It was a lucky and a stubborn sea-fight.  More blood to the number I never saw than fell on the Lawrence, eighty-three of our hundred and two men having been killed or laid up for repair.  One has to search a bit for record of a more wicked fire.  But we deserve not all the glory some histories have bestowed, for we had a larger fleet and better, if fewer, guns.  It was, however, a thing to be proud of, that victory of the young captain.  Our men, of whom many were raw recruits,-farmers and woodsmen,-stood to their work with splendid valor, and, for us in the North, it came near being decisive.  D’ri and I were so put out of business that no part of the glory was ours, albeit we were praised in orders for valor under fire.  But for both I say we had never less pride of ourselves in any affair we had had to do with.  Well, as I have said before, we were ever at our best with a sabre, and big guns were out of our line.

We went into hospital awhile, D’ri having caught cold and gone out of his head with fever.  We had need of a spell on our backs, for what with all our steeplechasing over yawning graves-that is the way I always think of it-we were somewhat out of breath.  No news had reached me of the count or the young ladies, and I took some worry to bed with me, but was up in a week and ready for more trouble, I had to sit with D’ri awhile before he could mount a horse.

September was nearing its last day when we got off a brig at the Harbor.  We were no sooner at the dock than some one began to tell us of a new plan for the invasion of Canada.  I knew Brown had had no part in it, for he said in my hearing once that it was too big a chunk to bite off.

There were letters from the count and Therese, his daughter.  They had news for me, and would I not ride over as soon as I had returned?  My mother-dearest and best of mothers-had written me, and her tenderness cut me like a sword for the way I had neglected her.  Well, it is ever so with a young man whose heart has found a new queen.  I took the missive with wet eyes to our good farmer-general of the North.  He read it, and spoke with feeling of his own mother gone to her long rest.

“Bell,” said he, “you are worn out.  After mess in the morning mount your horses, you and the corporal, and go and visit them.  Report here for duty on October 16.”

Then, as ever after a kindness, he renewed his quid of tobacco, turning quickly to the littered desk at headquarters.

We mounted our own horses a fine, frosty morning.  The white earth glimmered in the first touch of sunlight.  All the fairy lanterns of the frost king, hanging in the stubble and the dead grass, glowed a brief time, flickered faintly, and went out.  Then the brown sward lay bare, save in the shadows of rock or hill or forest that were still white.  A great glory had fallen over the far-reaching woods.  Looking down a long valley, we could see towers of evergreen, terraces of red and brown, golden steeple-tops, gilded domes minareted with lavender and purple and draped with scarlet banners.  It seemed as if the trees were shriving after all the green riot of summer, and making ready for sackcloth and ashes.  Some stood trembling, and as if drenched in their own blood.  Now and then a head was bare and bent, and naked arms were lifted high, as if to implore mercy.

“Fine air,” said I, breathing deep as we rode on slowly.

“‘T is sart’n,” said D’ri.  “Mother used t’ say ’at the frost wus only the breath o’ angels, an’ when it melted it gin us a leetle o’ the air o’ heaven.”

Of earth or heaven, it quickened us all with a new life.  The horses fretted for their heads, and went off at a gallop, needing no cluck or spur.  We pulled up at the chateau well before the luncheon hour.  D’ri took the horses, and I was shown to the library, where the count came shortly, to give me hearty welcome.

“And what of the captives?” I inquired, our greeting over.

“Alas! it is terrible; they have not returned,” said he, “and I am in great trouble, for I have not written to France of their peril.  Dieu!  I hoped they would be soon released.  They are well and now we have good news.  Eh bien, we hope to see them soon.  But of that Therese shall tell you.  And you have had a terrible time on Lake Erie?”

He had read of the battle, but wanted my view of it.  I told the story of the Lawrence and Perry; of what D’ri and I had hoped to do, and of what had been done to us.  My account of D’ri-his droll comment, his valor, his misfortune-touched and tickled the count.  He laughed, he clapped his hands, he shed tears of enthusiasm; then he rang a bell,

“The M’sieur D’ri-bring him here,” said he to a servant.

