University of Virginia Library

7. VII.
LACHANE, THE DELIVERER.

But the sacrifice of Guernache brought no peace to the colony.
Our Huguenots were scarcely Christians. They were of a rude,
wild temper, to which the constant civil wars prevailing in France
had brought a prejudicial training. Our chronicler tells us nothing
of their devotions. We hear sometimes that they prayed,
but rather for the benefit of the savages than their own. Their
public religious services were ostentatious ceremonials, designed to
impress the red-men with an idea of their superior faith and worship.
Laudonniere, who writes for them, and was one of their
number, seldom deals in a religious phraseology, which he might
reasonably be expected to have done as one of a people leaving
their homes for the sake of conscience. But there is good reason
to suppose that, with our Huguenots, as in the case of the New
England Puritans, the idea of religion was more properly the idea
of party. It was a struggle for political power that moved the
Dissenters, as well in France as England, quite as much as any
feeling of denial or privation on the score of their religion. This
pretext was made to justify a cause which might have well found
its sanction in its intrinsic merits; but which it was deemed politic
to urge on the higher grounds of conscience and duty to God.

Certain it is that we do not anywhere see, in the history of the
colony established by Coligny, any proofs of that strong devotional
sentiment which has been urged as the motive to its establishment.
Doubtless, this was a prevailing motive, along with
others, for Coligny himself; but the adventurers chosen to begin
the settlement for the reception of the persecuted sect in Florida,
were evidently not very deeply imbued with religion of any kind.
They were a wild and reckless body of men, whose deeds were
wholly in conflict with the pure and lovely profession of sentiment
which has been made in their behalf. How far their deeds are to
be justified by the provocations which they received, and the tyrannies
which they endured, may be a question; but there can be
no question with regard to the general temper which they exhibited—the
tone of their minds—the feelings of their hearts—by
all of which they are shown as stubborn, insubordinate and selfish.
It is not denied that they had great provocation to violence; but
Laudonniere himself admits that they were, in all probability,
“not so obedient to their captain as they should have been.”
“Misfortune,” he adds, “or rather the just judgment of God
would have it that those which could not bee overcome by fire nor
water, should be undone by their ownselves. This is the common
fashion of men, which cannot continue in one state, and had
rather to overthrow themselves, than not to attempt some new
thing dayly.”

Not only was no peace in the colony after the execution of
Guernache, but the evil spirit, in the mood of Captain Albert,
was very far from being laid. “His madness,” in the language
of the chronicler, “seemed to increase from day to day.” He
was not content to punish Guernache; he determined to extend
his severities to the friends and associates of the unhappy victim.

Some of these he only frowned upon and threatened; but his
threats were apt to be fulfilled. Others he brought up for
punishment;—sympathy with his enemy, being a prime offence
against the dignity and safety of our petty sovereign. Among
those who had thus rendered themselves obnoxious, Lachane was
necessarily a conspicuous object. In the same unwise and violent
spirit in which he had pursued Guernache, Captain Albert was
determined to proceed against this man, who was really equally
inoffensive with Guernache, and quite as much beloved among
the people. But the aspect of the two cases was not precisely
the same. The friends of Lachane, warned by the fate of Guernache,
were somewhat more upon their guard,—more watchful
and suspicious,—and inclined to make the support and maintenance
of the one, a tribute to the manes of the other. Besides,
Pierre Renaud, who had some how been the deadly enemy of
Guernache, had no hostility to Lachane. The latter, too, had
not so singularly offended the amour propre of Captain Albert,
by his successful rivalry among the damsels of Audusta. They
had not so decidedly shown the preference for him as they had
for the fiddler, over his superior. No doubt he was preferred, for
he, too, like Guernache, was a person very superior in form and
physiognomy to Albert. But, if they felt any preference for the
former, they had not so offensively declared it, as the indiscreet
Monaletta had done; and, with these qualifying circumstances,
in his favor, Lachane was brought up for judgment. His offence,
such as it was, did not admit of denial. Some palliation was
attempted by a reference to the claims of Guernache, the excellence
of his character, his usefulness, and the general favor he
had found equally among the red-men and his own people.
These suggestions were unwisely made. They censured equally
the justice and the policy of the tyrant, and thus irritated anew
his self-esteem. He thought himself exceedingly merciful,
accordingly, in banishing the offender, whom it was just as easy
and quite as agreeable to him, to hang. Lachane was accordingly
sentenced to perpetual exile to a desert island along the sea. To
this point he was conducted in melancholy state, by the trusted
creatures of the despot.

