Cameron of Lochiel
"Dear uncle," said Blanche, "do you not know a song appropriate to so
delicious a night as this, and so enchanting a scene?"
"Hear! hear!" exclaimed the young men, "a song from Uncle Raoul!"
This was assailing the chevalier on his weak point. He was a singer,
and very proud of it. Without further pressing he began, in a splendid
tenor voice, the following song, which he sang with peculiar feeling
as a brave hunter adorned with his scars. While acknowledging that his
verses took many a liberty with the rules of rhyme, he declared that
these defects were redeemed by the vividness and originality of the
composition.
UNCLE RAOUL'S SONG.
As I was walking, somewhat late,
A-through a lonely wood and great,
Hunting partridge, snipe, and cock,
And careless of the clock,
I raised my gun to drop a bird,
When in the bushes something stirred;
I heard a cry--and saw the game
That love alone can tame.
I saw a fair one all alone,
Lamenting on a mossy stone,
Her hair about so fair a face
As lightened that dark place.
I called my dog to heel, and there
I fired my gun into the air.
So loud with fear the lady cried,
I hastened to her side.
I said to her, I said, "Sweet heart,
Be comforted, whoe'er thou art.
I am a valiant cavalier,
Have thou of me no fear.
Beholding thee, my lovely one,
Thus left lamenting and alone,
I fain would be thy knight-at-arms,
And shield thee from alarms."
"Oh, succor me, fair sir," she saith,
"My heart with fear was nigh to death.
I am benighted and astray,
Oh, show me, sir, my way!
Oh, show me, gentle sir, the road,
For Mary's sake, to mine abode.
My heart, fair sir, but for your grace,
Had died in this dark place."
"Now, lady, give thy hand to me.
Not far the way--not far with thee.
Right glad am I to do thee pleasure,
And I have the leisure.
But might I crave before we part,
Oh, lady dear, oh, fair sweet heart--
Might I dare to beg the bliss
Of one small kiss?"
Saith she, "I can not say thee nay;
Thy service can I ne'er repay.
Take one, or even two, or three,
If so it pleaseth thee.
More gallant sir was never seen;
Much honored have my kisses been."
(This was the last I heard of her)
"And now farewell, kind sir."
"The devil," said Jules, "I perceive, dear sir, that you did not waste
any time. I will wager, now, that you have been a terrible gallant in
your younger days, and can count your victims by the score. It is so,
eh, uncle mine? Do tell us some of your conquests."
"Ugly, my dear boy," replied Uncle Raoul, with a gratified air, "ugly I
certainly am, but very agreeable to the ladies."
Jules was going on in the same vein, but seeing the way his sister was
frowning at him, he bit his lips to keep from laughing, and repeated
the last four lines:
"'More gallant sir was never seen;
Much honored have my kisses been'
(This was the last I heard of her)
'And now farewell, kind sir.'"
The young men continued the singing till they reached a clearing, where
they saw a fire in the woods a little way from the road.
"That is the witch of the manor," said Uncle Raoul.
"I have always forgotten to ask why she was called the witch of the
manor," said Archie.
"Because she has established herself in this wood, which formerly
belonged to the D'Haberville estate," said Uncle Raoul. "My brother
exchanged it for a part of his present domain, in order to get nearer
his mill at Trois Saumons."
"Let us go and see poor old Marie," said Blanche. "When I was a
child she used to bring me the first spring flowers and the first
strawberries of the season."
Uncle Raoul made some objections on account of the lateness of the
hour, but he could refuse Blanche nothing, and presently the horses
were hitched on the edge of the wood and our party were on their way to
the witch's abode.
The dwelling of old Marie by no means resembled that of the Cumæan
sybil, or of any other sorceress, ancient or modern. It was a sort of
patchwork hut, built of logs and unquarried stones, and carpeted within
with many colored mosses. The roof was cone-shaped and covered with
birch-bark and spruce branches.
Old Marie was seated on a log at the door of her hut, cooking something
in a frying-pan over a fire which was surrounded with stones to keep it
from spreading. She paid no attention to her visitors, but maintained
a conversation with some invisible being behind her. She kept waving
first one hand and then the other behind her back, as if attempting to
drive away this being, and the burden of her utterance was: "Avaunt,
avaunt! it is you that bring the English here to eat up the French!"
"Oh, ho, my prophetess of evil," exclaimed Uncle Raoul, "when you get
done talking to the devil, would you be kind enough to tell me what you
mean by that threat?"
"Come, Marie," interposed Jules, "tell us if you really think you are
talking to the devil? You can fool the _habitants_, but you must know
that we put no faith in such delusions."
"Avaunt! Avaunt!" continued the witch with the same gestures, "you that
are bringing the English to eat up the French."
"I am going to speak to her," said Blanche; "she loves me, and I am
sure she will answer me."
Approaching the old woman, she laid her hand on her shoulder and said
gently:
"Do you not know me, my good Marie? Do you not recognize _la petite
seigneuresse_, as you used to call me?"
The old woman interrupted her monologue and looked tenderly at the
girl. A tear even gathered in her eyes, but could not overflow, so few
such were there in her burning brain.
"Why, dear Marie, do you lead this wild and vagabond life?" exclaimed
Blanche. "Why do you live in the woods, you who are the wife of a
rich _habitant_, the mother of a numerous family? Your poor children,
brought up by strangers, are crying for their dear mother. Mamma and I
were looking for you at your house after the feast. We were talking to
your husband who loves you. How unhappy you must be!"
