly."

Sister Bab opened the little hurdle-door, and looked round. She could not see the person she sought. Three sentinels were pacing to and fro at different points; one man was rousing himself slowly from the side of an extinguished fire; but all the rest within sight were fast asleep. It was useless for Sister Bab to ask the neighbouring sentinel any questions, and she looked round in vain.

"He has most likely gone to sleep in one of the huts," said Edith, when the woman told her Woodchuck was not to be seen; "we will not wait for him." And, closing the door again, she kneeled and prayed with the poor negress by her side.

It was a great comfort to her, for her heart that day was sad. Perhaps it was the memory of many a happy Sabbath with those she loved, and the contrast of those days with her situation at the time; perhaps it was the uncertainty of her brother's fate; and doubtless, too, the thought that every rising sun brought nearer the hour when a parent and a lover were to be exposed to danger--perhaps to death, had its weight likewise. But she was that day very sad, and prayer was a relief--a blessing.

Before she had concluded, a good deal of noise and turmoil was heard without; voices speaking sharply; calls such as Edith had not heard before; and in a moment after, the door of the hut opened, for it had no latch, and Monsieur le Courtois appeared, inquiring if she had seen anything of her English companion.

"No, indeed," replied Edith. "I sent my servant out to seek for him half an hour ago; but she could not find him, and I concluded that he was in one of the huts."

The Frenchman stamped his foot upon the ground, and, forgetting his usual politeness, uttered some hasty and angry words which implied a belief that "Mademoiselle knew where Woodchuck was," and had aided his escape. Edith drew herself up with an air of dignity, and replied,--

"You make me feel, sir, that I am a prisoner. But you mistake me greatly. I do not permit myself to speak falsely on any occasion. If he have escaped, and I trust he has, I know nothing of it."

"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle," returned the officer; "but this to me is a very serious matter. I may be subject to the severest military punishment for this unfortunate affair. It was of the utmost importance that the existence of this post should be kept a secret. The utmost precautions have been taken to keep its existence concealed, even from the forces in Fort Carillon; and now this man is at large, to bear the intelligence to the enemy. This must excuse a little heat. How he has escaped, it is impossible to divine; for I ordered him to be kept in sight by the sentinels continually, as well as the Indians who came with you. He must be worse than an Indian, for _they_ are all safe and quiet enough; but he has disappeared, though the sentinel swears he passed him sleeping on the ground, under the great pine-tree, not an hour ago."

"Half an hour ago, he certainly was gone," observed Edith; "for the servant went to look for him, and could not find him."

"He may be still in the bushes," said the French officer. "I will send a party to search." And he turned from the door of the hut.

Edith followed a step or two, to see the result; but hardly had Monsieur Le Courtois given his orders, and about a dozen men issued forth--some clambering over the breastwork, some running round by the flanks--when a French officer, brilliantly dressed, rode into the redoubt, followed by a mounted soldier; and Edith retired into the hut again.

Le Courtois saluted the new-comer reverently; and the other gave a hasty glance round, saying,--

"Get your men under arms as speedily as possible. On the maintenance of this post and the _abattis_ depends the safety of the fortress. I trust them to the honour of a French gentleman, and the faith of our Indian allies. Neither will tarnish the glory of France, or their own renown, by yielding a foot of ground while they can maintain it."

He spoke aloud, so as to make his voice heard all over the enclosure; but then, bending down his head till it was close to Le Courtois' ear, he added, in a low tone, almost a whisper,--

"The English are within sight. Their first boats are disembarking the troops. Monsieur de L----, with our reinforcements, has not appeared. All depends upon maintaining the outposts till he can come up. This, sir, I trust to you with full confidence, as a brave man and an experienced soldier. I must now visit the other posts. Farewell! Remember, the glory of France is in your hands."

Thus saying, he rode away; and the bustle of instant preparation spread through the little fort. The French soldiers were drawn up within the breastworks; the stores and ammunition gathered together near the centre of the open space, so as to be readily available whenever they were wanted; two parties of Hurons were placed upon the flanks, so as to be ready to rush out with the tomahawk the moment opportunity offered; next came the long lines of French muskets, and in the centre of the longest face of the breastwork were placed Apukwa and his companions, with their rifles in their hands, and a small party of French soldiers forming a second line behind them, thus insuring their faith, and rendering the fire in the centre more fierce. Their presence, indeed, was needed at the moment; for the men who had been sent out in pursuit of Woodchuck had either mistaken the order not to go far, or had lost their way; and they had not re-appeared when the whole preparations were complete.

These had taken some time, although Monsieur le Courtois had shown all the activity and precision of a thorough soldier, giving his orders rapidly, but coolly and clearly, and correcting any error as soon as made. The Indians, indeed, gave him the greatest embarrassment; for they were too eager for the fight, and never having been subjected to military discipline, were running hither and thither to the points they thought most advantageous without consideration for the general arrangements.

The Frenchman found time, however, for a few courteous words to Edith.

