It was a fine house-that in which I spent many happy years back in my young manhood.  Not, indeed, so elegant and so large as this where I am now writing, but comfortable.  To me, then, it had an atmosphere of romance and some look of grandeur.  Well, in those days I had neither a sated eye, nor gout, nor judgment of good wine.  It was I who gave it the name of Fairacres that day when, coming out of the war, we felt its peace and comfort for the first time, and, dumfounded with surprise, heard my mother tell the story of it.

“My grandfather,” said she, “was the Chevalier Ramon Ducet de Trouville, a brave and gallant man who, for no good reason, disinherited my father.  The property went to my uncle, the only other child of the chevalier, and he, as I have told you, wrote many kind letters to me, and sent each year a small gift of money.  Well, he died before the war,-it was in March,-and, having no children, left half his fortune to me.  You, Ramon, will remember that long before you went away to the war a stranger came to see me one day-a stout man, with white hair and dark eyes.  Do you not remember?  Well, I did not tell you then, because I was unable to believe, that he came to bring the good news.  But he came again after you left us, and brought me money-a draft on account.  For us it was a very large sum, indeed.  You know we have always been so poor, and we knew that when the war was over there would be more and a-plenty coming.  So, what were we to do?  ’We will build a home,’ said I; ’we will enjoy life as much as possible.  We will surprise Ramon.  When he returns from the war he shall see it, and be very happy.’  The architect came with the builders, and, voila! the house is ready, and you are here, and after so long it is better than a fortune to see you.  I thought you would never come.”

She covered her face a moment, while my father rose abruptly and left the room.  I kissed the dear hands that long since had given to heavy toil their beauty and shapeliness.

But enough of this, for, after all, it is neither here nor there.  Quick and unexpected fortune came to many a pioneer, as it came to my mother, by inheritance, as one may see if he look only at the records of one court of claims-that of the British.

“Before long you may wish to marry,” said my mother, as she looked up at me proudly, “and you will not be ashamed to bring your wife here.”

I vowed, then and there, I should make my own fortune,-I had Yankee enough in me for that,-but, as will be seen, the wealth of heart and purse my mother had, helped in the shaping of my destiny.  In spite of my feeling, I know it began quickly to hasten the life-currents that bore me on.  And I say, in tender remembrance of those very dear to me, I had never a more delightful time than when I sat by the new fireside with all my clan,-its number as yet undiminished,-or went roistering in wood or field with the younger children.

The day came when D’ri and I were to meet the ladies.  We started early that morning of the 12th.  Long before daylight we were moving rapidly down-river in our canoes.

I remember seeing a light flash up and die away in the moonlit mist of the river soon after starting.

“The boogy light!” D’ri whispered.  “There ’t goes ag’in!”

I had heard the river folk tell often of this weird thing-one of the odd phenomena of the St. Lawrence.

“Comes alwus where folks hev been drownded,” said D’ri.  “Thet air’s what I’ve hearn tell.”

It was, indeed, the accepted theory of the fishermen, albeit many saw in the boogy light a warning to mark the place of forgotten murder, and bore away.

The sun came up in a clear sky, and soon, far and wide, its light was tossing in the rippletops.  We could see them glowing miles away.  We were both armed with sabre and pistols, for that river was the very highway of adventure in those days of the war.

“Don’ jes’ like this kind uv a hoss,” said D’ri.  “Got t’ keep whalin’ ‘im all the while, an’ he ‘s apt t’ slobber ’n rough goin’.”

He looked thoughtfully at the sun a breath, and then trimmed his remark with these words; “Ain’t eggzac’Iy sure-footed, nuther.”

“Don’t require much feed, though,” I suggested.

“No; ye hev t’ dew all the eatin’, but ye can alwus eat ’nough fer both.”

