University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE PURSUIT.

When the travellers awoke, which very considerately
they did when their presence had become
necessary to the further progress of our tale, it was
already dawn, and they found, on inquiring of their
guide, that they had come six leagues, and that
the point at which they were to cross the river was
but a mile before them. The morning was clear
and cold, and the prospect that met their eyes everywhere
dreary; but its desolation was increased by
the earliness of the hour, the leafless forests, and
the wide wastes of snow: the Chaudiere, which
formed a prominent feature in the scenery, was
only distinguishable from the land by its more
even appearance and destitution of trees.

“Had we not best lighten the carriole by crossing
the stream on foot?” inquired the young officer
of Ohguesse, when at length the guide turned from
the main road, and began to approach the river in a
direct line.

“Eh! um ground strong, so um ice strong,” replied
the phlegmatic Indian, his swarthy features,
now visible by the daylight, as unmoved as those
of an automaton.

He drew up his horses on the verge of the
frozen river, leaped lightly to the ground, and, advancing
to his leader's head, prepared to lead him
upon the ice. Before he left the carriole he had
disencumbered himself of his outward covering of

furs, and his person and form became plainly visible
to the monk, who was struck with his remarkably
agile and athletic appearance. He was full
six feet in height, straight as an arrow, and very
slender, possessing just such a figure as, in civilized
life, would be termed genteel. His cheeks
were attenuated, and his features regular, but too
harsh to be handsome. A pair of black eyes glittered
beneath his arched brows with an active,
restless expression, and alone gave intelligence to
a countenance the chief expression of which was
that settled melancholy peculiar to his race. His
face bore more of the traits of the Andalusian
peasant than of the American Indian; although the
well-known characteristics of this singular race of
men were too indelibly stamped upon his physiognomy
for his aboriginal birthright to be called in
question. His taciturnity evidently did not proceed
from intellectual dulness—for his quick and sagacious
eyes seemed to observe and comprehend
everything passing around him—but rather from
that peculiar feature of education which teaches the
Indian warrior that dignity and courage are slow of
speech and of few words; or, as it is expressed in
their own figurative language, “the warrior talks
with his arm and eye, but women and birds are
known by their voices.”

“Why are you so silent, Ohguesse?” asked the
monk, looking sternly in his face, after having
twice suggested the expediency of taking the
horses from the carriole and dragging it over the
river, and receiving no other reply than the interjectional
“Eh!” “Eh is not to get us out of the
river if we once get into it, Ohguesse. Why do
you not answer?”

“Eagle only scream when he strike um game:
jackdaw never strike um game—scream all time!

Ohguesse, eagle! monk, jackdaw! Ohguesse no
priest.”

“A most sound and potent conclusion, I must
confess, and, withal, a very complimentary reply
to your fellow-travellers,” said the monk, as he
got out to try the strength of the ice. After sounding
it in several places, he added, in a peremptory
tone,

“Lead the horses and carriole over, Ohguesse,
and wait on the opposite shore: we will walk.”

He glanced at the carriole and its pile of furs,
beneath which neither foot nor hand was visible,
and then advancing to the sleigh, said,

“Will you cross with me on foot, fair Eugenie?
I fear to trust too much weight in the carriole.”

“Willingly,” she said, exposing, for the first time
since their departure from the convent, her face to
the gaze of the young soldier.

As she encountered his dark eyes, her cheeks
were suffused with conscious blushes; and as he
advanced to assist her to alight, and extended both
arms for the purpose, she said, laughingly,

“No, no, not in your arms, fair sir; I have feet,
and can use them.”

“They are very little ones, Eugenie, and will
not support you through the deep snow. I can
take you over as easily as a nurse would carry an
infant.”

“Art so good a nurse, brother? Really I had
not believed it if your own lips had not assured me
of it. What, piqued again! Nay, then, I will be as
sober and as sinless of any approaches to playfulness
as Nun Ursule herself.”

“Eh! horse ready!” grunted Ohguesse, lightly
springing into the carriole, and starting the horses
forward so suddenly at the same time that the monk,
who was standing on the runner, was compelled to

remain with Eugenie, and share the fate of horse
and carriole.