The poor woman sprang upon her seat and her eyes shot flames, as she
cried, pale with anger:
"Who is it dare speak of my misfortunes? Is it the fair young girl, the
darling of her parents, who will never be wife and mother? Is it the
rich and noble lady, brought up in silk and fine linen, who will soon,
like me, have but a hut to shelter her? Woe! Woe! Woe!"
She was about to retire into the forest, but seeing Jules much moved,
she cried again:
"Is it Jules D'Haberville who is so concerned at my wretchedness? Is
it, indeed, Jules D'Haberville, bravest of the brave, whose bleeding
body I see them dragging over the Plains of Abraham? Is it, indeed, his
blood that crimsons the last glorious field of my country? Woe! Woe!
Woe!"
"This poor woman moves my heart strangely," said Lochiel, as she was
disappearing in the thicket.
The creature heard him. She returned once more, folded her arms, turned
upon him a gaze of calm bitterness, and said:
"Keep your pity for yourself, Archibald de Lochiel. The family fool has
no need of your pity! Keep your pity for yourself and for your friends!
Keep it for yourself on that day when, forced to execute a cruel order,
you shall tear with your nails that breast that hides a noble and
generous heart! Keep it for your friends, Archibald de Lochiel, on that
day when you shall set the torch to their peaceful dwellings, that day
when the old and feeble, the women and the children, shall flee before
you as sheep before the wolf! Keep your pity! You will need it all when
you carry in your arms the bleeding body of him you call your brother!
I have but one grief at this hour, Archibald de Lochiel, it is that I
have no curse to utter against you. Woe! Woe! Woe!" And she disappeared
into the forest.
"May I be choked by an Englishman," said Uncle Raoul, "if poor silly
Marie has not shown herself tonight a sorceress of the approved type,
the type which has been celebrated by poets ancient and modern. I
wonder what mad weed she has been rubbing against, she who is always so
polite and gentle with us."
All agreed that they had never heard anything like it before. The rest
of the drive was passed in silence; for, though attaching no credence
to the witch's words, they could not at once throw off their ominous
influence.
On their arrival at the manor house, however, where they found a number
of friends awaiting them, this little cloud was soon scattered.
The joyous laughter of the party could be heard even to the highway,
and the echoes of the bluff were kept busy repeating the refrain:
"Ramenez vos moutons, bergère,
Belle bergère, vos moutons."
The dancers had broken one of the chains of their dance, and were
running everywhere, one behind the other, around the vast court-yard.
They surrounded the chevalier's carriage, the chain reunited, and they
began dancing round and round, crying to Mademoiselle D'Haberville,
"Descend, fair shepherdess."
Blanche sprang lightly out of the carriage. The leader of the dance at
once whisked her off, and began to sing:
"Hail to the fairest in the land!
(Hail to the fairest in the land!)
"Now I take you by the hand.
(Now I take you by the hand.)
I lead you here, I lead you there;
Bring back your sheep, O shepherdess fair.
Bring back your sheep and with care them keep,
Shepherdess fair, bring back your sheep.
Bring back, bring back, bring back with care,
Bring back your sheep, O shepherdess fair!"
After making several more rounds, with the chevalier's carriage in the
middle, and all the time singing:
"Ramenez, ramenez, ramenez donc,
Belle bergère, vos moutons."
They at length broke up the chain, and all danced merrily into the
house.
Uncle Raoul, at last set at liberty by the inexorable dancers,
descended as he could from the carriage and hastened to join the party
at the supper-table.
CHAPTER IX.
"THE GOOD GENTLEMAN."
Tout homme qui, à quarante ans, n'est pas misanthrope, n'a jamais
aimé les hommes.--+Champfort.+
J'ai été prodigieusement fier jusqu'à quarente-cinq ans: mais le malheur
m'a bien courbé et m'a rendu aussi humble que j'étais fier. Ah!
c'est une grande école que le malheur! j'ai appris à me courber et à
m'humilier sous la main de Dieu.--+Chenedollé.+
The two months which Jules had to spend with his family before his
departure for Europe had come to an end, and the vessel in which he had
taken passage was to sail in two or three days. Lochiel was at Quebec,
making preparations for a voyage which could hardly take less than two
months. Abundant provisions were necessary, and Seigneur D'Haberville
had intrusted this point to the young Scotchman's care, while Jules's
mother and sister were loading down the young men's valises with all
the comforts and dainties they could think of. As the time drew near
for a separation which might be forever, Jules was drawn closer and
closer to his family, whom he could hardly bear to leave even for a
moment. One day, however, he remarked:
"As you know, I promised 'the good gentleman' that I would go and stay
a night with him before my departure. I will be back to-morrow morning
in time to breakfast with you."
With these words, he picked up his gun and started for the woods, in
order to take a short cut and have a little hunting by the way.
M. d'Egmont, whom everybody called "the good gentleman," dwelt in a
cottage on the Trois Saumons River, about three quarters of a league
from the manor house. With him there lived a faithful follower who had
shared alike his good and his evil fortunes. André Franc[oe]ur was of
the same age as his master, and was also his foster-brother. Having
been the playfellow of his childhood, and the trusted friend rather