and gather them together, and do what he likes with them; but I am not without feeling or will: I have both. They think because for a while I have slept in soft beds, and under a ceiled roof, I and walked on thick carpets, and worn silk and lace, that I could no longer find rest on a bed of leaves under God’s free sky; they believe that I will sell myself to slavery, for the vile trash which they worship; but they forget that I have wild Indian blood in my veins, and that the wilderness is my proper home; and they do not know that I left my joy, and hope, and happiness in the wood: and there only can I ever find them again. My spirit is still as free and brave as when I used to sit at night on Scalp Head, with no one near me, and no one’s will shall ever bind me. I tried to submit myself to my father, because Keefe wished it, and because my father loved me, and was good to me; but even he never should have forced me from Keefe. There is but one law shall ever rule over me—the law of love!” and wildly looking up to the bright heaven above her, she exclaimed: “Hear me swear it, moon, and stars, and sky, that have watched over me from childhood, and that I have loved well!”
Pale, impassioned, beautiful with an unearthly beauty, she stood in the moonlight. Denis could have fallen down and worshipped her,—then how could he resist her wish? He was not very wise, he was not very learned; and it seemed to him that he would be doing better in helping to make her and Keefe happy, when no one else could be injured by it, than by leaving her to die of a broken heart among Jesuits and nuns.
“Coral,” he said, “I have no desire on earth but your happiness. What am I to do?”
“Will you help me, Denis? Will you, indeed, help me? Dear, generous friend—brother, I have no one but you to trust in.”
“'Well, Coral, what must I do?”
“See, here is money,” and she held a purse towards him: “my father always gave me plenty, that I might have it to give to the poor. I don’t know how much there is, but enough to take us to Long Arrow. You must hire a canoe and a couple of Indians, and have them ready against to-morrow night; I shall be here at dark, and then we must set off. Every minute will seem an age to me, till we have left this hateful place.”
“There are two Indians now in Quebec who would go with me to the world’s end. I’ll have them and their canoe ready by to-morrow night. But I don’t want the money, Coral; keep it till we get to Long Arrow; it may be of use to you there.”
“No. If you don’t want it, I’ll leave it behind me. I’ll take nothing away with me that I didn’t bring when I came, except this little cross” (and she touched an emerald cross that hung round her neck). “I will keep it in memory of my father, and it will depend on Keefe whether I ever claim anything more out of all he left me.”
Denis understood her meaning. If Keefe loved her as she loved him, when she should be his wife she would claim the property to which she was entitled by her father’s will; if Keefe did not care for her, neither it nor anything else in the world could be of any use to her.
“Well, Coral, do as you like. At eight o’clock to-morrow night I shall be here; but take care that your intention to escape is not suspected.”
“O, yes, I’ll be careful. And now I must hasten back, or I may be missed. You will not fail me, Denis!”
“You know I won’t, Coral.”
“Then farewell till to-morrow night,” and drawing her hood over her face, she sprang from his side, and darted up the street.
The next night, at the appointed time, Denis again stood at the same wharf. The night was as beautiful as the preceding one, the air filled with the same balmy softness, the sky as clear, the stars and moon as large and bright; nature seemed to smile upon their purposed journey; and Denis forgot his own slighted love in the generous and unselfish thoughts which filled his mind.
He had not long to wait.
A figure, almost flying along the shadowy side of the moonlit street, soon met his view, and in a minute Coral stood before him. She carried an Indian basket, containing a few precious trifles, and some clothes which she had brought with her from Long Arrow.
“Is all right?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yes, take hold of my arm, Coral, and come.”
Taking a basket from her, he led her round the shed to the other side of the wharf, where a canoe, containing two Indians, was lying.
With practised agility Coral sprang in; Denis followed, and the next instant the canoe shot away from Quebec.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
One evening, in November, about dark, a canoe, containing four persons, paddled in to the shore at the very spot where, in spring, Keefe Dillon had landed with Helen Lennox and her father, when he had saved them from the wreck. These persons were Denis and Coral, and their Indian boatman. They had gone to Kingston in their canoe, and from thence to Toronto in a schooner; the rest of their voyage they had made in their canoe, and could have landed earlier in the day, but Coral would not go ashore till nightfall. The day had been chill, and cloudy, threatening rain, and towards evening a dark mist had gathered in the west, but it had not yet begun to fall. There was a moon, though a clouded one, so that the night was not dark; and the white dwelling-house, and farm buildings of Keefe’s home, with the stately butternuts standing sentinels before it, could be dimly seen on the heights. As soon as the canoe touched the land, Coral leaped on shore with a light bound.
“Remember, I am to go alone, Denis,” she said.
“Yes, Coral, it shall be as you like.”
Then she walked rapidly towards Keefe’s dwelling, and the canoe was turned towards the village. With wild speed Coral flew along the path. At one moment the thoughts of seeing Keefe, and of receiving such a welcome from him as her heart yearned for, made her heart throb violently, and sent the blood rushing to her cheek: the next moment the dread of meeting a cold, or