The Ocala evening star. [volume] (Ocala, Fla.) 1895-1943, 1914-03-24


lCopyrisht. 1913. by A c. McClurn & Col
That's the odd part of it, sir. Sne
knew me. called me Monsieur Hay.
ward and insisted / would remember
her when she named herself. Then
she did, but it was no name l ever
heard before, nor have l ever seen the
face; I'd swear to that
And she is not the sort to be for
gotten easily. If they raise such dow
ers in the Illinois country, l would
like service there. The tale Is. as
repeated by the soldiers who talked
with the boatmen, that she seeks her
father, who left this Kaskaskia year
since with Vigo. on a journey up the
Ohio. She stops at each settlement
to inquire, and the girl has money
French and English gold in plenty.
Yet, if this be the truth. there il small
hunting done. Once only was she at
the village for an hour; nor has she
spoken yet Of departure. She puzzles
me with her pert speech. and French
talk, for she pretends little under
standing Of English. But that my wife
likes her / should have sent the hussy
on her way before now"
But, general" asked, still linger-
ing. how came she to know my
manner"
Perhaps you spoke it first in her
hearing"
Not l, sir; we spoke of other mat
ters."
Then there is but one answer-the
witch overheard our conversation. /
spoke loud, not knowing she was in
the room, and her quick ears caught
the sound. 'Tis like her to make in
slant use of what she learned to thus
arouse your interest. She is full OF
such tricks. No doubt that will be the
explanation, and no mystery to it
only the device of clever woman"
passed out into the sunshine of the
afternoon, and crossed the deserted
parade to my quarters. In spite of the
seriousness of this adventure upon
which l was entering my thought lin
gered with the French girl. How soft
ly musical her voice was; how clear
dimples appeared in either cheek, and
| with what eloquence the dark eyes
conveyed their message. Rene D'Au-
vray," the name repeated on my lips.
fingered, and was whispered again
| wondered if it really was her name,
yet cast the doubt aside Indignantly.
Somehow it seemed to belong to her,
| to typify personality, to revive mem
| DRY. Rene Auvray"-would l ever
see her again? Would God be good?
I glanced back at the high window;
the sun glared on it, rejecting the
rays into my dazzled eyes. My heart
sank | must depart at dusk, and long
| ere l could hope to return she would
| have disappeared into the unknown
| Wilderness Harmar would know moth
| ing more than he did now; there would
| remain no trail could hope to follow;
| I would never see her again.
All this was years ago, long years.
and yet / recall still how l occupied
those hours with preparation, striving
manfully to Danish her from mind by
| ceaseless labor. Little by little l
grasped the seriousness of this mis-
sion on which / was embarked. In g
| measure / was frontier born and bred,
| and had ranged the woods since be-
came strong enough to bear gun.
| There we're few secrets of the wilder
ness l did not know, yet now for the
| first time / was to penetrate those
dark northern forests, through I'M
tracked leagues, and front the red
| savages at their council fire with a
| message of defiance. The full extent
of peril involved occurred to me sud-
denly, almost with shock-the raid
ing parties of young warriors, scour-
ing the woods, unrestrained in their
savagery, the uncertainty of our re-
| ception by the Wyandots, the posi-
| oility that Hamilton might not be
| there to protect f-om violence, the
haunting doubt whether our mission
would save us from torture and death
at the hands of those red demons bent
| madly on war; 1t was no pleasant
| picture painted on the canvas of imag-
ination, and the perspiration beaded
my temples, as frontier tales of In
dian atrocity flashed to memory. But
mine was then the spirit of youth, Of
daring; / had volunteered for this
duty, and, under God, would not fail.
| recall changing my clothes, put
| ting on my rough hunting suit, and
packing my uniform in a bag. Then
| sought out Brady, finding him alone
outside the stockade, lying on the
bluff summit, gazing out at the broad
| river below. AS | drew near he looked
| I'D at me good humOr in his gray ewes
| but making no effort to change his
| posture.
We'll. my young cockerel,' he said
carelessly, they tell me you and l are
to be comrades on the long TRAIL
Who told you? General Harmar?"
NO less; maybe an hour ago. 'Tis
not likely to prove a pleasant task,
] ]