CHAPTER XV.

Notwithstanding the exciting disturbances of the night, to both men and beasts, the troops were up by daylight. Breakfast was over, the camp was struck, and all were ready to march before the sun in the clear winter sky was much above the horizon. During the last of the preparations, Helen, wrapped in her furs, was seated on a log by one of the fires.

While waiting for Harold she was busy jotting down notes in a sc.r.a.p book that lay on her knee.

"Well, dearie!" he exclaimed, as he joined her with a slight limp. "We start in ten minutes. Are you quite ready? But what is this you are doing?"

"Just scribbling a bit," she replied. "Commencing my diary. And how is the leg? It must hurt you."

"Only a little. The Doctor has dressed it again. He says it is a mere trifle. The thick folds of my trousers saved me from a bite that might have been serious. So you are turning historian, are you? Commencing, I suppose, with a thrilling tale of adventure."

"Last night's experience should be thrilling enough to make a record of, don't you think?" was her answer.

"Well, yes; if you only put it down right. You should commence with an account of the brave lady who, without fear, seized a dagger and by her dexterity saved the life of her husband."

"What do you take me for? Any more nonsense like that?"

"There is no nonsense about it, my dear. Where would I have been but for you? Both my pistols empty, clutched by a big wolf, and no knife within reach until you handed it to me. No, my dear Mrs. Manning, you were veritably your husband's preserver. Put it down quick, for we have scarcely a minute to lose."

"It is too late," she returned with grave perspicacity. "The first chapter is closed. What I have writ, I have writ, and there's the end o't." And closing her sc.r.a.p book she opened her reticule to put it in.

"But my brave lady," he cried. "My heroine of the midnight battle, won't you let me see what you have writ?"

"That is a question," was her laughing answer, putting her bag behind her back.

"Why so?" he asked.

"Because----"

"Because what?"

"Because you shouldn't see anything I put down. I just thought I would write a bit each day until we get to Penetang; but there are things which a woman would not want to tell to a man, even her husband."

"I never thought of that," he replied gravely. "Still, there may be truth in it."

"I don't want to be mean, Harold," she said relentingly, handing him the sc.r.a.p book. "Read it this time, but please let me write what I want without showing it to you again, until we reach Penetang anyway. I promise that you may read the whole of it then if you insist."

"Well, I agree," he replied, stooping to kiss her. "Writing letters to n.o.body with n.o.body to read them."

"Who else should read them but the n.o.body for whom they were written,"

was her laughing response.

The horses were harnessed, but he had still time to glance hastily over the first entry of her diary. It ran thus:

"Shebenacadie, Nova Scotia, Jan., 1814.

"Just three days and nights since we left Halifax. The weather sharp, cold and bright, with scarcely a cloud in the sky at any time, and jolly long drives they have been. We had great fun at a lumber camp on our first day out. A good-natured Scotchman was what they call 'Boss' and he made it very pleasant for us. He gave us an excellent dinner and was very gallant to us all, but he tried to be funny, too. For instance, he told me it was lucky I was not going to stay in Nova Scotia, for if I did, I would become a 'blue-nose' like the rest of the women, for I was catching the disease already.

"I laughingly repudiated the charge and told him it was a calumny upon the Nova Scotia women, for their noses were all a natural color.

"'My dear woman,' he replied, 'I'm no daft. Their noses are all blue, but for the sake of effect they just paint 'em pink.'

"The Doctor heard him and shook with laughter, while Mr. Mackenzie reiterated: 'Fact, madame, fact! When you come back jess ask Mrs. Mason and she'll tell you.' I feel sure he was joking, although my nose was a little blue at the time from the extreme cold. Still the 'Boss' is a fine specimen of his race; rough, generous and warm-hearted. I wonder if he has a wife. If not the sooner he gets one the better, for like Harold he could make a woman happy.

"That afternoon we pa.s.sed an Indian camp. Some of the redskins were armed, and as there were a lot of them, and only a few of us in sleighs, it didn't seem safe, until we had driven on and they had shouted their last 'Qua.'

"But the horror of all was last night, only three or four hours before dawn, where, if it had not been for a providential candle, Harold would have been killed. Oh, that blessed candle! I have stowed it away already among my most valuable belongings in commemoration of the event. The fiendish eyes of that gaunt wolf made my blood run cold as he wriggled through the bars into our camp. Harold shot him twice with his pistols and afterwards stabbed him to the heart with his dagger; still he could not have done it but for that little candle which he had stuck between the branches before the fight began. What a terrible scene it was! When Harold and the brute were locked together and the blood spurted all over, I felt sure that it was Harold's. I almost fainted. But somehow I just wouldn't. So I grabbed hold of the wolf's leg and helped to roll him on his back. It was all the help I could give. The whole thing was horrible to think of. It made my blood curdle. But I don't care so long as Harold is all right. I always knew what a good, true man my husband was, but never before did I know how brave he could be. He's the----"

But here the record broke off abruptly, caused no doubt by the said Harold's arrival. "I wonder how you purposed concluding that last sentence?" he asked with a laugh, as he handed back the book. "Possibly the dash was merely a happy subst.i.tute for something else."

"On second thought I don't think I'll finish it," she said, dryly. "Just leave it for you to conjecture."

"And am I to read no more chapters?" he asked.

"Not even one," she replied, nodding her head. "A woman's fiat is like the law of the Medes and Persians--it cannot be altered."

"So be it," he a.s.sented, while he helped her into the sleigh. "I shall restrain my curiosity until the ma.n.u.script is finished. But woe betide you if you do not let me read it then." And they both laughed.

The next moment the bugles sounded, the sleighs and troops were already in order, and on the word of command the journey was resumed.

Helen's diary continued.

"Camp, ---- miles northwest of Truro, Jan'y ----, 10 p.m., 1814.

"I thought I would write a little in my diary every day when I commenced, but here, on the very start, I have missed a day already.

Perhaps it was because Harold, on account of the wolf's bite, has been with me ever since. To-day it has been terribly cold, and I was afraid he might be worse, but thank heaven he is not. The roads are still good through this mountainous region, and without many drifts either. Bateese pretends to be disgusted. He says they are not worth a 'tam,' for he has been doing his best to find a drift to camp in ever since we started. So we laugh and tell him it is foolish to despair.

"Last night we were on the lookout for wolves again. We sat on logs around the camp fires until quite late listening for them; but there was not a single howl. We did hear something, however, that was at least more amusing. The men had made our little camp comfortable for us, and Harold and I were having a chat by ourselves before turning in for the night. Perhaps I felt moody again in the still air and deep solitude of the woods. It was so new and strange to me--so different from anything I had ever experienced.

"Suddenly we heard singing in the habitants' camp. The drivers were seated around their own fire and listening to Bateese. I wonder if I can remember the words of the quaint little song. It ran something like this:

Ma luffly gal she ees so neat, She be ma femme come by-am-bye; She ope her leetle mouf so sweet An' all de day sing lullaby.

Ven she vas baby dress in print, Her pet.i.te nose vas vide an' pug, So dat it make her eyes go squint Ven she shut up her leetle mug.

Her arms so short, her feet so long, Dey make you tink of kangaroo; Still, mon devoir, I sing ma song An' tell de story all to you.

But she so fair, her hair like gold, Her bref is like de rose to smell; An' vat care I for tings I told, I luff dat leetle gal so well.

An den who cares vat people say?

Mon Dieu! e'en d'ough de night owls sing, It ees no mattare. Ve'll be gay An' Cure'll marry us in spring.

"Then the men laughed and we laughed too. Somehow it roused my spirits, and I liked Bateese all the better for singing his foolish little ditty."

Diary continued.