The crystal rood

Foreword

“The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the teeth of the children are set on edge.”

So ran a proverb of ancient Israel. The literature of the world impresses upon us the everlasting truth — “The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.” Little attention is paid to the converse of the proposition. Virtue and vice are alike transmissible. Oak trees beget oak trees, and mulberry bushes, mulberry bushes. Forces of good and evil so act and re-act that sometimes in one generation evil characteristics are dominant, and in a succeeding generation the ancient traits of virtue re-assert themselves. “Dominants sometimes become recessives, and recessives give way to dominants.” It is conceivable that there might be in man a virtue as strong and buoyant, as unconquerable and unsubmersible, as the physical characteristics of his race, like them remaining insistently dominant through all the ages.

Blood will tell.

October, 1914.

Book I Page

Prorogue, Bravest of the Brave 15

Book II Chapter

I. The Dead Branch ..... 33

II. The Living Oak 47

III. The Lane of Death 59

IV. The Trial 70

V. Red and White 82

VI. The Crystal Rood 94

VII. The War Party 101

VIII. The Gathering Storm .... no

IX. The Meeting on the Isle . . . 118

X. Baggataway 125

XI. The Blood Call 133

XII. Understanding 140

XIII. Elan D’Eau 147

XIV. The Island 157

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

XV. The Silver Fox 168

XVI. New Orleans 174

XVII. Home 182

XVIII. The Wood Thrush Call . . . 189

XIX. The Warrior 196

XX. The Decision 204

XXI. The Swimmer in the Moonlight 209

XXII. The Stowaway 215

XXIII. The Question 223

XXIV. The Answer 233

XXV. The Storm 241

XXVI. The Battle with Death . . . 251

XXVII. The New Life 257

XXVIII. “Land, Ho!” 269

XXIX. The Hand and the Handkerchief 276

XXX. An Indian on the Wall . . . 284

XXXI. My Warrior 292

XXXII. Eyes That Looked Back . . . 301

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ILLUSTRATIONS

“My life belongs to my brother”

Frontispiece

FAC

By these devices she made her fraud successful ......

“Good-by, good-by!” . . . .

i PAGE

‘You — you are ? . . . My Warrior” 300

BOOK I

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Prologue

BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE

Malek-el-Adel, the Sultan, whom the Moslems called “the Light of the Faith,” having bound himself by the beard of the Prophet, and Baldwin, Jerusalem’s king, by the cross on his sword, that neither would do violence to the other, his property, or the peace of his dominions, for one year and one day, Baldwin and seven of his nobles rode down to Acre, whence they took ship for Italy. Disembarking at Salerno, they procured horses and proceeded to Rome. The Pope received them in the Lateran, descending one step on the dais as the flower of the chivalry of Christendom advanced from among his knights and sank on one knee, his plumed casque bent low.

“Arise, my son,” said the Pontiff in the rich and resonant voice before which so proud and bold a spirit as Barbarrosa was to tremble at a later day. The frail waxen hand that had rested on the arm of the chair described the sign of the cross. “May the blessing of our Savior rest on 15

1 6 thee and thine. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost!”

Baldwin straightened the bent knee and faced the Pope. They were indeed contrasted types, these two men. Alexander of Siena was in the second year of his wonderful pontificate. There was little in his aspect to indicate the unflinching soul and bold purpose that were to carry him through nineteen years of bitter conflict and high achievement and bend the most daring and powerful of worldly princes to his inflexible will. In the pure white of his pontifical raiment he seemed frail and delicate as a snow crystal. His pale, even brow and the tracery of his features were like a filmy lace of exquisite design veiling an inward light.

It was plain that the churchman looked upon the steel-clad figure standing at the foot of his throne with more than a little interest and pleasure. Well it merited close attention. Baldwin was then in his thirty-second year, and Europe had been ringing with his fame since the second crusade when he, a stripling of sixteen, rode in the battle line with Conrad of Germany and Louis of France. Although his steel harness concealed the lines of his frame, it could not hide the splendid vigor of the still youthful veteran. Arab suns had burned to a nut brown that portion of i7 his face visible under his raised visor, but the quick-gleaming eyes were the old Norse blue, and an auburn curl matted on his brow suggested as well the Northern origin of his race. He was garbed as beseemed his rank and reputation. His visor was rich in gold inlay as was his gorget, and flashing jewels were crusted thick on the hilt of the great two-handled blade that was belted to his waist and trailed out behind his golden spurs.

“Lance of Christ, thou hast done well,” said Alexander, resting his hand again upon the arm of his chair. “What tidings do you bring me from the frontier? Is it well with the Holy Land?”

“We hold our own,” the soldier answered grimly. “Our red cross still flies above Jerusalem and men yet give to me the title with which they mocked our Lord, the Redeemer.”