With great velocity—Ohguesse standing the
while upon his seat, and urging the horses forward
by blows and cries—the sleigh glided over the
frozen river until it had nearly reached the middle
of it, when, all at once, the leader was ingulfed,
and nearly dragged the shaft horse after him; but
the Indian checked him on the very verge of the
chasm, by throwing him back on his haunches with
a sudden and tremendous exertion of physical power.
At the same instant he leaped on the ice, and
cast a lasso or running noose, always carried by
carriolers for such emergencies, over the drowning
horse's head, and tightened it until he ceased to
breathe. The animal, which till then had been
kicking and struggling violently, to the great danger
of his companion and the increase of his own
peril, now became motionless, as if dead: floating
to the surface from the buoyancy caused by this
summary mode of strangulation, he was drawn out
by main force from the air-vent into which he had
broken, and laid upon the solid ice. Ohguesse then
very deliberately loosed the rope from his neck, and
the little horse began to respire, at first with great
difficulty; but in a few minutes he rose to his
feet, apparently—saving a little, fright and a cool
ablution, to which, however, the Canadian horses
of any experience are accustomed—as lively and
in as good travelling condition as before. The
sinking of the horse; the skilful checking of the
carriole; the application of the noose, and the rescue
of the animal, all passed so quickly, that the
monk had neither time to comprehend the extent
of their danger, nor leap from the sleigh with Eugenie
in his arms, or offer his assistance to the

active and experienced Indian, before it was no
longer required.

This singular and, to him, novel operation was
beheld by the traveller with surprise. Ohguesse
observing it, said quietly, as he signed to them to
take their seats again in the carriole,

“Choke him—save um life!”

Eugenie declined getting into the vehicle again;
and the monk, bidding Ohguesse drive forward to
the bank, aided the footsteps of his lovely charge,
who neither by shriek nor word betrayed alarm
during the imminent danger she had been in, and
only showed her sex's dependance on the more
lordly being, man, by clinging instinctively to her
companion. He, in his turn, asserted his manly
prerogative by clasping her in his arms, when for
a moment he thought, by the cracking of the ice
around them, that they were all about to be ingulfed
together.

The Indian, resuming his upright attitude on the
front seat of the carriole, first having turned the
leader loose to follow in the track of the vehicle,
guided his remaining horse aside from the chasm,
and, uttering a shrill cry, urged him forward at his
former speed. He had nearly gained the shore in
safety when the travellers, who were slowly following
on foot, beheld him suddenly check the
wild career of his steed, then hesitate for an instant;
the next moment, cheered and encouraged
by a loud and prolonged cry, they saw the horse
leap a fissure several feet wide, formed by the
shelving of the ice where it had been broken
and piled by the current, which at this place flowed
unusually swift; and both uttered an exclamation
of surprise and alarm as the carriole bounded
over the gap after the flying horse, who did not
cease his wild career until he had galloped half
way up the opposite bank of the river.

Hastening forward, and avoiding the fissure by
ascending the stream a few yards, they regained the
carriole, and, under the skilful guidance of Ohguesse,
were once more on their way. Their road
now lay along the banks of the river: the sun had
appeared above the horizon, and the air became
perceptibly milder. Stopping occasionally during
the day at some lonely farmhouse to refresh themselves
and their horses, on which occasions Eugenie
abandoned her clerical disguise, and was
represented by the monk as a novice on her way
to a convent in Quebec, an hour before sunset
they were slowly ascending a hill, from the summit
of which was a distant view of the St. Lawrence,
when Ohguesse, whose restless eyes were
constantly on the alert, uttered his usual exclamation
“Eh!” but now with an accent of surprise.

The lovers were at that moment absorbed in a
low and very interesting conversation, in which
Cupid was doing his best to make execution in
both of their hearts.

“Why will you not answer to the name of
Walter, then?” asked Eugenie, continuing the conversation
to which we have just alluded, but which
it is not necessary to record.

“Because I fear you will think more of that
Norman knight De Lancy than—”

“Yourself! brother,” she said, in a tone of raillery.
“So you have a spice of jealousy in your
composition, I see!”

“I know not if it be jealousy or no,” he said, in
a low tone of tenderness; “but I would rather hear
those sweet lips pronounce my own name.”

“Then tell me that name, mysterious brother of
mine; and if it is a pretty one, and not Peter nor
Paul, Moses nor Aaron, I will, if it so pleases you,
try and teach the lips aforesaid to speak it.”

“Edward; call me Edward.”

“Edward!” she repeated, in a voice of thrilling
sweetness; “Edward! 'tis a sweet name! I think
I shall like it better than Walter.”

“If Edward himself,” he said, in a voice half
serious, “be as dear to Eugenie as the memory
of Walter, then—”

Here the lover's speech, which doubtless would
have been a model for all future lovers on such
occasions, was interrupted by the guttural ejaculation
of Gun, who, at the same time, indicated with
his finger the objects that had broken his habitual
taciturnity.

“What do you see, Ohguesse?” he asked.

“One, two, four men! horse much break um
down. No come yet, by-um-by.”

