The King's Arrow Part 33

About a quarter of an hour later Sam entered the room. He did not knock, for such etiquette was not in his simple code of Indian manners.

He merely looked to see what his wife was cooking, and then turned toward Jean.

"Beeg chief want see babby," he announced.

"How is he this morning, Sam?"

"No good. Bad."

Fearing that the man was much worse, Jean hurried into the other room, and went at once to the couch.

"Good morning," she brightly accosted. "How are you feeling now?"

"None too good," was the reply. "I didn't sleep a wink last night."

"Your side hurt you, I suppose."

"Perhaps so. But never mind about that now. I want you to help Sam pack up the outfit. Don't let him take too much, and see that he doesn't get any of that rum. It's in a keg near the mola.s.ses.

"You will have some breakfast, will you not?" Jean asked.

"I suppose so. There's a box yonder," and he pointed to the opposite side of the room. "You'll find some bread and cold meat. You might bring me a cup of strong tea; perhaps it will steady my nerves. Hand me my pipe and tobacco; they're on that flat stone projecting from the fire-place."

About the middle of the forenoon the relief party drew away from the house on their arduous journey to the A-jem-sek. It had taken Sam some time to repair the broken toboggan he had found in a shed near by.

When this had been loaded with supplies, Sam threw the rope across his shoulders and started forward, with Kitty following. It would be a hard trip, Jean was well aware, so she told the Indians how grateful she was, and that no doubt King George would hear of their good deed.

Her words pleased the simple-minded natives, and they undertook the difficult task in the best of spirits.

"Don't forget to tell the Loyalists about the moose," Jean reminded as she stood watching them from the back door.

"Injun no forget," Sam replied. "White man come bimeby. Sam, mebbe."

The girl watched her faithful friends until they had disappeared from view. All at once she seemed inexpressibly lonely as she stood there.

While the Indians were with her she felt secure. But now she was alone with the mysterious invalid in the next room. She might have gone, too, but the man had asked her to stay until the natives returned, and she could not very well refuse his request. Anyway, she would be of more use here than out on the trail. She wondered what was the cause of the feeling of depression that had so suddenly swept upon her, and which was contrary to her buoyant nature. All at once the great silent forest appeared to her like some sinister monster, holding a lurking enemy within its brooding depths. She chided herself for her foolishness, but for all that, she could not entirely banish the strange feeling.

Going into the adjoining room, she found the invalid asleep. Not wis.h.i.+ng to disturb him, she sat down by the table and picked up the book lying open there. It was a copy of Shakespeare's works, well-bound, and showing signs of much use. She turned to the front blank pages, hoping to see a name inscribed there. But nothing could she find. She examined two other books, one a copy of Virgil's "Aeneid," and the second "The Tatler," but no clue could she obtain as to the ident.i.ty of the owner. In one of them, however, she did find where a name had been scratched out, as with a knife.

Taking up again the copy of Shakespeare's works, she glanced at the play where the book was lying open. It was "Timon of Athens," and the page upon which her eyes rested contained Timon's terrible curse outside the walls of Athens. She read it through, and then let the book drop upon her lap, wondering why any one in his right mind could so curse his fellow beings. She glanced toward the man upon the cot.

Had he been reading those words ere he laid the book aside? she mused.

What connection had that curse with him? Did he hate his fellow men as Timon did of old? Perhaps he, too, had been wronged, and had fled to this lonely place. She recalled what he had said about those starving Loyalists. Surely there must be some good reason for his intense bitterness.

As she thus sat there gazing dreamily into the fire, the man on the cot stirred, uttered a slight moan, opened his eyes and looked at the girl.

"Ah, so you've been keeping watch, have you?" he asked. "Pretty lonely job, isn't it?"

"Not at all," Jean brightly replied, laying aside the book and rising to her feet. "I have been looking at your books. My, what a reader you must be! But why do you read such stuff as that?"

"What stuff? I hope you don't call Shakespeare's works 'stuff.'"

"Oh, I am merely referring to Timon's curse. It is terrible. But, there, I don't want to talk about it. Let me make you a cup of tea.

That will do you more good than any book."

"Make it good and strong," the man reminded. "And while you are about it you might as well bring me a noggin of rum. I haven't had any since yesterday morning."

