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as he stood across the street looking at the melee.
"I say, he's a good one, isn't he?" cried Harry, admiring the Ottawa's dauntless courage and his fighting skill.
"His eagerness for war will probably be gratified in a few minutes, by the look of things," replied the lieutenant.
The Gatineaus were crowding around, and had evidently made up their minds to bring the Ottawa champion to the dust. That they were numbers to one mattered not at all. There was little chivalry in a shantymen's fight.
"Ha 1 Rather a good one, that," exclaimed the lieutenant, mildly interested. "He put that chap out somewhat neatly." He lit a cigar and stood coolly watching the fight.
"Where are the Ottawas—the fellow's friends ?" said Harry, much excited.
"I rather think they camp on another street further down."
The Ottawa champion was being sorely pressed, and it looked as if in a moment or two more he would be down.
"What a shame I" cried Harry.
"Well," said the lieutenant, languidly, "it's beastly dirty, but the chap's done rather well, so here goes."
Smoking his cigar, and followed by Harry, he pushed across the street to the crowd, and got right up to the fighters.
"Here, you fellows," he called out, in a high clear voice, " what the deuce do you mean, kicking up such a row? Come, now, stop, and get out of here."
The astonished crowd stopped fighting and fell back a little. The calm, clear voice of command and her Majesty's uniform awed them.
"Mon camarade 1" said the lieutenant, removing his cigar and saluting, " rather warm, eh?"
"You bet I Ver' warm tarn," was the reply.
"Better get away, mon ami. The odds are rather against you," said the lieutenant. "Your friends are some distance down the next street You better go along." So saying, he stepped out toward the crowd of Gatineaus who were consulting and yelling.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, politely, waving his little cane. Those immediately in front gave back, allowed the lieutenant, followed by the Ottawa
man and Harry, to pass, and immediately closed in behind. They might have escaped had it not been that the Ottawa man found it impossible to refrain from hurling taunts at them and inviting them to battle. They had gone not more than two blocks when there was a rush from behind, and before they could defend themselves they were each in the midst of a crowd, fighting for their lives. The principal attack was, of course, made upon the Ottawa man, but the crowd was quite determined to prevent the lieutenant and Harry from getting near him. In vain they struggled to break through the yelling mass of Gatineaus, who now had become numerous enough to fill the street from wall to wall, and among whom could be seen some few of the Ottawa men trying to force their way towards their champion. By degrees both Harry and De Lacy fought their way to the wall and toward each other.
"Looks as if our man had met his Waterloo," said the lieutenant, waiting for his particular man to come again.
"What a lot of beasts they arel" said Harry, disgustedly, beating off his enemy.
"Hello 1 Here they come again. We shall have to try another shot, I suppose" said the lieutenant, as the crowj, which had for a few moments surged down the street, now came crushing back, with the Ottawa leader and some half-dozen of his followers in the center.
"Well, here goes," said De Lacy, leaving the wall and plunging into the crowd, followed by Harry. As they reached the center a voice called out:
"A bas les Anglais!"
And immediately the cry, a familiar enough one in those days, was taken up on all sides. The crowd stiffened, and the attack upon the center became more determined than ever. The little company formed a circle, and, standing back to back, held their ground for a time.
"Make for the wall. Keep together," cried De Lacy, pushing out toward the side, and followed by his company. But, one by one, the Ottawas were being dragged down and trampled beneath the "corked" boots of their foes, till only two of them, with their leader, beside Harry and De Lacy, were Jeft.
At length the wall was gained. There they faced about and for a time held their lives safe. But every moment fresh men rushed in upon them, yelling their cries,
"Gatineau t Gatineau 1 A bas les Anglais 1"
The Ottawa leader was panting hard, and he could not much longer hold his own. His two companions were equally badly off. Harry was pale and bleeding, but still in good heart. The lieutenant was unmarked as yet, and coolly smoking his cigar, but he knew well that unless help arrived their case was hopeless.
"We can't run," he remarked calmly, "but a dignified and speedy retreat is in order if it can be executed. There is a shop a little distance down here. Let us make for it."