It was a fine day, and a ride to remember.  We had a warm sun, a clear sky, and now and then we could feel the soft feet of the south wind romping over us in the river way.  Here and there a swallow came coasting to the ripples, sprinkling the holy water of delight upon us, or a crow’s shadow ploughed silently across our bows.  It thrilled me to go cantering beside the noisy Rapides du Plats or the wild-footed Galloup, two troops of water hurrying to the mighty battles of the sea.  We mounted reeling knolls, and coasted over whirling dips, and rushed to boiling levels, and jumped foamy ridges, and went galloping in the rush and tumble of long slopes.

“Let ’er rip!” I could hear D’ri shouting, once in a while, as he flashed up ahead of me.  “Let ’er rip!  Consarn ’er pictur’!”

He gave a great yell of triumph as we slowed in a long stretch of still, broad water.  “Judas Priest!” said he, as I came alongside, “thet air’s rougher ’n the bog trail.”

We came to Paleyville with time only for a bite of luncheon before dark.  We could see no sign of life on the island or the “Canuck shore” as we turned our bows to the south channel.  That evening the innkeeper sat with us under a creeking sign, our chairs tilted to the tavernside.

D’ri was making a moose-horn of birch-bark as he smoked thoughtfully.  When he had finished, he raised it to his lips and moved the flaring end in a wide circle as he blew a blast that rang miles away in the far forest.

“Ef we heppen t’ git separated in any way, shape, er manner ’cept one,” said he, as he slung it over his shoulder with a string, “ye’ll know purty nigh where I be when ye hear thet air thing.”

“You said, ’in any way, shape, er manner ‘cept one.’” I quoted.  “What do you mean by that?”

My friend expectorated, looking off into the night soberly a moment.

“Guess I didn’t mean nuthin’,” said he, presently.  “When I set out t’ say suthin’, don’t never know where I ‘m goin’ t’ land.  Good deal luk settin’ sail without a compass.  Thet ’s one reason I don’t never say much ’fore women.”

Our good host hurried the lagging hours with many a tale of the river and that island we were soon to visit, once the refuge of Tadusac, the old river pirate, so he told us, with a cave now haunted by some ghost.  We started for the shore near ten o’clock, the innkeeper leading us with a lantern, its light flickering in a west wind.  The sky was cloudy, the night dark.  Our host lent us the lantern, kindly offering to build a bonfire on the beach at eleven, to light us home.

“Careful, boys,” said the innkeeper, as we got aboard.  “Aim straight fer th’ head o’ th’ island, Can’t ye see it-right over yer heads there?  ’Member, they ’s awful rough water below.”

We pushed off, D’ri leading.  I could see nothing of the island, but D’ri had better eyes, and kept calling me as he went ahead.  After a few strokes of the paddle I could see on the dark sky the darker mass of tree-tops.

“Better light up,” I suggested.  We were now close in.

“Hush!” he hissed.  Then, as I came up to him, he went on, whispering:  “‘T ain’t bes’ t’ mek no noise here.  Don’ know none tew much ‘bout this here business.  Don’ cal’late we ‘re goin’ t’ hev any trouble, but if we dew-Hark!”

We had both heard a stir in the bushes, and stuck our paddles in the sand, listening.  After a little silence I heard D’ri get up and step stealthily into the water and buckle on his sword.  Then I could hear him sinking the canoe and shoving her anchor deep into the sand.  He did it with no noise that, fifty feet away, could have been distinguished from that of the ever-murmuring waters.  In a moment he came and held my canoe, while I also took up my trusty blade, stepping out of the canoe into the shallow water.  Then he shoved her off a little, and sank her beside the other.  I knew not his purpose, and made no question of it, following him as he strode the shore with measured paces, the lantern upon his arm.  Then presently he stuck his paddle into the bushes, and mine beside it.  We were near the head of the island, walking on a reedy strip of soft earth at the river margin.  After a few paces we halted to listen, but heard only the voice of the water and the murmur of pines.  Then we pushed through a thicket of small fir trees to where we groped along in utter darkness among the big tree trunks on a muffle-footing.  After a moment or so we got a spray of light.  We halted, peering at the glow that now sprinkled out through many a pinhole aperture in a fairy lattice of pine needles.

