In the living room above the store where he had ascended on the first strange night of his coming into Brondel, Dunvegan laid Desiree on the lounge covered with fur robes. He sat by her, tenderly bathing the red weal with some soothing herbal mixture that the squaws were accustomed to brew. It relieved the pain, and she smiled up at him, her l.u.s.trous eyes innocent with their depth of love.

"By the G.o.d that makes and breaks hearts," Dunvegan breathed, "you'll never look on him again. You belong to me by first and only right of worship."

There sounded a step on the stairs. Whoever had arrived was coming up.

The door opened softly. Father Brochet stepped in.

"My son, my son," he murmured reproachfully but compa.s.sionately.

They had told him all below. He came across the room, clasping hands with Bruce, greeting Desiree parentally.

"Go to bed, child," he ordered kindly, a.s.suming authority over the odd situation. "You look tired out. Go to bed! Bruce and I want to talk."

Wondering at her own obedience, Desiree vanished into the adjoining chamber. Marveling at his own sufferance, Dunvegan watched her go.

He turned to Brochet. "Everything unexpected seems to be happening to-night!" he exclaimed. "But I didn't think you were near. Where have you come from, Father?"

"From Loon Lake."

"You knew we had captured Fort Brondel, then?"

"Yes. The Indians gave me the news. As I was on my return journey to Oxford House, I thought I would pay you a call according to my promise.

It seems, my son, that I have arrived very opportunely. You have ruled yourself for many months! Are you, in one mad moment, going to lose your grip?"

He linked an arm in the chief trader's and walked the floor with him, talking, talking, priming him with the wisdom of his saner years till Desiree in the next room fell asleep to the sound of their voices and the regular shuffle of their feet.

And by dawn Father Brochet felt the pulse of victory. Something of soul-light replaced the fevered gleam in Dunvegan's eyes. Not yet had he lost his grip!

"But she must go to her uncle, Pierre Lazard," he declared. "Seeing her, I cannot keep this strength you have given me."

"Pierre is at York Factory," the priest replied. "He could not bide the post long after his niece was gone. So Macleod let him go to the Factory. He pa.s.sed through my Indian camp at Loon Lake before the winter trails broke."

"So much the better," sighed Dunvegan, with relief. "There she will be safe from Black Ferguson. She can go in the canoe express with Basil Dreaulond and his packeteers."

CHAPTER XXI

BLACK FERGUSON'S WILE

Brochet arranged it. The chief trader could not trust himself to look upon Desiree's departure with the York Factory packet. The Brondel people cheered its going, but Dunvegan was not at the landing to see. He had shut himself up in the office.

That day he brooded dismally. That night he woke from troubled sleep, thinking he saw a nightmare. But the anxious features of the priest at his bedside were real. Real also the face of Basil Dreaulond! He had a bandage on his head, stained with dried blood!

Dunvegan sat up with a jerk.

"What's wrong, Basil?" he shouted. "My G.o.d, men, speak!"

"Wan party Nor'westaires waylay de canoe express," stammered Basil. "Dey must been spyin' round de post! Got de packet an' de girl. An' takin'

her to Ferguson at La Roche! Dey keel ma voyageurs, _mais_ I escape, me, in de woods."

The chief trader threw on his clothes and rushed for the door.

Brochet blocked him. "What now?" the priest demanded.

"Follow and----"

"No good dat," interrupted Dreaulond. "Dey got wan whole day start. No good!"

"We have men," cried Dunvegan wildly. "We must storm La Roche."

"Be wise!" Brochet urged, half angrily. "Twice your force couldn't storm La Roche--and you know it!"

"We must try. Great G.o.d, do you think I'll leave her in that brute's power? Every Brondel man marches at once!"

"No," thundered the priest. "You won't dare! You have the Factor's order. Don't dare wreck his plan through selfish desire. In another day he will be here. But move these men now to waste them in futile a.s.saults and you halve his strength--you lose the Company's campaign!"

Dunvegan groaned. Well he knew that. Yet inactivity galled and tortured.

"Dey got dose prisonaires _aussi_," Basil put in.

"Are you crazed with your wound?" Dunvegan's eyes flashed.

"No. But I be see dem. Dis Glyndon an' Gaspard!"

"They were guarded," began the chief trader vehemently; "are guarded now--" but he broke off to see and to make sure.

Underground they looked into a cellar-dungeon, empty of captives. Stiff in death but without any marks of violence the Indian guards lay on the floor. Dreaulond sniffed their lips.

"Dat _diable_ Gaspard geeve dem de dog-berry poison," he announced.

"Mus' be dropped in dere rum at de feast las' night."

It had been the duty of the guards to apportion the prisoners their food as well as to watch them. Thus their absence had not been marked through the day. It was evident that their escape had been effected some time after the supper and dance had ended when the Indians had succ.u.mbed to the fatal drink.

Dunvegan turned to his friends, the light of unshakeable determination on his face.

"My men are the Company's!" he exclaimed. "My life is my own! I'm going to La Roche. There may be a way. Somewhere there must be a means. Either I'll carry Desiree Lazard over the stockades or the Nor'westers' guns will riddle me."

They did not doubt him. They knew a million protests would not avail.

"An' me," cried Basil, thrilled by his courage. "I go for de _pacquet_.

De Company's trippers dey ain' nevaire lost wan yet. I ain' goin' be de first, me!"

"You lovable fools," reprimanded Brochet, tears in his eyes. "You have the stuff in you that makes the northmen great. But don't go alone on this mad mission! Let me go with you. For mark this, Bruce, where your strength or Dreaulond's cunning cannot prevail, my cloth may render some aid."

Thus across the chain of lakes and rivers three men went against La Roche.