It is not known to us at the present day, though the matter is
still, probably, within the province of the antiquarian, to which of
the numerous sea islands of the neighborhood the unhappy man
was banished. It was one divided from the colony, and from the
main, by an arm of the sea of such breadth, and so open to the
most violent action of the waves, that any return of the exile by
swimming, or without assistance from his comrades, was not apprehended
or hoped for. His little desolate domain is described
as about three leagues from Fort Charles, as almost entirely barren,
a mere realm of sand, treeless and herbless, without foliage
sufficient to shelter from sun and storm, or to provide against famine
by its fruits. Should this island ever be identified with
that of Lachane's place of exile, it should receive his name to
the exclusion of every other.

Here, then, hopeless and companionless, was the unhappy victim
destined to remain, until death should bring him that escape
which the mercy of his fellows had denied. Yet he was not to
be abandoned wholly; a certain pittance of provisions was allowed
him that he might not absolutely die of famine. This allowance
was calculated nicely against his merest necessities. It was to be
brought him on the return of every eighth day, and this period
was that, accordingly, on which, alone, could he be permitted to
gaze upon the face of a fellow being and a countryman.

Certainly, a more cruel punishment, adopted in a mere wanton
exercise of despotic power, could not have been devised for
any victim by the ingenuity of any superior. Death, even the
death by which Guernache had perished, had been a doom more
merciful; for if, as was the case, the colonists at Fort Charles
themselves had already begun to find their condition of solitude
almost beyond endurance—if they, living as they did together,
cheered by the exercise of old sports and homely converse, the
ties and assurances of support and friendship, the consciousness
of strength—duties which were necessary and not irksome, and
the interchange of thoughts which enliven the desponding temper;—if,
with all these resources in their favor, they had sunk
into gloomy discontent, eager for change, and anxious for the returning
vessels of Ribault, that they might abandon for their old,
the new home which they found so desolate; what must have
been the sufferings and agonies of him whom they had thus banished,
even from such solace as they themselves possessed—uncheered
even by the familiar faces and the well-known voices of
his fellows, and deprived of all the resources whereby ingenuity
might devise some methods of relief, and totally unblessed by any
of those exercises which might furnish a substitute for habitual
employments. No sentence, more than this, could have shown
to our Frenchmen so completely the utter absence of sympathy
between themselves and their commander; could have shown how
slight was the value which he put upon their lives, and with what
utter contempt he regarded their feelings and affections. Albert
little dreamed how actively he was at work, while thus feeding his
morbid passions, in arousing the avenging spirit by which they
were to be scourged and punished.

These rash and cruel proceedings of their chief produced a

great and active sensation among the colonists—a sensation not
the less deep and active, because a sense of their own danger kept
them from its open expression. Had Albert pardoned Lachane,
or let him off with some slight punishment, it is not improbable
that the matter would have ended there; and the cruel proceedings
against Guernache might have been forgiven if not forgotten.
But these were kept alive by those which followed against their
other favorite; and some of the boldest, feeling how desperate
their condition threatened to become, now ventured to expostulate
with their superior upon his wanton and unwise severities.
But they were confounded to find that they themselves incurred
the danger of Lachane, in the attempt to plead against it. It
was one of the miserable weaknesses in the character of Captain
Albert, to suppose his authority in danger whenever he was approached
with the language of expostulation. To question his
justice seemed to him to defy his power—to entreat for mercy,
such a showing of hostility as to demand punishment also. He
resented, as an impertinence to himself, all such approaches; and
his answer to the prayers of his people was couched in the language
of contumely and threat. They retired from his presence
accordingly, with feelings of increased dislike and disgust, and
with a discontent which was the more dangerous as they succeeded
most effectually in controlling its exhibition.