My heart was beating loudly, for there was the promised lantern.  Was I not soon to see the brighter light of those dear faces?  It was all the kind of thing I enjoyed then,-the atmosphere of peril and romance,-wild youth that I was.  It is a pity, God knows, I had so little consideration for old D’ri; but he loved me, and-well, he himself had some pleasure in excitement.

We halted for only a moment, pushing boldly through a thicket of young pines into the light.  A lantern hung on the bough of a tall tree, and beneath it was a wide opening well carpeted with moss and needles.  We peered off into the gloom, but saw nothing.

D’ri blew out a thoughtful breath, looking up into the air coolly, as he filled his pipe.

“Consarned if ever I wanted t’ have a smoke s’ bad ’n all my born days,” he remarked.

Then he moved his holster, turned his scabbard, and sat down quietly, puffing his pipe with some look of weariness and reflection.  We were sitting there less than five minutes when we heard a footfall near by; then suddenly two men strode up to us in the dim light.  I recognized at once the easy step, the long, lithe figure, of his Lordship in the dress of a citizen, saving sword and pistols.

“Ah, good evening, gentlemen,” said he, quietly.  “How are you?”

“Better than-than when we saw you last,” I answered.

D’ri had not moved; he looked up at me with a sympathetic smile.

“I presume,” said his Lordship, in that familiar, lazy tone, as he lighted a cigar, “there was-ah-good room for improvement, was there not?”

“Abundant,” said I, thoughtfully.  “You were not in the best of health yourself that evening.”

“True,” said he; “I-I was in bad fettle and worse luck.”

“How are the ladies?”

“Quite well,” said he, blowing a long puff.

“Ready to deliver them?” I inquired.

“Presently,” said he.  “There are-some formalities.”

“Which are ?” I added quickly.

“A trifle of expenses and a condition,” said he, lazily.

“How much, and what?” I inquired, as D’ri turned his ear.

“One thousand pounds,” said his Lordship, quickly.  “Not a penny more than this matter has cost me and his Majesty.”

“What else?” said I.

“This man,” he answered calmly, with a little gesture aimed at D’ri.

My friend rose, struck his palm with the pipe-bowl, and put up his knife.

“Ef ye’re goin’ t’ tek me,” said he, “better begin right off, er ye won’t hev time ’fore breakfust.”

Then he clapped the moose-horn to his lips and blew a mighty blast.  It made the two men jump and set the near thicket reeling.  The weird barytone went off moaning in the far wastes of timber.  Its rush of echoes had begun.  I put my hand to my sabre, for there in the edge of the gloom I saw a thing that stirred me to the marrow.  The low firs were moving toward us, root and branch, their twigs falling.  Gods of war! it made my hair stand for a jiffy to see the very brush take feet and legs.  On sea or land I never saw a thing that gave me so odd a feeling.  We stood for a breath or two, then started back, our sabres flashing; for, as the twigs fell, we saw they had been decorating a squad of the British.  They came on.  I struck at the lantern, but too late, for his Lordship had swung it away.  He stumbled, going to his knees; the lantern hit the earth and went out.  I had seen the squad break, running each way, to surround us.  D’ri grabbed my hand as the dark fell, and we went plunging through the little pines, hitting a man heavily, who fell grunting.  We had begun to hear the rattle of boats, a shouting, and quick steps on the shore.  We crouched a moment.  D’ri blew the moose-horn, pulling me aside with him quickly after the blast.  Lights were now flashing near.  I could see little hope for us, and D’ri, I thought, had gone crazy.  He ran at the oncomers, yelling, “Hey, Rube!” at the top of his lungs.  I lay low in the brush a moment.  They rushed by me, D’ri in the fore with fending sabre.  A tawny hound was running in the lead, his nose down, baying loudly.  Then I saw the truth, and made after them with all the speed of my legs.  They hustled over the ridge, their lights flashing under.  For a jiffy I could see only, here and there, a leaping glow in the tree-tops.  I rushed on, passing one who had tumbled headlong.  The lights below me scattered quickly and stopped.  I heard a great yelling, a roar of muskets, and a clash of swords.  A hush fell on them as I came near, Then I heard a voice that thrilled me.