Alexander’s eyes were shadowed. “Less the swords of the infidels than the greed and vanity of Christian princes have beset you,” he said, as he descended the steps and laid a friendly hand on the king’s shoulder. “But the ways of God are wonderful,” he added, his face brightening. “While the dastards waste their blood and their souls in selfish and brutal conflict among themselves, Godfrey’s successor surpasses Godfrey’s deeds.”

“Nay, burden me not with over-praise, Holy

Father,’* protested Baldwin. “The King of Jerusalem is gallantly served. Baldwin is proud less of his own prowess than of the good swords that strike with him for the cross.”

“These gentlemen ?” The Pontiff’s glance

swept over Baldwin’s shoulder to the seven knights clustered a few feet behind him.

“Aye, they are of the bravest, Holy Father,” the king replied.

“And who is bravest of all?” Pope Alexander asked, his eyes smiling.

King Baldwin’s huge laugh rang out with sudden clamor strange in that cloistered hall, and the clerics in their black robes gazed up from their parchments, startled as if some rude soldier had struck with the flat of his blade the golden altar bell. “Ho, gentles!” cried the monarch. “Answer his Holiness for me ! Who is the bravest knight in all the world?”

“Philip of Exeter!” came the instant chorus from half a dozen throats as six ringing blades leaped from their scabbards and met point to point above the helmet of the seventh knight of the party whose hands rose and fell in a sweeping gesture of protest and deprecation.

“Holy Father, see’st thou how it stands,” laughed the king. “Save his own, there is no dissent. Philip — our Philip — is bravest of all.”

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With a glance in which sudden surprise gave way to keen interest the Pope swept the protesting soldier. There was little to be seen of his face in the mailed hood he wore, and the Pope could gather only from the bulk of the suit of armor that it encased a stalwart frame. As the Pope advanced toward him, his hand upraised in benediction, all seven of the knights bent the knee, and Philip’s bowed face became altogether hidden. Alexander turned again to the monarch.

“We would hear more of this Philip,” he said. “Meanwhile may we tempt thee to share with us the meagre evening repast of a poor priest. Our chamberlain will see to it that your brave lances suffer no hunger, indeed they shall gain rather than lose in that they dine not with the Pope. There are matters of grave moment to be discussed between us, King of Jerusalem.”

In the plain closet of the Pope, with the great white crucifix for its only wall ornament, Alexander and Baldwin sat for hours discussing plans for the future security of the Christian kingdom in the Holy Land. And at last the Pope said:

“This knight you call the bravest — what has he done that he should wear so proud a title?”

King Baldwin’s eyes warmed with affection and he answered eagerly:

“ ’Tis a tale we of Palestine love to tell, Holy

Father. If you can spare the hours from rest ?”

The Pope nodded. “With a good heart,” he said.

The king raised his golden goblet.

“Here,” he cried, “I pledge sweet and eternal rest to Jocelyn de Courtenay. True and unforsworn was he and he died a good man’s death.” He drained the goblet.

“Jocelyn de Courtenay’s daughter,” he resumed, after a pause, “was the little maiden Isabelle, who came to our court at Jerusalem at the age of ten. Sweet bud was she then and sweetly she budded, until her seventeenth year found her in all her beauty and my knights dubbed her the rose of Syria. Many a lover, brave and gentle, sued her, but her bright spirit inclined to none, and not the most gallant might wear her favor as he rode in the lists of courtesy or the red field of battle. Yet there were two among my lances who seemed a little favored above the rest. Raoul de Chantillon, a brave boy upon whose bright spirit may our Lord have mercy, was one of these, and Philip of Exeter was the other. Between these two the contest seemed hardly fair, for Raoul was as bold in the bower as upon the field and Philip was ever the same as you have beheld this day, shy as a child under beauty’s glances and more afraid of a fresh-lipped girl than of Noureddin and all his armed array. Yet, among us men, was he the better loved perhaps, for the vows of his knighthood were ever sacred in his eyes and he has a gentle way and a lion’s courage. Wherever Cross and Crescent have clashed and our warcry, ‘Dieu li volt!’ hath risen with the Infidel’s ‘Allah hu!’ these last six years, Philip’s sword hath carved Philip’s fame in the hearts of the Moslem host. Deadly must be his onset whom Noureddin’s hosts have named the crimson pestilence.”

The Pope nodded.

“Philip, who fought like a fire blast, loved timidly like a wood-maiden. If he and Raoul were with Isabelle in the hall Raoul would be on his knees beside the maiden’s spinnet, but Philip stood afar and looked his love, speaking it not.