"I am greatly embarrassed, my dear young lady," he said, "by your presence here, as we expect to be attacked every instant. I wish to Heaven, Monsieur de Montcalm had taken you away with him; but in the hurry of the moment I did not think of it, and I have no means of sending you away now; and, besides, the risk to yourself would be still greater than staying here. I believe you are as safely posted in this hut as anywhere. It is near enough to the breastwork to be protected from the fire of the enemy; but you may as well lie down upon the bear-skin if you hear musketry."

"Could I not place myself actually under the breastwork?" asked Edith, remembering the instructions sent to her.

"Impossible," replied the officer. "That space is all occupied by the soldiers and Indians. You are better here. If we should be driven back, which God forbid, you will be safe, as you speak English, and can say who you are; but, remember, address yourself to an officer, for the canaille get mad in time of battle, and on no account trust to an Indian."

"I speak the Iroquois tongue," answered Edith.

"My dear young lady, there is no trusting them," said the officer; "friends or enemies are the same to them when their blood's hot. All they want is a scalp; and that they _will_ have. It would be terrible to see your beautiful tresses hanging at an Indian's belt."

As he spoke, one of the men who had been sent forth came running up, exclaiming,--

"They are coming now, captain,--they are coming."

"Who?" demanded Le Courtois, briefly.

"The red-coats, the English," replied the man. "I saw their advance-guard with my own eyes; they are not two hundred yards' distance."

"Where are your companions?" asked Le Courtois. "We want every musket."

"I do not know," answered the man; "they have lost their way, I fancy, as I did. I saw two amongst the bushes just in front, trying to get back."

"_Sacré Dieu_, they will discover us!" said the captain.

And, running forward, he jumped upon the parapet just behind one of the highest bushes, and looked over. The next instant, he sprang down again, saying, in a low tone, to the corporal near him,--

"Stand to your arms! present! pass the word along not to fire, whatever you see, till I give the order."

At the same moment, he made a sign with his hand to the renegade Oneidas; but probably they did not see it, for their keen black eyes were all eagerly bent forward, peeping through the bushes, which now seemed agitated at some little distance. A moment after, a straggling shot or two was heard, and instantly the Honontkoh fired. The order was then given by Le Courtois, and the whole front poured forth a volley, which was returned by a number of irregular shots blazing out of the bushes in front.

Then succeeded a silence of a few moments, and then a loud cheer, such as none but Anglo-Saxon lungs have ever given.

Edith sat deadly pale and trembling in the hut; but it is not too much to say that but a small portion of her terror was for herself. The battle had begun--the battle in which father and lover were to risk life, in which, among all the human beings destined to bleed and die that day, her love singled out two, while her fancy painted them as the aim of every shot. It was of them she thought, much more than of herself.

The door of the hut was turned, as I have shown, towards the inside of the square; and Captain le Courtois had left it open behind him. But, as Edith sat a little towards one side of the entrance, she had a view, both of a great part of the square itself, and of the whole of the inner front of the western face of the redoubt, along which were posted a few French soldiers and a considerable body of Hurons.

The firing was soon resumed, but in a somewhat different manner from before. There were no longer any volleys, but frequent, repeated, almost incessant, shots, sometimes two or three together, making almost one sound. Twice she saw a French soldier carried across the open space; and laid down at the foot of a tree. One remained quite still where he had been placed; one raised himself for a moment upon his arm, and then sank down again; and Edith understood the signs full well. Clouds of bluish-white smoke then began to roll over the redoubt, and curl along as the gentle wind carried it towards the broad trail by which she had been brought thither. The figures of the Indians became indistinct, and looked like beings seen in a dream.

Still the firing continued, drawing apparently more towards the western side, and still the rattle of the musketry was mingled with loud cheers from without.

But suddenly those sounds were crossed, as it were, with a wild yell, such as Edith had heard only once in life before, but which now seemed to issue from a thousand throats, instead of a few. It came from the northwest, right in the direction of the broad trail. The French soldiers and the Hurons, who had been kneeling to fire over the breastwork, sprang upon their feet, looked round, and from that side, too, burst forth at once the war-whoop.

"O missy, missy, let us run!" cried Sister Bab, catching Edith's wrist.

"Hush, hush, be quiet!" ejaculated the young lady. "These may be friends coming."

As she spoke, pouring on like a dark torrent was seen a crowd of dusky forms rushing along the trail, emerging from amongst the trees, and spreading over the ground; and, amidst them all, a youth dressed like an Indian, and mounted on a grey horse which Edith recognized as her own. The sight confused and dazzled her. Feathers and plumes and war-paints, rifles and tomahawks and knives, grim countenances and brandished arms, swam before her like the things that fancy sees for a moment in a cloud; while still the awful war-whoop rang horribly around, drowning even the rattle of the musketry, and seeming to rend the air. Two figures only were distinct: the youth upon the horse, and the towering form of Black Eagle himself, close to the lad's side.

Attacked in flank and front and rear, the French and Hurons were broken in a moment, driven from the breastworks, beat back into the centre of the square, and separated into detached bodies. Still they fought with desperation; still the rifles and the muskets pealed; still the cheer, and the shout, and the war-whoop, resounded on the air. A large party of the French soldiery were cast between the huts and the Oneidas, and the young man on the horse strove in vain, tomahawk in hand, to force his way through.