But as soon as they moved two more of the Ottawas were dragged down and trampled on.
"It begins to look interesting," said the lieutenant to Harry. "Sorry you are into this, old chap. It was rather my fault. It is so beastly dirty, don't you know."
"Oh, fault be hanged I" cried Harry. "It's nobody's fault, but it looks rather serious. Get back, you brute 1" So saying, he caught a burly Frenchman under the chin with a straight left-hander and hurled him back upon the crowd.
"Ah, rather pretty," said the lieutenant, mildly. "It is not often you can just catch them that way." They were still a few yards from the shop door, but every step of their advance had to be fought.
"I very much fear we can't make it," said the lieutenant, quietly, to Harry. "We had better back up against the wall here and fight it out."
But as he spoke they heard a sound of shouting down the street a little way, which the Ottawa leader at once recognized, and, raising his voice, he cried:
"Hottawa 1 Hottawa! Hottawa a moi 1"
Swiftly, fiercely, came the band of men, some twenty of them, cleaving their way through the crowd like a wedge. At their head, and taller than the others, fought two men, whose arms worked with the systematic precision of piston-rods, and before whom men fell on either hand as if struck with sledge-hammers.
"Hottawa h moi!" cried the Ottawa champion again, and the relieving party faced in his direction.
"I say," said the lieutenant, " that first man is uncommonly like your Glengarry friend."
"What, Ranald ?" cried Harry. "Then we are all right I swear it is," he said, after a few moments, and then, remembering the story of the great fight on the Nation, which he had heard from Hughie and Maimie, he raised the Macdonald warcry:
"Glengarry 1 Glengarry 1"
Ranald paused and looked about him.
"Here, Ranald 1" yelled Harry, waving his white handkerchief. Then Ranald caught sight of him.
"Glengarry I" he cried, and sprang far into the crowd in Harry's direction.
"Glengarry I Glengarry forever I" echoed Yankee—for he it was—plunging after his leader.
Swift and sharp like the thrust of a lance, the Glengarry men pierced the crowd, which gave back on either side, and soon reached the group at the wall.
"How in the world did you get here?" cried Ranald to Harry; then, looking about him, cried:
"Where is Le Nware? I heard he was being killed by the Gatineaus, and I got a few of our men and came along."
"Le Nware? That is our Canadian friend, I suppose," said the lieutenant "He was here a while ago. By Jove I There he is."
Surrounded by a crowd of the Gatineaus, Le Noir, for he was the leader of the Ottawas, was being battered about and like to be killed.
"Glengarry!" cried Ranald, and like a lion he leaped upon them, followed by Yankee and the others. Right and left he hurled the crowd aside, and, seizing Le Noir, brought him out to his own men.
"Who are you?" gasped Le Noir. "Why, no, it ees not possible. Yes, it is Yankee for sure 1 And de Macdonald gang, but—•" turning to Ranald—" who are You I" he said again.
"Never mind," said Ranald, shortly; "let us get away now quick. Go on, Yankee."
At once, with Yankee leading, the Glengarry men marched off the field of battle bearing with them the rescued party. There was no time to lose. The enemy far outnumbered them, and would soon return to the attack.
"But how did you know we were in trouble, Ranald?" said Harry as he marched along.
"I didn't know anything about you," said Ranald. 'Some one came and said that the bully of the Ottawa was being killed, so I came along."
"And just in time, by Jove I" said the lieutenant, aroused from his languor for once. "It was a deucedly lucky thing, and well done too, 'pon my soul 1"
That night, as Ranald and his uncle were in their cabin on the raft talking over the incidents of the day and Ranald's plans for the summer, a man stood suddenly in the doorway.
"I am Louis Le Noir," he said, " and I have some word to say to de young Macdonald. I am sore here," he said, striking his breast. "I cannot spik your languige. I cannot tell." He stopped short and the tears came streaming down his face. "I cannot tell," he repeated, his breast heaving with mighty sobs. "I would be glad to die—to mak' over—to not mak'—I cannot say de word—what I do to your fadder. I would give my life," he said, throwing out both his hands. "I would give my life. I cannot say more."