“Your sword, sir!” it commanded.

“Stop,” said I, sharply, coming near.

There stood my father in the lantern-light, his sword drawn, his gray hair stirring in the breeze.  Before him was my old adversary, his Lordship, sword in hand.  Near by, the squad of British, now surrounded, were giving up their arms.  They had backed to the river’s edge; I could hear it lapping their heels.  His Lordship sneered, looking at the veteran who stood in a gray frock of homespun, for all the world, I fancy, like one of those old yeomen who fought with Cromwell.

“Your sword, sir,” my father repeated.

“Pardon me,” said the young man, with a fascinating coolness of manner, “but I shall have to trouble you-”

He hesitated, feeling his blade.

“How?” said my father.

“To fight for it,” said his Lordship, quietly.

“Surrender-fool!” my father answered.  “You cannot escape.”

“Tut, tut!” said his Lordship.  “I never heard so poor a compliment.  Come in reach, and I shall make you think better of me.”

“Give up your sword.”

“After my life, then my sword,” said he, with a quick thrust.

Before I could take a step, their swords were clashing in deadly combat.  I rushed up to break in upon them, but the air was full of steel, and then my father needed no help.  He was driving his man with fiery vigor.  I had never seen him fight; all I had seen of his power had been mere play.

It was grand to see the old man fighting as if, for a moment, his youth had come back to him.  I knew it could not go far.  His fire would burn out quickly; then the blade of the young Britisher, tireless and quick as I knew it to be, would let his blood before my very eyes.  What to do I knew not.  Again I came up to them; but my father warned me off hotly.  He was fighting with terrific energy.  I swear to you that in half a minute he had broken the sword of his Lordship, who took to the water, swimming for his life.  I leaped in, catching him half over the eddy, where we fought like roadmen, striking in the air and bumping on the bottom.  We were both near drowned when D’ri swam out and gave me his belt-end, hauling us in.

I got to my feet soon.  My father came up to me, and wiped a cut on my forehead.

“Damn you, my boy!” said he.  “Don’t ever interfere with me in a matter of that kind.  You might have been hurt.”

We searched the island, high and low, for the ladies, but with no success.  Then we marched our prisoners to the south channel, where a bateau-the same that brought us help-had been waiting.  One of our men had been shot in the shoulder, another gored in the hip with a bayonet, and we left a young Briton dead on the shore.  We took our prisoners to Paleyville, and locked them overnight in the blockhouse.

The channel was lighted by a big bonfire on the south bank, as we came over.  Its flames went high, and made a great, sloping volcano of light in the darkness.

After the posting of the guard, some gathered about my father and began to cheer him.  It nettled the veteran.  He would take no honor for his defeat of the clever man, claiming the latter had no chance to fight.

“He had no foot-room with the boy one side and D’ri t’ other,” said he.  “I had only to drive him back.”

My father and the innkeeper and D’ri and I sat awhile, smoking, in the warm glow of the bonfire.

“You ’re a long-headed man,” said I, turning to my comrade.

“Kind o’ thought they’d be trouble,” said D’ri.  “So I tuk ’n ast yer father t’ come over hossback with hef a dozen good men.  They got three more et the tavern here, an’ lay off ’n thet air bateau, waitin’ fer the moosecall.  I cal’lated I did n’t want no more slidin’ over there ’n Canady.”

After a little snicker, he added:  “Hed all ’t wus good fer me the las’ time.  ’S a leetle tew swift.”

“Gets rather scary when you see the bushes walk,” I suggested.

“Seen whut wus up ’fore ever they med a move,” said D’ri.  “Them air bushes did n’t look jest es nat’ral es they’d orter.  Bet ye they’re some o’ them bushwhackers o’ Fitzgibbon.  Got loops all over their uniforms, so ye c’u’d stick ’em full o’ boughs.  Jerushy! never see nuthin’ s’ joemightful cur’us ’n all my born days-never.”  He stopped a breath, and then added:  “Could n’t be nuthin’ cur’user ’n thet.”