But if such was the state of the relations between Albert and
his people, how much worse did they become, when, at the close of
the first eighth day after the banishment of Lachane, it was discovered
that the orders for providing him with the allowance of food
had been suspended, or countermanded. The captain was silent;
and no one, unless at his bidding, could venture to carry the

poor exile his allotted pittance. The eighth day passed. The
men murmured among themselves, and their murmurs soon encouraged
the utterance of a bolder voice. Nicholas Barré, a
man of great firmness and intelligence, one of their number, at
length presented himself before the captain. He boldly reminded
him of the condition of Lachane, and urged him to hasten his
supplies of food before he perished. But the self-esteem and
consequence of Albert, under provocation, became a sort of madness.
He answered the suggestion with indignity and insult.

“Begone!” he exclaimed, “and trouble me no more with
your complaints. What is it to me if the scoundrel does perish?
I mean that he shall perish! He deserves his fate! I shall be
glad when ye can tell me that he no longer needs his allowance.
Away! you deserve a like punishment. Let me hear another
word on this subject, and the offender shall share his fate!”

The insulting answer was accompanied by all the tokens
of brute anger and severity. The most furious oaths sufficed
equally to show his insanity and earnestness. His, indeed,
was now an insanity such as seizes usually upon those
whom God is preparing for destruction. Barré deemed it only
prudent to retire from the presence of a rage which it was no
longer politic to provoke; but, in his soul, the purpose was
already taking form and strength, which contemplated resistance
to a tyranny so wild and reckless. He was not alone in this
purpose. The sentiment of resistance and disaffection was
growing all around him, and it only needed one who should
embody it for successful exercise. But, for this, time was requisite.
To decide for action, on the part of a conspiracy, it is
first required that what is the common sentiment shall become
the common necessity.

“Meanwhile,” said Barré, “our poor comrade must not
starve!”

This was said to certain of his associates when they met that
night in secret. When two or three get together to complain of
a tyranny, resistance is already begun. They echoed his sentiments,
and arrangements were at once made for transmitting provisions
to the exile. A canoe was procured for this purpose,
and Barré, with one other comrade, set forth secretly at mid-night
on their generous and perilous mission.

The night was calm and beautiful—the sea, unruffled by a
breeze, lay smooth as a mirror between the lonely island and the
main. Though barren, and without shrub or tree, the island
looked lovely also—a very realm of faery, in the silver smiling
of the moon. With active and sinewy limbs, cheered by the
sight, our adventurous comrades pulled towards it, reaching it
with little effort, the current favoring their course. What, however,
was their surprise and consternation, when, on reaching the
islet, there was no answer to their summons. Drawing their
boat upon the shore, they soon compassed the little empire with
hasty footsteps; but they found nothing of the exile. The islet
lay bare and bright in the unshadowed moonlight, so that, whether
asleep or dead, his prostrate form must still have been
perceptible. What bewildering imaginations seized upon the
seekers? What had become of their comrade? Had he been
carried off by the savages, by a foreign vessel, or, in his desperation,
had he cast himself into the devouring sea? What
more probable? Yet, as there was no answer to their questioning,
there was no solution of their doubts. Hopeless of his fate,
after a frequent and a weary search, and dreading the worst, they
re-entered their canoe, and re-crossed the bay in safety—their

hearts more than ever filled with disgust and indignation at the
cruelty and malice of their commander.

But their quest was not wholly hopeless. When they had
reached the main, and while approaching the garrison, they were
greatly surprised by the sudden appearance of a human form
between the fortress and the river. They remembered the poor
Guernache, and, for a moment, a fearful superstition fastened
upon their hearts. At first, the fugitive seemed to be approaching
them; but, in an instant, wheeling about, as if in panic, he
darted into the woods, and sought concealment in the thicket.
This re-inspired them. They gave chase instantly. The efforts
of the pursued were feebly made, and they soon overtook him.
To their great relief and surprise, they found him to be the person
they had been seeking—the banished and half-starved Lachane!