Ranald stood looking at him for a few moments in silence when he had finished; then he said, slowly and distinctly: "My father told me to say that he forgave you everything, and that he prayed the mercy of God for you. And," added Ranald, more slowly, " I—forgive—you—too."
The Frenchman listened in wonder, greatly moved, but he could only reiterate his words:
"I cannot spik what I feel here."
"Sit down, Mr. Le Noir," said Macdonald Bhain, gravely pointing to a bench, "and I will be telling you something."
Le Noir sat down and waited.
"Do you see that young man there?" said Macdonald Bhain, pointing to Ranald. "He is the strongest man in my gang, and, indeed, I will not be putting him below myself." Here Ranald protested. "And he has learned to use his hands as I cannot. And of all the men I have ever seen since I went to the woods, there is not one I could put against him. He could kill you, Mr. Le Noir."
The Frenchman nodded his head and said:
"Das so. Das pretty sure."
"Yes, that is very sure," said Macdonald Bhain. "And he made a vow to kill you," went on Macdonald Bhain, "and to-night he saved your life. Do you know why?"
"No, not me."
"Then I will be telling you. It is the grace of God."
Le Noir stared at him, and then Macdonald Bhain went on to tell him how his brother had suffered and struggled long, and how the minister's wife had come to him with the message of the forgiveness of the great God. And then he read from Ranald's English Bible the story of the unforgiving debtor, explaining it in grave and simple speech.
"That was why," he concluded. "It was because he was forgiven, and on his dying bed he sent you the word of forgiveness. And that, too, is the very reason, I believe, why the lad here went to your help this day."
"I promised the minister's wife I would do you good and not ill, when it came to me," said Ranald. "But I was not feeling at all like forgiving you. I was afraid to meet you."
"Afraid?" said Le Noir, wondering that any of that gang should confess to fear.
"Yes, afraid of what I would do. But now, to-night, it is gone," said Ranald, simply; "I can't tell you how."
"Das mos' surprise 1" exclaimed Le Noir. "Ne comprenne pas. I never see lak dat, me 1"
"Yes, it is wonderful," said Macdonald Bhain. "It is very wonderful. It is the grace of God," he said again.
"You mak' de good frien' wit' me?" asked Le Noir, rising and putting his hand out to Macdonald Bhain. Macdonald Bhain rose from his place and stepped toward the Frenchman, and took his hand.
il Yes, I will be friends with you," he said, gravely, "and I will seek God's mercy for you."
Then Le Noir turned to Ranald and said:
"Will you be frien' of me? Is it too moche?"
"Yes," said Ranald, slowly, " I will be your friend too. It is a little thing," he added, unconsciously quoting his father's words. Then Le Noir turned around to Macdonald Bhain and, striking an attitude, exclaimed:
"See I You be my boss, I be your man—what you call—slave. I work for not'ing, me. Das sure."
Macdonald Bhain shook his head.
"You could not belong to us," he said, and explained to him the terms upon which the Macdonald men were engaged. Le Noir had never heard of such terms.
"You not drink whisky?"
"Not too much," said Macdonald Bhain.
"How many glass? One, two, t'ree?"
"1 do not know," said Macdonald Bhain. "It depends upon the man. He must not take more than is good for him."
"Bon 1" said Le Noir, "das good. One glass, he mak' me feel good. Two, das nice, he mak' me feel ver fonny. Three glass, yes, das mak' me de frien' of hevery bodie. Four, das mak' me feel
big; I walk de big walk; I am de bes* man all de place. Das good place for stop, eh?"
"No," said Macdonald Bhain, gravely, "you need to stop before that."
"Ver' good. Ver' good, me stop him, me. You tak' me on for your man?" Macdonald Bhain hesitated. Le Noir came nearer him, and, lowering his voice, said:
"I'm ver' bad man, me. I lak to know how you do dat—what you say? forgive. You show me how."