D’ri came soon with a worried look, his trousers caught on his boot-tops, an old felt hat in his hand.  Somehow he and his hat were as king and coronal in their mutual fitness; if he lost one, he swapped for another of about the same shade and shape.  His brows were lifted, his eyes wide with watchful timidity.  The count had opened a leather case and taken out of it a shiny disk of silver.  He stepped to D’ri, and fastened it upon his waistcoat.

“‘Pour la valeur éprouvée-de l’Empereur,’” said he, reading the inscription as he clapped him on the shoulder.  “It was given to a soldier for bravery at Austerlitz by the great Napoleon,” said he.  “And, God rest him! the soldier he died of his wounds.  And to me he have left the medal in trust for some man, the most brave, intrepid, honorable.  M’sieur D’ri, I have the pleasure to put it where it belong.”

D’ri shifted his weight, looking down at the medal and blushing like a boy.

“Much obleeged,” he said presently.  “Dunno but mebbe I better put it ’n my wallet.  ’Fraid I ‘ll lose it off o’ there.”

He threw at me a glance of inquiry.

“No,” said I, “do not bury your honors in a wallet.”

He bowed stiffly, and, as he looked down at the medal, went away, spurs clattering.

Therese came in presently, her face full of vivacity and color.

“M’sieur lé Capitaine,” said she, “we are going for a little ride, the marquis and I. Will you come with us?  You shall have the best horse in the stable.”

“And you my best thanks for the honor,” I said.

Our horses came up presently, and we all made off at a quick gallop.  The forest avenues were now aglow and filled with hazy sunlight as with a flood, through which yellow leaves were slowly sinking.  Our horses went to their fetlocks in a golden drift.  The marquis rode on at a rapid pace, but soon Therese pulled rein, I keeping abreast of her.

In a moment our horses were walking quietly.

“You have news for me, ma’m’selle?” I remarked.

“Indeed, I have much news,” said she, as always, in French.  “I was afraid you were not coming in time, m’sieur.”

She took a dainty letter from her bosom, passing it to me.

My old passion flashed up as I took the perfumed sheets.  I felt my heart quicken, my face burn with it.  I was to have good news at last of those I loved better than my life, those I had not forgotten a moment in all the peril of war.

I saw the handwriting of Louison and then a vision of her-the large eyes, the supple, splendid figure, the queenly bearing.  It read;-

“MY DEAR THERESE:  At last they promise to return us to you on the 12th of October.  You are to send two men for us-not more-to the head of Eagle Island, off Ste. Roche, in the St. Lawrence, with canoes, at ten o’clock in the evening of that day.  They will find a lantern hanging on a tree at the place we are to meet them.  We may be delayed a little, but they are to wait for us there.  And, as you love me, see that one is my brave captain-I do not care about the other who comes.  First of all I wish to see my emperor, my love, the tall, handsome, and gallant youngster who has won me.  What a finish for this odd romance if he only comes!  And then I do wish to see you, the count, and the others.  I read your note with such a pleasure!  You are sure that he loves me?  And that he does not know that I love him?  I do not wish him to know, to suspect, until he has asked me to be his queen-until he has a right to know.  Once he has my secret.  Love is robbed of his best treasure.  Mon Dieu!  I wish to tell him myself, sometime, if he ever has the courage to take command of me.  I warn you, Therese, if I think he knows-when I see him-I shall be cruel to him; I shall make him hate me.  So you see I will not be cheated of my wooing, and I know you would not endanger my life’s happiness.  I have written a little song-for him.  Well, some day I shall sing it to him, and will he not be glad to know I could do it?  Here are the first lines to give you the idea:-

  My emperor! my emperor!      Thy face is fair to see;   Thy house is old, thy heart is gold,     Oh, take command of me!

  O emperor! my emperor!      Thy sceptre is of God;   Through all my days I’ll sing thy praise,     And tremble at thy nod.

But, dear Therese, you ought to hear the music; I have quite surprised myself.  Indeed, love is a grand thing; it has made me nobler and stronger.  They really say I am not selfish any more.  But I am weary of waiting here, and so eager to get home.  You are in love, and you have been through this counting of the hours.  We are very comfortable here, and they let us go and come as we like inside the high walls.  I have told you there is a big, big grove and garden.

