A Little Girl in Old Detroit Part 36

Jeanne Angelot climbed a slight ascent where great jagged stones had probably been swept down in some fierce storm and found lodgment. Tufts of pink flowers, the like of which she had not seen before, hung over one ledge. They were not wild roses, yet had a spicy fragrance. Here the little stream formed a sort of basin, and the overflow made the cascade down the winding way strewn with pebbles and stones worn smooth by the force of the early spring floods. How wonderfully beautiful it was! To the north, after a s.p.a.ce of wild land, there was a prairie stretching out as far as one could see, golden green in the sunlight; to the east the lake, that seemed to gather all sorts of changeful, magical tints on its bosom.

She had never heard of the vale of Enna nor her prototype who stooped to pluck

"The fateful flower beside the rill, The daffodil! The daffodil!"

as she sprang down to gather the blossoms. The stir in the woods did not alarm her. Her eyes were still over to the eastward drinking in that fine draught of celestial wine, the true nectar of life. A bird piped overhead. She laughed and answered him. Then a sudden darkness fell upon her, close, smothering. Her cry was lost in it. She was picked up, slung over some one's shoulder and borne onward by a swift trot. Her arms were fast, she could only struggle feebly.

When at length she was placed on her feet and the blanket partly unrolled, she gave a cry.

"Hush, hus.h.!.+" said a rough voice in Chippewa. "If you make a noise we shall kill you and throw you into the lake. Be silent and nothing shall harm you."

"Oh, let me go!" she pleaded. "Why do you want me?"

The blanket was drawn over her head again. Another stalwart Indian seized her and ran on with such strides that it nearly jolted the breath out of her body, and the close smell of the blanket made her faint. When the second Indian released her she fell to the ground in a heap.

"White Rose lost her breath, eh?"

"You have covered her too close. We are to deliver her alive. The white brave will have us murdered if she dies."

One of them brought some water from a stream near by, and it revived her.

"Give me a drink!" she cried, piteously. Then she glanced at her abductors. Four fierce looking Indians, two unusually tall and powerful.

To resist would be useless.

"Whither are you going to take me?"

A grunt was the only reply, and they prepared to envelop her again.

"Oh, let me walk a little," she besought. "I am stiff and tired."

"You will not give any alarm?"

Who could hear in this wild, solitary place?

"I will be quiet. Nay, do not put the blanket about me, it is so warm,"

she entreated.

One of the Indians threw it over his shoulder. Two others took an arm with a tight grasp and commenced a quick trot. They lifted her almost off her feet, and she found this more wearying than being carried.

"Do not go so fast," she pleaded.

The Indian caught her up and ran again. Her slim figure was as nothing to him. But it was better not to have her head covered.

There seemed a narrow path through these woods, a trail the Indians knew. Now and then they emerged from the woods to a more open s.p.a.ce, but the sunlight was mostly shut out. Once more they changed and now they reached a stream and put down their burthen.

"We go now in a canoe," began the chief spokesman. "If the White Rose will keep quiet and orderly no harm will come to her. Otherwise her hands and feet must be tied."

Jeanne drew a long breath and looked from one to the other. Their faces were stolid. Questioning would be useless.

"I will be quiet," she made answer.

They spread the blanket about and seated her in the middle. One man took his place behind her, one in front, and each had two ends of the blanket to frustrate any desperate move. Then another stood up to the paddle and steered the canoe swiftly along the stream, which was an arm of a greater river emptying into the lake.

What could they want of her? Jeanne mused. Perhaps a ransom, she had heard such tales, though it was oftener after a battle that a prisoner was released by a ransom. She did not know in what direction they were taking her, everything was strange though she had been on many of the small streams about Detroit. Now the way was narrow, overhung with gloomy trees, here and there a white beech s.h.i.+ning out in a ghostly fas.h.i.+on. The sun dropped down and darkness gathered, broken by the shrill cry of a wild cat or the prolonged howl of a wolf. Here they started a nest of waterfowl that made a great clatter, but they glided swiftly by. It grew darker and darker but they went silently with only a low grunt from one of the Indians now and then.

Presently they reached the main stream. This was much larger, with the sh.o.r.es farther off and clearer, though weird enough in the darkness.

Stars were coming out. Jeanne watched them in the deep magnificent blue, golden, white, greenish and with crimson tints. Was the world beyond the stars as beautiful as this? But she knew no one there. She wondered a little about her mother--was she in that bright sphere? There was another Mother--

"O Mother of G.o.d," she cried in her soul, "have pity upon me! I put myself in thy care. Guard me from evil! Restore me to my home!"

For it seemed, amid these rough savages, she sorely needed a mother's tender care. And she thought now there had been no loving woman in her life save Pani. Madame Bellestre had petted her, but she had lost her out of her life so soon. There had been the schoolmaster, that she could still think of with affection for all his queer fatherly interest and kindness; there was M. Loisel; and oh, Monsieur St. Armand, who was coming back in the early summer, and had some plans to lay before her.

Even M. De Ber had been kindly and friendly, but Madame had never approved her. Poor Madame Campeau had come to love her, but often in her wandering moments she called her Berthe.

The quiet, the lapping of the waves, and perhaps a little fatigue overcame her at length. She dropped back against the Indian's knee, and her soft breath rose and fell peacefully. He drew the blanket up over her.

"Ugh! ugh!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, but she heard it not. "The tide is good, we shall make the Point before dawn."

The others nodded. They lighted their pipes, and presently the Indian at the paddle changed with one of his comrades and they stole on and on, both wind and tide in their favor. Several times their charge stirred but did not wake. Youth and health had overcome even anxiety.

There was dawn in the eastern sky. Jeanne roused.

"Oh, where am I?" she cried in piercing accents; and endeavored to spring up.

"Thou art safe enough and naught has harmed thee," was the reply. "Keep quiet, that is all."

"Oh, where do you mean to take me? I am stiff and cold. Oh, let me change a little!"

She straightened herself and pulled the blanket over her. The same stolid faces that had refused any satisfaction last night met her gaze again in blankness.

There was a broad, open s.p.a.ce of water, no longer the river. She glanced about. A sudden arrow of gold gleamed swiftly across it--then another, and it was a sea of flame with dancing crimson lights.

"It is the lake," she said. "Lake Huron." She had been up the picturesque sh.o.r.es of the St. Clair river.

The Indian nodded.

"You are going north?" A great terror overwhelmed her like a sudden revelation.

The answer was a solemn nod.

"Some one has hired you to do this."

Not a muscle in any stolid face moved.

"If I guess rightly will you tell me?"

There was a refusal in the shake of the head.

Jeanne Angelot at that moment could have leaped from the boat. Yet she knew it would be of no avail. A chill went through every pulse and turned it to the ice of apprehension.