His story was soon told. He was nearly perished of hunger.
Beyond the crude berries and bitter roots which he had gathered
in the woods, he had not eaten for three days. The food which
had been furnished him from the garrison had been partly carried
from him by birds or beasts—he knew not which—while he
slept; and,in the failure of his promised supplies,he had become
desperate.

“For that matter,” said the wretched exile, “I had become
desperate before. Food was not my only or my chief want. I
wanted shade from the desolating sun. I wanted rescue from
the heavy hand of fire upon my brain; and, by day, I could
scarcely keep from quenching the furnace that seemed boiling in
my blood, by plunging deep down into the bowels of the sea. By
night, when the fiery feeling passed away, then I yearned, above
all, for the face and voice of man. It was this craving which

made me resolve to brave the death which threatened me whichever
way I turned—that, if I perished, it should still be in the
struggle once more to behold the people of my love.”

How closely did they press the poor fellow to their hearts!

“You should not have perished,” said Nicholas Barré, boldly.
“I, for one, have become tired of this tyranny, under which we
no longer breathe in safety. I am resolved to bear it no longer
than I can. There are others who have resolved like me. But
of this hereafter. Tell us, Lachane, how you contrived to swim
across this great stretch of sea?”

“By the mercy of God which made me desperate—which
made the seas calm—which gave me a favoring current, and
which threw you fragment of a ship's spar within my reach.
But I nearly sunk. Twice did I feel the waters going over me;
but I thought of France, and all, and the strength came back to
me. I can say no more. I am weak—very weak. Give me to
eat.”

A flask of generous wine with which they had provided themselves,
cheered and inspirited the sufferer. They laid him down
at the foot of a broad palmetto, while one of them brought
food from the canoe. Much it rejoiced them to see him eat.
Ere he had satisfied his hunger, Lachane spoke again as follows:

“I rejoice to hear that you, and others, have resolved to submit
no longer to this tyranny. It was not the desire of food, or
friendship, only, that strengthened me to throw myself into the
sea, in the desperate desire to see the garrison once more. But
while my head flamed beneath the sun's downward blaze upon that
waste of sand, while mine eyes burned like living coals fresh from
the furnace, and my blood leaped and bounded like a mad thing
about my temples and in all my veins, I saw all the terrible sufferings

of our poor Guernache anew. I heard his voice—his bitter
reproaches—and then the terrible scream of the poor Indian woman
when the heavy rods descended upon her shoulder. Then I
felt that I had not done what my soul commanded!—that I had
abandoned my innocent comrade like a lamb to the butcher. I
swore to do myself justice—to seek the garrison at Fort Charles,
if, for no other purpose, to have revenge upon Albert. I verily
believe, mes amis, that it was that oath that strengthened me in
the sea—that lifted me when the waves went over me, and my
heart was sinking with my body. I thought of the blows which
might yet be struck for vengeance and freedom. I thought of
Guernache and his murderer,—and I rose,—I struck out. I had
no fear! I got a strength which I had not at the beginning;
and I am here; the merciful God be praised forever more—
ready to strike a fair blow at the tyrant, though I die the moment
after!”

“That blow must now be struck very soon,” said Nicholas
Barré. “We are no longer safe. Albert rules us just as it
pleases him, by his mere humor, and not according to the laws or
usages of France. Every day witnesses against him. Some new
tyranny—some new cruelty—adds hourly to our afflictions, and
makes life, on such terms, endurable no longer. We are not men
if we submit to it.”

“Hear me,” said Lachane; “you have not laid the plan for
his overthrow?”

“Not yet! But we are ready for it. All's ripe. The proper
spirit is at work.”

“Let it work! All right; but look you, comrades, it is for
this hand to strike the blow. I demand the right, because Guernache

was my closest friend. I demand it in compensation for
my own sufferings.”

“It is yours, Lachane! You have the right!”