But there are episodes in all combats; and a pause took place when a gigantic Huron rushed furiously against the Black Eagle. It may be that they were ancient enemies; but, at all events, each seemed animated with the fury of a fiend. Each cast away his rifle, and betook himself to the weapons of his race--the knife and the tomahawk; but it is almost impossible to describe, it was almost impossible to see, the movements of the two combatants, such was their marvellous rapidity. Now here, now there, they turned, the blows seeming to fall like hail, the limbs writhing and twisting, the weapons whirling and flashing round. Each was the giant of his tribe, each its most renowned warrior; and each fought for more than life--for the closing act of a great renown. But the sinewy frame of the Black Eagle seemed to prevail over the more bulky strength of his opponent; the Huron lost ground; he was driven back to the great pine-tree near the centre of the square; he was forced round and round it; the knife of the Black Eagle drank his blood, but missed his heart, and only wounded him in the shoulder.

Those nearest to the scene had actually paused in the contest for a moment to witness the fierce single combat going on; but in other parts of the square the bloody fight was still continued. For an instant, the French party in front of the huts, by desperate efforts, seemed likely to overpower the Oneidas before them. A tall French grenadier bayoneted the Night Hawk before Edith's eyes; and then, seeing the Huron chief staggering under the blows of his enemy, he dashed forward, and, not daring in the rapid whirls of the two combatants to use his bayonet there, he struck the Black Eagle on the head with the butt of his musket. The blow fell with tremendous force, and drove the great chief on his knee, with one hand on the ground. His career seemed over, his fate finished. The Huron raised his tomahawk high to strike; the Frenchman shortened his musket to pin the chief to the earth.

But, at that moment, a broad, powerful figure dropped down from the branches of the pine-tree between the Oneida and the grenadier, bent slightly with his fall, but even in rising lifted a rifle to his shoulder, and sent the ball into the Frenchman's heart. With a yell of triumph, Black Eagle sprang up from the ground, and in an instant his tomahawk was buried in the undefended head of his adversary.

Edith beheld not the end of the combat; for, in the swaying to and fro of the fierce struggle, the French soldiery had, by this time, been driven past the huts, and the eye of one who loved her was upon her.

"Edith, Edith!" cried the voice of Walter Prevost, forcing the horse forward through the struggling groups, amidst shots and shouts and falling blows. She saw him, she recognized him, she stretched forth her arm towards him; and, dashing between two parties, Walter forced the horse up to the door of the hut, and caught her hand.

"Spring up, spring up!" he cried, bending down, and casting his arms around her. "This is not half over; I must carry you away."

Partly lifted, partly springing from the ground, Edith bounded up before him; and, holding her tightly to his heart, Walter turned the rein, and dashed away through friends and enemies, trampling, unconscious of what he did, alike on the dead and the dying. The western side of the square was crowded with combatants, and he directed his horse's head towards the east, reached the angle, and turned sharp round to get in the rear of the English column, which was seen forcing its way onward to support the advance party of Major Putnam. He thought only of his sister, and pressing her closer to his heart, he said,--

"We are safe, Edith--we are safe!"

Alas, he said it too soon! One group in the square had stood almost aloof from the combat. Gathered together in the south-eastern angle, Apukwa and his companions seemed watching an opportunity for flight. But their fierce eyes had seen Walter, and twice had a rifle clanged at him from that spot, but without effect. They saw him snatch his sister from the hut, place her on the horse, and gallop round. Apukwa, the brother of the Snake, and two others, jumped upon the parapet, and scarcely had Walter uttered the words, "We are safe!" when the fire blazed at once from the muzzles of their rifles. One ball whistled by his ear, another passed through his hair; but, clasping Edith somewhat closer, he galloped on, and in two minutes after came to a spot where three or four men were standing, and one kneeling with his hand under the head of a British officer who had fallen.

Walter reined up the horse sharply, for he was almost over them before he saw them; but the sight of the features of the dead man drew the sudden exclamation from his lips of "Good God!" They were those of Lord H----. Edith's face, as he held her, was turned towards him, and he fancied that she rested her forehead on his bosom to shut out the terrible sights around. He looked down at her to see whether she had caught even a glimpse of the features of the corpse. Her forehead was resting there still; but over the arm that held her so closely to his heart Walter saw welling a dark red stream of blood. He trembled like a leaf.

"Edith!" he exclaimed, "Edith!"

There was no answer. He pushed the bright chestnut curls from her forehead; and, as he did so, the head fell back, showing the face as pale as marble. She had died without a cry, without a sound.

Walter bent his head, and kissed her cheek, and wept.

"What is the matter, sir?" said the sergeant, rising from beside the body of Lord H----. "Did you know my lord?"

"Look here!" cried Walter. It was all he uttered. But in an instant they gathered round him, and lifted Edith from the horse. The sergeant put his hand upon the wrist, then shook his head sadly, and they laid her gently by the side of Lord H----. They knew not with how much propriety,--but thus she would have loved to rest.

Thus they met, and thus they parted; thus they loved and thus they died. But in one thing they were happy; for neither, at the last hour of life, knew the other's peril or the other's fate.