That same chirurgeon advised a walk outside the fort walls for Mistress Hillary’s health.  By the goodness of Providence, the duty of escorting her fell to me.  Attended by the blackamoor and a soldier, with a musket across my shoulder, I led her out of a rear sally-port and so avoided the scenes of drunkenness among the Indians at the main gate.  We got into hiding of a thicket, but boisterous shouting came from the Indian encampment.  I glanced at Hortense.  She was clad in a green hunting-suit, and by the light of the setting sun her face shone radiant.

“You are not afraid?”

A flush of sheer delight in life flooded her cheeks.

“Afraid?” she laughed.

“Hortense!  Hortense!  Do you not hear the drunken revel?  Do you know what it means?  This world is full of what a maid must fear.  ’Tis her fear protects her.”

“Ah?” asks Hortense.

And she opened the tight-clasped hunting-cloak.  A Spanish poniard hung against the inner folds.

“’Tis her courage must protect her.  The wilderness teaches that,” says Hortense, “the wilderness and men like Picot.”

Then we clasped hands and ran like children from thicket to rock and rock to the long stretches of shingly shore.  Behind came the blackamoor and the soldier.  The salt spray flew in our faces, the wind through our hair; and in our hearts, a joy untold.  Where a great obelisk of rock thrust across the way, Hortense halted.  She stood on the lee side of the rock fanning herself with her hat.

“Now you are the old Hortense!”

“I am older, hundreds of years older,” laughed Hortense.

The westering sun and the gold light of the sea and the caress of a spring wind be perilous setting for a fair face.  I looked and looked again.

“Hortense, should an oath to the dead bind the living?”

“If it was right to take the oath, yes,” said Hortense.

“Hortense, I may never see you alone again.  I promised to treat you as I would treat a sister——­”

“But—­” interrupts Hortense.

Footsteps were approaching along the sand.  I thought only of the blackamoor and soldier.

“I promised to treat you as I would a sister—­but what—­Hortense?”

“But—­but I didn’t promise to treat you as I would a brother——­”

Then a voice from the other side of the rock:  “Devil sink my soul to the bottom of the sea if that viper Frenchman hasn’t all our furs packed away in his hold!”

Then—­“A pox on him for a meddlesome—­” the voice fell.

Then Ben Gillam again:  “Shiver my soul!  Let ’im set sail, I say!  Aren’t you and me to be shipped on a raft for the English fort at the foot o’ the bay?”

“We’ll send ’em all to the bottom o’ hell first.”

“An you give the word, all my men will rise!”

“Capture the fort—­risk the ships—­butcher the French!”