“We saw nothing of ‘his Lordship’ for weeks until three days ago, when they brought him here wounded.  That is the reason we could not send you a letter before now.  You know he has to see them all and arrange for their delivery.  Well, he sent for Louise that day he came.  She went to him badly frightened, poor thing! as, indeed, we all were.  He lay in bed helpless, and wept when he saw her.  She came back crying, and would not tell what he had said.  I do think he loves her very dearly, and somehow we are all beginning to think better of him.  Surely no one could be more courteous and gallant.  Louise went to help nurse him yesterday, dear, sweet little mother!  Then he told her the good news of our coming release, where your men would meet us, and all as I have written.  He is up in his chair to-day, the maid tells me.  I joked Louise about him this morning, and she began to cry at once, and said her heart was not hers to give.  The sly thing!  I wonder whom she loves; but she would say no more, and has had a long face all day.  She is so stubborn!  I have sworn I will never tell her another of my secrets.  You are to answer quickly, sending your note by courier to the Indian dockman at Elizabethport, addressed Robin Adair, Box 40, St. Hiliere, Canada.  And the love of all to all.  Adieu.

  “Your loving     “LOUISON.

“P.S.  Can you tell me, is the captain of noble birth?  I have never had any doubt of it, he is so splendid.”

It filled me with a great happiness and a bitter pang.  I was never in such a conflict of emotion.

“Well,” said Therese, “do you see my trouble?  Having shown you the first letter, I had also to show you the second.  I fear I have done wrong.  My soul-”

“Be blessed for the good tidings,” I interrupted.

“Thanks.  I was going to say it accuses me.  Louison is a proud girl; she must never know.  She can never know unless-”

“You tell her,” said I, quickly.  “And of course you will.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“That every secret that must not be told is the same as published if-if-”

“If what?”

“If-if it tells a pretty story with some love in it,” I said, with a quick sense of caution.  “Ah, ma’m’selle, do I not know what has made your lips so red?”

“What may it be?”

“The attrition of many secrets-burning secrets,” I said, laughing.

“Mordieu! what charming impudence!” said she, her large eyes glowing thoughtfully, with some look of surprise.  “You do not know me, m’sieur.  I have kept many secrets and know the trick.”

“Ah, then I shall ask of you a great favor,” said I-“that you keep my secret also, that you do not tell her of my love.”

She wheeled her horse with a merry peal of laughter, hiding her face, now red as her glove.

“It is too late,” said she, “I have written her.”

We rode on, laughing.  In spite of the serious character of her words, I fell a-quaking from crown to stirrup.  I was now engaged to Louison, or as good as that, and, being a man of honor, I must think no more of her sister.

“I wrote her of your confession,” said she, “for I knew it would make her so happy; but, you know, I did not tell of-of the circumstances.”

“Well, it will make it all the easier for me,” I said.  “Ma’m’selle, I assure you-I am not sorry.”

“And, my friend, you are lucky:  she is so magnificent.”

“Her face will be a study when I tell her.”

“The splendor of it!” said she.

“And the surprise,” I added, laughing.

“Ah, m’sieur, she will play her part well.  She is clever.  That moment when the true love comes and claims her it is the sweetest in a woman’s life.”

A thought came flying through my brain with the sting of an arrow.

“She must not be deceived.  I have not any noble blood in me.  I am only the son of a soldier-farmer, and have my fortune to make,” said I, quickly.

“That is only a little folly,” she answered, laughing.  “Whether you be rich or poor, prince or peasant, she cares not a snap of her finger.  Ciel! is she not a republican, has she not money enough?”

“Nevertheless, I beg you to say, in your letter, that I have nothing but my sword and my honor.”

As we rode along I noted in my book the place and time we were to meet the captives.  The marquis joined us at the Hermitage, where a stable-boy watered our horses.  Three servants were still there, the others being now in the count’s service.

If any place give me a day’s happiness it is dear to me, and the where I find love is forever sacred.  I like to stand where I stood thinking of it, and there I see that those dear moments are as much a part of me as of history.  So while Therese and the marquis got off their horses for a little parley with the gardener, I cantered up the north trail to where I sat awhile that delightful summer day with Louise.  The grotto had now a lattice roofing of bare branches.  Leaves, as red as her blush, as golden as my memories, came rattling through it, falling with a faint rustle.  The big woods were as a gloomy and deserted mansion, with the lonely cry of the wind above and a ghostly rustle within where had been love and song and laughter and all delight.