"Come to me next spring," said Macdonald Bhain.
"Bon 1" said Le Noir. "I be dere, on de Nation camp."
And so he was. And when Mrs. Murray heard of it from Macdonald Bhain that summer, she knew that Ranald had kept his word, and had done Le Noir good and not evil.
[to Be Continued]
Books of the Week
This report of current literature is supplemented by fuller reviews of such books as in the judgment of the editors are of special importance to our readers. Any of these books will be sent by the publishers of The Outlook, postpaid, to any address on receipt of the published price.
American History Told by Contemporaries.
VoL IV. Welding of the Nation. The Macmillan
The Outlook has already and at length called attention to this indispensable series. More than any other it realizes the true method of becoming thoroughly acquainted with actual history instead of with a more or less clever summary of it.
Asia and Europe. By Meredith Townsend. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. 6>/«x9 in. 388 pages. $2.
Mr. Meredith Townsend, the editor of "The Friend of I ndia," now also editor of the London "Spectator," is an authority on Asiatic questions, and especially on the connection and influence of Europe on Asia. The Outlook has already commented upon his articles on this influence in the " Contemporary Review" (London), and we are glad to see that those articles are included in the present volume. They and the other chapters of the book are directed to one end—a description of those inherent differences be'ween Europe and Asia which forbid one continent permanently to conquer the other. Mr. Townsend believes that, as the thought of Asia is the basis of all European religions, and as the trade between Europe and Asia is the foundation of commerce, so the struggle between Europe and Asia is the binding thread of history. Mr. Townsend's lucid and incisive style is exactly
adapted to the illumination of the mass of men on such subjects as "The Asiatic Notion of Justice," "The Reflex Effect of Asiatic Ideas," "Will England Retain India?" and "Will Conquest Vivify Asia?" This volume—welcome to weak eyes by means of its peculiarly clear print and fine paper—is one to be treasured alongside the works of such thinkers as Captain Mahan, for instance. We trust that some day Mr. Townsend may see fit to write a series of papers on the possible influence of America upon Asia—a subject which of course does not properly belong to the present volume. We believe that, by and by, America must greatly influence Asia, and that the American there will become more popular than either Englishman or Russian. The American has no desire to rule the Asiatic; the European has.
Battle Invisible and Other Stories (The). By
Kleanor C. Keed. A. C. McClurg & Co., Chicago.
5 x7s,;, in. 330 pages, f 1.25. Five short stories of country life in the West; the initial story gives name to the volume, and turns upon a feud between two prominent men in a farming district, and the tragic results that live down into the second generation. The feud is finally ended through the unconscious instrumentality of the aggressor's grandchild. The other stories deal with humorous or pathetic incidents in every-day life among humble folk. The author is new in fiction, and appears to have studied life to some purpose.
Blennerbassett; or, The Decrees of Fate: A Romance Founded upon Events in American HUtory. By Charles Felton Pidgin. C. M. Clark Publishing Co., Boston. 5'/«x7V4 in. 442 pages.
Mr. Pidgin's historical romance has a distinct purpose—the rehabilitation of Aaron Burr. Late research, he holds, tends to prove that, despite the stoical pride which kept Burr's lips sealed during a long lifetime concerning the facta that made him a man ostracized by his contemporaries, he yet lived and died in the hope that posterity would right him. .Several efforts have recently been put forth in his behalf. "Blennerhassett" is by far the most important work yet put forth in his defense. It strives to create a rounded picture of the circle in which Burr moved a hundred years ago. We catch glimpses of Hamilton and his friends, also of Van Ness and othe- Burr supporters, of General Wilkinson, head of the army over the territory Burr sought to win; and although we do not personally meet Jefferson we are made to recognize his hand in many of the events played out before us. We are treated to General Jackson's bluffly expressed belief that Burr was the victim of a coldblooded and underhanded conspiracy, and of his humorous and scathing estimate of Jefferson's pet, Wilkinson. Yet the author is only partially successful. His book falls short of being a really artistic work. It has faults of construction as well as of a somewhat clumsy diction, and its special plea is too obvious. One looks for more ease in conversation, for the more sprightly and brilliant play which, it is instinctively felt, must have marked the best society of a very remarkable period. Above all, the reader is likely to resent the author's attempt to darken the Blennerhassetts in order to whitewash Burr. The frantic effort of the beggared Blennerhassett to get back through Burr's son-in-law some remnant of his lost wealth should not be construed into an effort at blackmail. The whole picturing of the Blennerhassetts in their brilliant and opulent days is feeble. It lacks atmosphere. As for Burr, he here stands out more of a man and less of an enigma than either history or tradition has made him. As presented in this book, he appears as an incarnation of personal bravery and fortitude; a kind husband, an idesl father, a devoted patriot in the hour of need, and a visionary filibuster whose ideas were afterwards practically carried out by the Government. The episodes relating to Theodosia and her death are pathetically interesting and very plausible.