The invalid drank the tea first, and p.r.o.nounced it excellent. He let the rum remain by his side while he filled and lighted his pipe.

"Did you have a good sleep?" Jean asked as she again sat down by the table. "I hope you feel better."

"I had a fairly good sleep, Miss, although the pain in my side is no better. However, I am used to suffering. So you don't care for Shakespeare, eh?"

"I didn't say that," Jean defended. "But I don't like reading those terrible pa.s.sages about curses and such like."

"But I like them, Miss. They just suit me, and I feed on them."

"How can you? It is more than I can understand."

"You would, though, if you had been treated as I have been. I am Timon, and his sufferings were no greater than mine. His so-called friends were false to him, and so were mine. He cursed them, and I have made his curses mine. I am really Timon."

"Suppose I call you 'Timon,' then," Jean suggested with a smile. "I don't know what else to call you, for I do not know your name. 'Mr.

Timon' sounds very well, does it not?"

"Yes, you may call me anything you like. I suppose Timon is as good as any other name. And it suits me, too."

"You must have had a hard life," Jean replied, not knowing what else to say. "It has evidently made you very bitter against your fellow men."

"Hard is not a strong enough word, Miss. You see that copy of the 'Aeneid'? Well, I read as much of that as I do Shakespeare. I like to follow the history of Old Aeneas. Many of his troubles were mine, and truly has Virgil sung of them. He was an exile by fate, and so am I.

He had many wanderings, and so have I. He was treated with base ingrat.i.tude, and so was I. Yes, Timon and Aeneas are my brothers in tribulation. Like them I hate and curse my enemies."

"But this is a Christian age," Jean reminded. "We are taught by our Great Master to love our enemies, to bless and curse not."

"What! love King George, that crazy fool? Love a thing that brought on the war? Love a creature with the brains of a mouse? Nonsense. I don't believe the Lord ever meant us to love such a being."

Jean little expected that her quiet rebuke would cause such an outburst. She had always held the King in the highest esteem, as one who ruled by divine authority. To hear him now reviled, was more than she could endure.

"You have no right to talk about our good King in such a manner," she stoutly defended. "He is a great King, and thousands have died for him in the terrible war."

"A great King! A great King!" the man sneered. "And how great is he?

He is so great that he objected to painting St. Paul's Cathedral as being too much like the Roman Catholic custom. He is so great that he doesn't like Shakespeare, but he laughs to split his sides at farces and pantomimes, where clowns swallow carrots and strings of sausages.

He is so great that he spends much of his time learning the exact number of b.u.t.tons, tags and laces, and the cut of all the c.o.c.ked-hats, pigtails, and gaiters in his army. Oh, yes, he is so great that he is always meddling in other people's affairs. He pokes his red face into every cottage for miles around. Imagine the King of England going about in his old wig, shovel-hat, and Windsor uniform, hob-n.o.bbing with pig-boys, and old women making apple dumplings, and hurrahing with lazy louts early in the morning! That is the great King of England! How proud you must be of such a creature."

"I am proud of him," Jean retorted, "and you should not misrepresent him. The people love him for his pure and simple manner of living. He goes among them that he might know how they live, for he wants to help them all he can. They call him 'Farmer George,' so I have heard my father say, and I am sure that is an honour for any King."

"Queer honour, I should say, Miss. And he won great honour in his fight with America, didn't he? He was going to teach the colonies a lesson, and whip them into line. I'd like to have seen his old red face when the news of the defeat of his forces reached him. He's getting his punishment now, and he'll get more before he's through. He ruined me, an honest man. But he's getting his turn. I've heard that he goes out of his mind at times, and that his sons are turning out bad. Yes, yes, he's finding out now what it is to suffer. Oh, he'll learn, and I'm glad."

To these bitter words Jean made no reply. She realised that the less she said the better it would be. To oppose this man would only inflame his anger. She knew that his excitement increased his suffering, for at times during his tirades he had placed his hand to his injured side and gasped for breath. As she gazed into the fire she knew that the man was watching her, although she did not look in his direction. For a few minutes a deep silence pervaded the room, and when the man again spoke it was in a much milder tone.

"You must have had a hard time of it," he said. "I can well imagine how greatly worried your father must be."

"I fear he is about heart-broken," Jean replied. "He has been failing of late, and I am afraid this blow will go hard with him. I was his only comfort."