“Thanks, mes amis! And now for the plan. You have resolved
on none yourselves. Hearken to mine.”

They lent willing ears, and Lachane continued. His counsel
was that Captain Albert should be advised of an unusual multitude
of deer on one of the “hunting islands” in the neighborhood.
These islands are remarkable—some of them—for the
luxuriance and beauty of their forests. Here, the deer were
accustomed to assemble in great numbers, particularly when
pressed by clouds of Indian hunters along the main; nor were
they loth to visit them at other seasons, when the tides were low
and the seas smooth. Swimming across the dividing rivers, and
arms of the sea, at such periods, in little groups of five or ten,
they found here an almost certain refuge and favorite browsing
patches. To one of these islands, Barré, or some other less objectionable
person, was to beguile Captain Albert. His fondness
for the chase was known, and was gratified on all convenient
occasions. He was to be advised of numerous herds upon the
island, which passed to it the night before. They had been seen
crossing in the moonlight from the main. Lachane, meanwhile,
possessing himself of the canoe which his friends had just employed,
armed with weapons which they were to provide, was to
place himself in a convenient shelter upon the island, and take
such a position as would enable him to seize upon the first safe
opportunity for striking the blow. Numerous details, not necessary
for our purpose, but essential to that of the conspirators,
were suggested, discussed, and finally agreed upon, or rejected.
Lachane simply concluded with repeating his demand for the

privilege of the first blow—a claim farther insisted upon, as, in
the event of failure, he who had already incurred the doom of
outlawry, and had offended against hope, might thus save others
harmless, who occupied a position of greater security. We need
not follow the arrangement of the parties. Enough, that, when
they were discussed fully, the three separated—Barré and his
companion to regain the fort, and Lachane to embark in the
canoe, ere day should dawn, for the destined islet where he was
equally to find security and vengeance.

Everything succeeded to the wishes of the conspirators. Albert,
who was passionately fond of the chase, was easily persuaded by
the representations of Barré and his comrades. The pinnace
was fitted out at an early hour, and, attended by the two conspirators,
and some half dozen other persons, the greater number
of whom were supposed to be as hostile to the tyrant as themselves,
the Captain set forth, little dreaming that he should be
the hunted instead of the hunter. Pierre Renaud, by whom he
was also accompanied, was the only person of the party upon
whom he could rely. But neither his creature nor himself had
the slightest apprehension of the danger. The jealousies of the
despot seemed for the moment entirely at rest, and, as if in the
exercise of a pleasant novelty, Albert threw aside all the terrors
of his authority. He could jest when the fit was on him. He,
too, had his moments of play; a sort of feline faculty, in the
exercise of which the cat and the tiger seem positively amiable.
His jests were echoed by his men, and their laughter gratified
him. But there was one exception to the general mirth, which
arrested his attention. Nicholas Barré alone preserved a stern,
unbroken composure, which the gay humor of his superior failed
entirely to overcome. Nothing so much vexes superiority as

that it should condescend in vain; and the silence and coldness
of Barré, and the utter insensibility with which he heard the
good things of his captain, and which occasioned the ready
laughter of all the rest, finally extorted a comment from Albert,
which gave full utterance to his spleen.

“By my life, Lieutenant Barré,”—such was the rank of this
conspirator—“but that I know thee better, I should hold thee to
be one of those unhappy wretches to whom all merriment is a
hateful thing—to whom a clever jest gives offence only, and
whom a cheerful laugh sends off sullenly to bed. Pray, if it
be not too serious a humor, tell us the cause of thy present
dullness.”

“Verily, Captain Albert,” replied the person addressed, fixing
his eyes steadily upon him, and speaking in the most deliberate
accents, “I was thinking of the deer that we shall strike to-day.
Doubtless, he is even now making as merry as thyself among his
comrades—little dreaming that the hunter hath his thoughts
already fixed upon the choice morsels of his flanks, which, a few
hours hence, shall be smoking above the fire. Truly, are we but
little wiser than the thoughtless deer. The merriest of us may
be struck as soon. The man hath as few securities from the
morrow as the beast that runs.”