The monk, comprehending the Indian's meaning
rather by the direction of his finger and eyes than
by his words, turned and saw on the opposite shore
four horsemen, travelling southward at a slow and
weary pace.

“One of them is the peasant Luc Giles,” said
the monk, surveying them attentively; “I would
recognise his gaunt frame and stoop in the shoulders,
which I particularly noted as he rode off from
the convent, among a thousand. Those are his
mates with him, as he terms them. They are now
returning, Eugenie, as that singular boy, Zacharie,
said they would soon do, crestfallen, and, no doubt,
aware that they have been deceived by the lad's
address.”

“See!” exclaimed Eugenie, who became equally
interested with her companion in the motions of
the party, “one of them stops and points towards
us, and now they are all looking this way.”

There were visible certain signs among the
party which convinced the monk that the carriole

had not only attracted their notice, but had become
an interesting object of attention.

“They will pursue us!” exclaimed Eugenie.
“One of them has already dismounted, and is descending
the bank to the ice. See! another tries
in vain to urge his horse down the precipice, and
also dismounts! Blessed Virgin protect us! How
can you resist, Edward, at such a disadvantage?”
she added, observing him bring his pistols round to
the ready grasp of his hand; “oh, do not think of
resisting. Hasten, Ohguesse, and get up this long
and tedious hill! We may yet gain the top before
they can reach us on foot.”

“Be not alarmed, dear Eugenie,” said the young
officer, pressing her hand, which she had unconsciously,
in the anxiety of her feelings, placed in
his; “Ohguesse, who will no doubt prove himself
a serviceable gun on this occasion, this brace of
pistols, and myself, will make our numbers equal.
Ha! one of them is already on the ice.”

“If that be their leader, Edward, who is foremost,
and, from his size and clamour, I take it to be
him you call Luc Giles, he is not seconded by his
men, who point to their horses, and seem to plead
their broken-down condition. Marie! Heaven be
thanked!” she suddenly ejaculated, yet instantly
crossing herself for uttering an exclamation of joy
at the event she beheld.

The individual to whom she alluded, and who
was, indeed, Luc Giles himself, not being able to
make his own horse leave the road to take to the
river, had gone back, after trying the strength of
the ice, and mounted one of those belonging to his
companions. Forcing him by dint of spurring,
much swearing, and a shower of blows, upon the
ice, he was galloping across the river alone, when,
all at once, horse and rider sunk before the eyes of

the pursued, and drew from Eugenie unconsciously
the exclamation of gratitude she had uttered.

“Hola, Ohguesse,” cried the monk, “we must
not let him perish!”

He sprung from the carriole as he spoke, and
with youthful ardour and impetuosity would have
hastened to the aid of his pursuer, when he beheld
the companions of the horseman running with loud
cries to his rescue: he detained the carriole on
the brow of the hill, which they had now gained,
long enough to see them drag the drowning man
from the water, although with the loss of his horse.
Congratulating Eugenie on their escape, he pointed
out to her the St. Lawrence far to the north, glittering
in the beams of the setting sun like a belt of
silver, and then ordered Ohguesse to drive forward
with the best speed his horses could exert.

As the night gathered around them, the wind,
which had been light during the day, increased in
violence, drifting the fine particles of snow (by the
habitans termed la poudre) into their faces, the
intensely frozen crystals inflicting extreme pain
whenever they came in contact with the skin.
Frequently it swept past them with the strength
of a hurricane, lifting light clouds of frozen snow
from the surface, along which it was whirled in
wild eddies, and so thickening the atmosphere that
both horses and driver became bewildered and unable
to hold on their way. The night grew dark,
and their path became every moment more uncertain.
The occasional howl of a wolf could be heard
in the forest not far from the road; and the fall of
huge trees, torn up by their roots, crashing and
echoing through the woods, the hooting of scared
owls, and the mingled roar and whistling of the
wind, contributed to the dreariness and gloom of
their situation.

Forgetful of his own comfort, the young soldier
was altogether absorbed in protecting his companion,
and seeking, by every tender and assiduous
attention that love or chivalry could suggest, to
shield her person from the effects of the rude storm,
which, although the skies were cloudless, was more
severe than if accompanied with falling snow. At
length the wind and driving snow became insupportable,
and the intellects of Ohguesse were so
bewildered that he could proceed no farther. Dropping
the reins as the horses, unable to continue in
the road, voluntarily stopped, he said, with his customary
ejaculation,

“Eh! Horse um no go. Ohguesse no see.
Priest sleep in woods by-um-by to-night.”