“The Easter will mark the second year since some business with the Sheik Beschara, grown too bold for Noureddin’s legiance and too insolent for my dignity, brought us riding all to the wilderness east of Ascalon. In making my dispositions I left Raoul in command at Jerusalem. It was poor judgment in me ; the lad was too hot, too quick, too brave, too much in love. Scarce had we vanished from the sight of the city than my lady Isabelle began to play with that warm high heart. What caprice it was, what sudden longing for adventure, suited well enough to the spirit but ill to the sex of Jocelyn’s daughter, I do not know, but the pretty eyes brightened and the pretty lips pouted and we were all for Tyre, all to ride the road and greet our cousin Imogene, safecastelled there, against the glad day of our Lord’s arising. Raoul denied, protested, shook his head, looked in her eyes — ah well, your Holiness wears a white shield against the shafts that fly from eyes such as Isabelle’s; Raoul wore no such shield. Guy de St. Treve was left in command of the garrison, and with twenty horsemen they sallied forth.

“Two days to the north they were, faring easily on, when ill-fortune whelmed them over. Ben Ali and his brothers, three hundred strong, fell upon them. Peter the bow-legged, a tough old hammer-swinger of my guard, alone escaped that dire melee. Raoul died — peace be his guerdon and blessed his memory — and with him nineteen stout men at arms upon whom God have mercy, sank lifeless under that whirl-blast of desert spears. So paid he for his folly, poor lad. It was long afterward that Peter, who had been left for dead with his comrades, made his way back to us, and from him we heard a tale of valor that makes a soldier’s blood leap — they died like men, your Holiness.”

“And the maiden?”

“Spared with her serving-woman for Ben Ali’s tent. Such black news for Philip of Exeter when, a day in our advance, he returned to the city where he dreamed his love lay safe, and lovely. Nor long he stayed with that fresh dagger of pain in his great heart. Two chargers he took, lest the weight of one rider might tire a single steed, and in the darkling eve he shot out from the Damascus gate, while frightened men and women marvelled at the swiftness of his flight until he vanished and left on the quiet air the fading echoes of the high thunder of hoof-beats.

“The Sultan Malek is a mighty lord and lives in high estate. Fair is his city seat, Damascus, and well-walled, but it was a day of truce between us and but three Mamelukes stood guard at the open gate. Well might they shriek ‘Sathani !’ and raise their shields when they saw a dread apparition hurling out of the night. Thrice the sword of white flame rose and fell, and thrice the death shriek rang, and Philip thundered on. Straight as a clothyard shaft he flew until the wide gate of Noureddin’s palace received him in its flood of light, for the Sultan feasted with his nobles. Now he sprang from his steed, and strode on, his blade swinging like a flail beneath which fell the massed guard. Over the heads of the guards Malek saw the lightning flash of the great sword, as he sat in his hall, and he leaped to his feet with a cry.

“ ‘How many?’ demanded he, his scimitar bare in his hand and his nostrils wide, for he too is a warrior.

“ ‘But one,’ they answered him.

“ ‘Then, in the name of the Prophet, give way!’ he commanded. ‘Will ye shame me in the eyes of an unbeliever?’

“The press parted and Philip strode to the dais.

“ ‘Sultan,’ he said, ‘I am Philip of Exeter, knight of the cross.’

“ ‘Ha !’ exclaimed the Sultan, ‘you knock at my door with more vigor than courtesy, but with your blade in your hand you are welcome.’

“ ‘The maiden, Sultan !’ demanded Philip, with no waste of word. ‘Surrender her to me, and if her eyes meet not mine when we are face to face, though I cut a path through ten thousand to thy heart, thou diest the death.’

“ ‘Maiden?’ cried Noureddin, in amazement. ‘What maiden, madman?’

“Like a flame Philip’s glance shot out from beneath his lowered visor and searched the Sul-

*5 tan’s soul. What it found there was truth. There was no guilt in that high turbaned face. Philip’s sword fell and he bent his crest.

u ‘Listen, Emir,’ he said, ‘and mark well, for my words must be brief. I have come with the shedding of blood and done discourtesy to you in your hall. This was my need: the maiden Isabelle, whom I love, was taken on the road by Moslem spears, and they told me the riders who carried her off were thine. I know now thou knowest naught of this; but find the lady I must, and with speed ere harm come to her. Now listen to the plea of a knight who has hitherto begged of no man, save only the Lord Jesus, who is God — nay frown not, so I believe and in good time shall offer my body in proof, to thee, or any other Moslem. But now I pray thee let me go hence on my quest. On the white honor of a knight, and by the cross I now kiss, I pledge thee that, save in this adventure which I must pursue, I shall hold myself prisoner of thine, and submit to thy will for the discourtesy I have presently done. At whatever time I shall have rescued the maid and cut the foul heart from her abductor I shall come to thee and hold out my hand for thy gyves. How speakest thou, Sultan?’

“Ah, your Holiness, our Lord lost a gallant

2 6 soldier when the generous spirit of Noureddin got misplaced in a Moslem body.