Captain Albert was not the most sagacious tyrant in the world,
or the moral reflections of our conspirator might have tended to
his disquiet. He saw no peculiar significance in the remark,
though the matter of it was all well remembered, when the subsequent
events came to be known. Little, indeed, did the victim
then dream of the fate which lay in wait for him. He laughed
at the shallow reflection of Barré, which seemed so equally mistimed
and unmeaning, and his merriment increased with every

stroke of the oar which sent the pinnace towards the scene chosen
for the tragedy. All his severities were thrown aside; never had
he shown himself more gracious; and, though his good humor
was rather the condescension of one who is secure in his authority,
and can resume his functions at any moment, than the proof of
any sympathy with his comrades, yet he seemed willing for once
that it should not lose any of its pleasant quality by any frequent
exhibition of his usual caprice. But for an occasional sarcasm
in which he sometimes indulged, and by which he continued to
keep alive the antipathies of the conspirators, the gentler mood
in which he now suffered them to behold him, might have rendered
them reluctant to prosecute their purpose. They might have
relented, even at the last moment, had they been prepared to
believe that his present good humor was the fruit of any sincere
relentings in him. But he did not succeed to this extent, and,
with a single significant look to his comrades, the stern Nicholas
Barré showed to them that he, at least, was firm in the secret
purpose which they had in view. His silence and gravity for a
time served to amuse his superior, who exercised his wit at the
expense of the sullen soldier, little dreaming, all the while, at
what a price he should be required to pay for his temporary
indulgence. But as Barré continued in his mood, the pride of
the haughty superior was at length hurt; and, when they reached
the shore, the insolence of Albert had resumed much of its old
ascendancy.

Albert was the first to spring to land. He was impatient to
begin the chase, of which he was passionately fond. The sport,
as conducted in that day and region, was after a very simple
fashion. It consisted rather in a judicious distribution of the
hunters, at various places of watch, than in the possession of any

particular skill of weapon or speed of foot. The island was
small—the woods not very dense or intricate, and the only outlet
of escape was across the little arm of the sea which separated
the island from the main. The hunters were required to watch
this passage, with a few other avenues from the forest. We need
not observe their order or arrangement. It will be enough to
note that Barré chose as the sentinel left in charge of the boat
one of the firmest of the conspirators. This was a person named
Lamotte—a small but fiery spirit—a man of equal passion and
vindictiveness, who had suffered frequent indignities from Albert,
which his own inferior position as a common soldier had compelled
him to endure without complaint. But he was not the less sensible
of his hurts, because not suffered to complain of them; and
his hatred only assumed a more intense and unforgiving character,
because it seemed cut off from all the outlets to revenge.

The arrangements of the hunters all completed, they began to
skirt slowly the woody region by which the centre of the island
was chiefly occupied. Gradually separating as they advanced,
they finally, one by one, found their way into its recesses. A
single dog which they carried with them, was now unleashed, and
his eager tongue very soon gave notice to the hunters that their
victim was afoot. As the bay of the hound became more
frequent, the blood of Albert became more and more excited,
and, pressing forward, in advance of all his companions, the
sinuosities of the route pursued soon scattered the whole party.
But this he did not heed. The one consciousness,—that which
appealed to his love of sport,—led to a forgetfulness of all others;
and it was no disquiet to our captain to find himself alone in
forests where he had never trod before, particularly when his
eager eye caught a glimpse of a fine herd of the sleek-skinned

foresters, well-limbed, and nobly-headed, darting suddenly from
cover into the occasional openings before him. A good shot was
Captain Albert. He fired, and had the joy to see tumbled, headlong,
sprawling, in his tracks, one of the largest bucks of the
herd. He shouted his delight aloud;—shouted twice and clapped
his hands!