The traveller, at this announcement, shaded his
eyes from the icy blasts with his hand, and looked
around upon the gloomy forest in which they were
blockaded by the drifts. Satisfied from his survey
that it would be impossible to proceed much farther
unless the wind abated, he was about to communicate
the necessity of halting to his companion, when
the Indian suddenly, and with a degree of animation
he had not before exhibited, said,

“Eh! Ohguesse smell um supper!”

The monk, who could not boast a similar exercise
of the olfactory powers, advised him to go forward,
that being the direction in which his nasal
organ was levelled, and see if any habitation was
near them. Ohguesse, after snuffing up the wind
once or twice, like a hound when he scents his
game, left the carriole, and soon disappeared in
the darkness. In a few moments he returned, and,
without speaking, resumed the reins, and urged
forward the horses by dint of beating. In a short
time, after ascending a slight eminence, their eyes
were gladdened by the glimmer of a light in the

window of a cottage not far before them. The
horses now moved forward with good-will, as if
sharing with the travellers the prospect of food and
shelter. As they approached the dwelling, which
stood near the road, the voices of two or three
children were heard mingling in a song; and, although
the carriole drove close up to the door, it
still continued, as if their own music had drowned
that of the merry sleigh-bells, which otherwise
should have notified them of the approach of
strangers and travellers.

“What a contrast, this cheerfully-lighted cottage
and these happy voices,” said Eugenie, “to our
dreary situation a few minutes ago. But stay,
Edward! Ohguesse, do not interrupt them! Let
us listen to their song before we enter. It is a
familiar one, and recalls days of childhood. You
have no idea, Edward,” she touchingly continued,
“how delightful are the emotions awakened by
this simple Canadian song, after having heard, for
so many months, the monotonous and lugubrious
psalms and holy ballads of the nuns. Listen!
there is welcome in their words.”

Yielding to the wish of Eugenie, the monk paused
at the door, while she leaned on his arm and listened
to the youthful singers, who were aided at
intervals in the higher parts of their hymn by a remarkably
soft female voice:

“Here is indeed welcome,” said the monk, as
the song ceased; “let us enter this abode of happiness
and hospitality.”

Springing from the carriole, he knocked at the
door, which was immediately opened by a pale
and interesting-looking woman, wrapped in a gray
mantelet, and bearing a light in her hand. Without
betraying surprise at their sudden appearance,
like one accustomed to exercise the duties of hospitality
to strangers, she welcomed them with a
quiet smile on her cheerful countenance.

We should delight to draw the picture of domestic
happiness that here offers itself to our pen,
did the limits to which fashion has prescribed the
modern novelist, viz., two volumes duodecimo, allow
him to turn aside to every fountain, wander through
every rural lane, and linger under every shady tree,
that might tempt him from the path it is especially
his business to pursue. But, providentially
for both author and reader, times are changed since
the novel-reading public were content to read an
eight or, peradventure, ten volume novel, such as
the indefatigable Richardson turned from his pen

with merciless celerity. The modern palate, happily,
is contented with two thin volumes, and surfeited
with three. Therefore, although authors
may have matériel floating in their brains sufficient,
if judiciously diffused, for ten or even a round
dozen of duodecimoes, by this improvement in the
tastes of the present generation they are necessitated
to condense, or compress, as it were, their
abundant stock of ideas into the substantial compass
of the aforesaid brace of tomes. This is intimated
lest, to the disparagement of modern novelists,
it might be thought that the cause of this
modification of the public tastes lay in the depreciation
and diminution of current coin of authors'
brains, and not in its true source, the public themselves.

The reception of the travellers was characteristic
of the Canadian peasantry; and they were at
a loss which most to admire, the air of domestic
comfort prevailing within the cottage, the excellence
and abundance of the fare cheerfully spread
before them on a table covered with a snow-white
napkin, or the lightsomeness of heart and unaffected
hospitality of manners displayed by the peasant
and his wife.

The Canadian peasant or habitan—especially is
it true of those who are of French origin—is happily
free from that servility which is the prominent
feature of their class in European states. On the
contrary, he possesses manly freedom of speech
and action, natural ease of manner, buoyancy of
spirits, and a lively and enthusiastic temper. He
is, moreover, proprietor of the soil, cultivating
his own little farm, and enjoying the comforts
of life as the reward of his individual industry.
Religious, intelligent, industrious, and peculiarly
susceptible of an attachment to domestic enjoyments—to

the growth of which virtue the long
Canadian winters, when the hearth becomes their
little world, in a great measure contributes—the
Canadian peasantry afford a striking illustration of
the ennobling power of free institutions when operating
on the interests of such a class of men, elevating
them at once to the rank and dignity in the scale
of society which is their birthright, but from the
exercise of which feudal tyranny, by levelling them
with the brutes, has hitherto alone debarred them.