Chapter XXII

Herein is the story of the adventures of his Lordship's courier, known as Mme. St. Jovite, on and after the night of November 17, 1813, in Upper Canada. This account may be accepted as quite trustworthy, its writer having been known to me these many years, in the which neither I nor any of my friends have had occasion to doubt her veracity. The writer gave more details than are desirable, but the document is nothing more than a letter to an intimate friend. I remember well she had an eye for color and a taste for description not easy to repress.

When I decided to go it was near midnight, The mission was not all to my taste, but the reward was handsome and the letter of Lord Ronley reassuring. I knew I could do it, and dressed as soon as possible and walked to the Lone Oak, a sergeant escorting. There, as I expected, the big soldier known as D'ri was waiting, his canoe in a wagon that stood near. We all mounted the seat, driving pell-mell on a rough road to Tibbals Point, on the southwest corner of Wolf Island. A hard journey it was, and near two o'clock, I should say, before we put our canoe in the water. Then the man D'ri helped me to an easy seat in the bow and shoved off. A full moon, yellow as gold, hung low in the northwest. The water was calm, and we cut across "the moon way," that funnelled off to the shores of Canada.

"It is one ver' gran' night," I said in my dialect of the rude Canuck; for I did not wish him, or any one, to know me. War is war, but, surely, such adventures are not the thing for a woman.

"Yis, mahm," he answered, pushing hard with the paddle. "Yer a friend o' the cap'n, ain't ye--Ray Bell?"

"Ze captain? Ah, oui, m'sieu'," I said. "One ver' brave man, ain't it?"

"Yis, mahm," said he, soberly and with emphasis. "He 's more 'n a dozen brave men, thet's whut he is. He's a joemightyful cuss. Ain't nuthin' he can't dew--spryer 'n a painter, stouter 'n a moose, an' treemenjous with a sword."

The moon sank low, peering through distant tree-columns, and went out of sight. Long stubs of dead pine loomed in the dim, golden afterglow, their stark limbs arching high in the heavens--like mullions in a great Gothic window.

"When we git nigh shore over yender," said my companion, "don't believe we better hev a grea' deal t' say. I ain't a-goin' t' be tuk--by a jugful--not ef I can help it. Got me 'n a tight place one night here 'n Canady."

"Ah, m'sieu', in Canada! How did you get out of it?" I queried.

"Slipped out," said he, shaking the canoe with suppressed laughter. "Jes' luk a streak o' greased lig-htnin'," he added presently.

"The captain he seems ver' anxious for me to mak' great hurry," I remarked.

"No wonder; it's his lady-love he 's efter--faster 'n a weasel t' see