By Thsir Fruits. By Edith M. Nicholl. The Abbey Press, New York. 5%x8 in. 282 pages. *1.
Blossom Hosts and Insect Guests. By William Hamilton Gibson. Illustrated by the Author. Newson & Co., 15 East Seventeenth Street, New York. 5'iX/^4 in. 197 pages. Ste.
A learned and sympathetic study of the methods by which flowers are fertilized. The book has the charm that attends nature studies built upon personal observation and personal delight in it, and is further enhanced by our familiarity with the flowers introduced. These include
orchids, bluets, the heath family, and similar floral acquaintances.
Cardigan. By Robert W. Chambers. Illustrated. Harper & Brothers, New York. 5%x7s,iin. 512 pages. Sl.50.
This is Mr. Chambers's most serious effort in historical romance, and deserves more than a rapid reading. The subject selected is a fruitlul one and not already overwritten. The sway of Sir William Johnson over the Indians of the .Six Tribes; the state ahd profuseness of hospitality in which he lived on the border between the colonies, the Indians, and the French; the impending clouds of war between the colonies and England; the intrigues to force the Indians into a hostile position to the colonists; the incidents of forest life; the tragic story of Logan and his pathetic speech at Pittsburg—these and many other stirring and picturesque features of the period are well utilized by the author. He gives us, too, a dainty and pleasing love story, and more than one character of reality and strength. In this romance Mr. Chambers uses a large canvas, crowds it with figures, dashes it brilliantly with costume and color, and in all makes a lifelike picture of an immensely interesting epoch in American history.
Crazy Angel (A). By Annette L. Noble. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. 5*ix7 in. 343 pages. 50 cts.
A study of child life and early girlhood, in which the author reveals insight and sympathy with the heart of youth. There are marks of uncommon imagination, clean-cut perception, and delicate humor. The creative impulse is more apparent than in the usual works of juvenile fiction.
Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistles of St. Peter and St. hide (A). By the Kev. Charles Bigg. D.D. Charles Scribners Sons, New York. 534xS'jin. 353 pages. *2.50, net. This volume well sustains the reputation achieved by its predecessors. Four-sevenths of it is devoted to critical Introductions to the three Epistles it includes. Differing with the majority of scholars in their opinion that Second Peter is a late and pseudonymous work, Professor Bigg very plausibly maintains its genuineness. Its remarkable similarities to the Epistle of Jude suggest to him that both may be samples of a first-century circular addressed (as was done in the second century) to different groups of churches. Dissenting also from Harnack and others, who regard First Peter as bearing the Pauline rather than the Petrine stamp, he supports the traditional view of it with an instructive and persuasive comparison of Paul and Peter as presenting the same truths from different standpoints—Paul, as a mystic, taking the subjective view, and Peter the objective, as a disciplinarian. Peter he regards as " the first great high churchman," and Paul as " the first great low churchman." As to the differences and resemblances between the Apostles, on which so many divergent theories have been based, he asks with good reason: "Who can enumerate the countless modes in which the relation of law and eospel presented themselves to the first believers?" The Notes to