His shouts were echoed, near at hand, by a voice at once
strange and familiar! His instinct divined a sudden danger in
this strange echo. He stopped short, even as he was about to
bound forward to the spot in which the deer had fallen. Another
shout!—but this was to his companions! He was now confounded
at the new echo and the fearful vision which this summons
conjured up. At his side, and in his very ears, rose another
shout—a shriek rather—much louder than his own—a wild, indescribable
yell,—which sent a thrill of horror through his soul.
At the same instant, a gaunt, wild man—a half-naked, half-famished
form—darted from the thicket and stood directly before
him in his path!

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” howled the stranger.

“Guernache!” was the single word, forced from the guilty
soul of the criminal!

“Guernache! Yes! Guernache, in his friend Lachane!
Both are here! See you not? Look! Ho! Captain Albert,—
look and see, and make yourself ready. Your time is short.
You will hang and banish no longer!”

Wild with exulting fury was the face of the speaker—terrible
the language of his eyes—threatening the action of the uplifted
arm. A keen blade flashed in his grasp, and the discovery which
Albert made, that, in the wild man before him, he saw the person
whom he had so wantonly and cruelly decreed to perish, sufficed

to make him nerveless. The surprise deprived him of resource,
while his guilty conscience enfeebled his arm, and took all courage
from his soul. His match-lock was already discharged. The
couteau de chasse was at his side; but, before this could be drawn,
he must be hewn down by the already uplifted weapon of his foe.
Besides, even if drawn, what could he hope, by its employment,
against the superior muscle and vigor of Lachane? These
thoughts passed with a lightning-like rapidity through the brain
of Albert. He felt that he had met his fate! He shrunk back
from its encounter, and sent up a feeble but a painful cry for his
creature,—“Pierre Renaud!”

“Ha! ha! you cry for him in vain!” was the mocking answer
of Lachane. “Renaud, that miserable villain—that wretch
after thy own heart and fashion—hath quite as much need of
thee as thou of him! Ye will serve each other never more to the
prejudice of better men. Hark! hear you not? Even now
they are dealing with him!”

And, sure enough, even as he spoke, the screams of one in
mortal terror, interrupted by several heavy blows in quick succession,
seemed to confirm the truth of what Lachane had spoken.
In that fearful moment Albert remembered the words, now full of
meaning, which Nicholas Barré had spoken while they set forth.
The hunter had indeed become the hunted. Lachane gave him
little time for meditation.

“They have done with him! Prepare! To your knees, Captain
Albert! I give you time to make your peace with God—
such time as you gave my poor Guernache! Prepare!”

But, though Albert had not courage for combat, he yet found
strength enough for flight. He was slight of form, small, and
tolerably swift of foot. Flinging his now useless firelock to the

ground, he suddenly darted off through the forests, with a degree
of energy and spirit which it tasked all the efforts of the less
wieldy frame of Lachane to approach. Life and death were on
the event, and Albert succeeded in gaining the beach where the
boat had been left before he was overtaken. But Lamotte, to
whom the boat had been given in charge, pushed off, with a
mocking yell of laughter, at his approach! His cries for succor
were unheeded. Lamotte himself would have slain the fugitive
but that he knew Lachane had claimed for himself this privilege.
His spear had been uplifted as Albert drew nigh the water, but
the shout of Lachane, emerging from the woods, warned him to
desist. He used the weapon to push the pinnace into deep water,
leaving Albert to his fate!

“Save me, Lamotte!” was the prayer, of the tyrant in his
desperation, urged with every promise that he fancied might prove
potent with the soldier. But few moments were allowed him for
entreaty, and they were unavailing. Lamotte contented himself
with looking on the event, ready to finish with his spear what
Lachane might leave undone. Albert gazed around him, and as
Lachane came, with one shriek of terror, darted into the sea.
The avenger was close behind him. The water rose to the waist
and finally to the neck of the fugitive. He turned in supplication,
only to receive the stroke. The steel entered his shoulder,
just below the neck. He staggered and fell forwards upon the
slayer. The blade snapped in the fall, and the wounded man
sunk down irretrievably beneath the waters. Lachane raised the
fragment of his sword to Heaven, while, with something of a
Roman fervor, he ejaculated—

“Guernache! dear friend, behold! the hand of Lachane hath
avenged thee upon thy murderer!”