Chapter XXV Over Gaspereau Ridge

“Monsieur Waldron!” cried Yvonne faintly.

“You here, Mademoiselle de Lamourie!” he exclaimed, with a surprise that his courtesy could not quite conceal.

“This, monsieur,” she said, in a brave confusion, “is my friend, here for a moment because of my foolish desire to see him. I beg you”—

But he interrupted, reluctantly enough:

“It hurts me, mademoiselle, to have to say that your friend is my prisoner. If I were free to please you, he should go free.”

The case was clearly beyond mending, so I would not condescend to evasion.

“I can do nothing but surrender, monsieur,” said I civilly, “under the conclusive arbitrament of your muskets. Here is my sword.” He took it, and I went on:

“I am Captain Paul Grande, of the French army in Canada.”

178His face changed.

“A spy, then!” he said harshly.

“You insult with impunity,” I began. “An unarmed”—

But Yvonne broke in, her eyes flaming:

“How dare you, sir, insult me? That is not to be done with impunity, I think.”

The man looked puzzled. Then his face cleared somewhat.

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said slowly, looking from her face to mine. “I begin to understand a little, I think. There is a very sufficient reason why a French officer might appear in an enemy’s country without his uniform—that country being Grand Pré—and yet be no spy!”

“I give you my word of honour,” said I, “that I am no spy, but merely your prisoner. And if brought to trial I will prove what I say.”

“I beg your pardon also—provisionally,” he replied, with a pleasant air. “I am the last to believe a gentleman a spy, and I am confident you will clear yourself of the unavoidable charge. You are a soldier. You must see it to be unavoidable,” he added.

“I do, monsieur,” said I sorrowfully. “I have lain for months, wounded and delirious, in a hiding-place not far off, nursed by a faithful friend. Having just recovered, I came here for a farewell 179to dear friends; and you have arrived inopportunely, monsieur.”

There was the bitterness of final despair beneath the lightness which I assumed.

“Your action seems to me very pardonable, I assure you,” said he. “But I am not the judge. We must go.” And he motioned his men to me.

But Yvonne came close to my side and laid her hand lightly on my arm.

“It is my wish, Monsieur Waldron,” she said, “that Captain Grande should escort me, with your assistance, and that of your guard also, if you will!”

“Why, certainly, mademoiselle, it shall be as you wish,” he said, with a ghost of a smile, which set her blushing wildly. “I have Captain Grande’s sword and his”—

“And my word,” said I, bowing.

“And his parole,” he continued. “I need in no way constrain him till we reach the—the chapel. I will lead my men a little in the rear, and strive not to interrupt your conversation.”

“I can never thank you enough for your courtesy, monsieur,” said I.

So it came that a strange procession marched up the Gaspereau Ridge, through the bleak twilight. And the hilltop drew swiftly near—and my last few minutes sped—and I was dumb. Still, she was at my side. And perhaps my silence spoke. 180But when we crossed the ridge, and the chapel prison appeared, and Yvonne’s house some way apart, my tongue found speech;—but not argument, only wild entreaties, adorations, words that made her body tremble, though not, alas! her will.

At length she stopped.

“You must go back to them now, Paul. I will go on alone. Good-by, dear!”

“But we are not near the house,” I stammered.

“Monsieur Anderson may come out to meet me. If he sees you now, before I change my conditions, how shall I escape the instant fulfilment of my promise?”

“But I am not safe, surely,” I argued.

“His testimony can at once make you safe,” said she.

My heart dropped, feeling the truth of her words. I could say nothing that I had not already said. Feeling impotent, feeling that utter defeat had been hurled upon me in the very moment of triumph, my brain seemed to stop working.

“What will you do?” was all that came through my dry lips.

She had grown much older in the last hour.

“I will wait, Paul, as I promised you,” she said sadly; “one year—no, two years—before I redeem my pledge and become his wife. That is all I can do—and that I can do. I choose to believe that you would have obeyed me and gone 181away at once, if we had not been interrupted. Therefore I keep my promise to you. It was not your fault that you were not permitted to obey me.”

I was quite at the end of my tether, though my resolution rose again to full stature on learning that I should have time—time to plan anew. She held out her hand. “Good-by, and God keep you, my dear friend!” said she very softly.

I looked around. The squad had halted near by. Some were looking, curse them! But that most decent officer had his back turned, and was intently scanning the weather. I lifted her hand to my lips.

“My—wife!” I muttered, unfalteringly obstinate.

“No!” she said sadly. “Only your friend. Oh, leave me that!”

And she was gone, a Psyche glimmering away through the dark which strove to cling to her.

I stood for a moment, eyes and heart straining after her. Then I turned as the guard came up.

“At your service, monsieur,” said I.