“ ‘Not alone shall you ride, spirit of fire,’ he cried, ‘but brother in arms to you in this affair shall Malek be. This is Ben Ali’s deed and though we scour the desert we shall take his head for it. Ho, there, my steed and mail! And see to it, Sidi Ibrihim, that a thousand horsemen are ready for the road within the hour. Sons of the desert, fleet as fire, we need for the work, so take you the Sheik Melchior’s squadron.’

“His lieutenant fled the hall to execute his command and the Sultan laid his hand on Philip’s shoulder.

“ ‘Knight,’ he said, ‘I have many a spear and they lack not daring but I envy Jerusalem’s king the clear high heart that shrinks not from levelling his lone lance against the guarded master of a hundred thousand swords. Now when did this befall?’

“ ‘But three days since, as well as I could learn.’

“ ‘Then we may yet be in time. Ben Ali will for his desert waste beyond Palmyra’s walls. There he fears no Christian pursuit and will travel at leisure. An Arab son of a swine is he who has troubled me too long. Lay aside your heavy armor, knight, our need is speed when we hunt Ben Ali.’

“Philip stripped off his iron and joined Noureddin’s gathering Arabs clothed in leather. A true son of the wind was the mount Malek provided, and the hour had not gone ere they were off, sweeping out like a wild snowstorm of the north in the white turbans and long white mantles these fleet riders wear. They overtook the robber sheik in the desert, and as was meet, Philip cleft his bearded head from his shoulders. Thanks to the Mother of Saints, the maiden had escaped harm — she and her serving-woman were rescued scatheless! Noureddin and his hosts escorted them toward our towers; we met them on the road. Then, among us all, Malek told me the story of the disturber of his feast, just as I have told it to your Holiness. Is he not brave, Successor of Peter?”

It took the fierce storms of after years to prove how high a spirit glowed in Alexander’s delicate frame, but an earnest of it might be seen then in his gleaming eyes as he sprang to his feet.

“Let us seek him!” he cried.

Together they strode into the banquet hall where the knights sat feasting. They had doffed hauberk and casque, and the Pope might now see what manner of man was this Philip of Exeter. With his companions he had risen to his feet as the King and the Pope entered. A straight, proud body he had, and a face befitting. Level was his brow, frank his brown eyes, and silken the brown curls that clustered thick on his poll. The high bridged nose, the clean mouth, the firm chin, all proclaimed the spirit within.

“Listen, dear son!” said the Pope as he paused before him and the young soldier sank on his knees. “It pleases Almighty God in his infinite wisdom to fill the veins of some of his creatures with blood of exceeding virtue, so that they are like unto golden chalices filled with priceless wine. When once he opens so pure a fount from the celestial river of life, it flows on for all time, manifesting itself in high deeds, in noble thoughts, in fruits of the spirit that bless this poor race of man. In thee, we who are of God’s Holy Church the present unworthy head on earth, recognize such a vessel of grace. Thou art a channel of the holy stream. So guard it from pollution while yet it is in thy trust that it may flow unsullied through thy race. Ever it will work its miraculous power in the same manner, nourishing noble thoughts, a well-spring of generous deeds. Though the generations be countless, still will it show its virtue, still will it bear fruit worthy of its divine author. Bequeath it to thy son. And to the eldest thereof, bequeath also this as a sign and a token, so that it may descend ever to the eldest son of thy house and mark the flow of the pure and beneficent stream.”

Alexander, as he spoke, took from the bosom of his gown a silken cord at the end of which hung a gleaming crystal cut in the form of the cross, and he threw the looped cord over the bowed head. Like the rich peal of an organ his voice rang out:

“Upon thee be the blessing of our Father, the Almighty God, and His Son, the gentle and brave Christ, our Savior, and the Holy Ghost, who commissioned us through the Sainted Peter; upon thee, bravest of the brave and thy son and thy son’s son, forever 1”

BOOK II

Chapter I The Dead Branch

Rising and falling, fitful, uncertain, the woodfire burned before the tepee of Pontiac. A log crackled and a red flame danced high, its sudden flare of angry light bringing out of the darkness things strange and vague — the forest branches bending down, the open flap of the tent, and the two figures, seated cross-legged, one at each side of the fire. The flame danced its wild life out and fell and the forms of branch and gnarled trunk vanished back into the shadow, the red ember glow showing only the two seated figures. One of them rose, glided into the deep gloom, and reappeared with an armful of fagots which were thrown on the red brands. Again the flames leaped up and the figure crouched down. It was the figure of an Indian woman.

The second form was motionless as a stone. The blaze when brightest showed a high, hooked nose and a towering brow whose lofty effect was heightened by the shaven crown and the single scalp lock holding the eagle feather of a chief. Beneath the brow gleamed bold, coal-black eyes. In the teeth of this stony man was the stem of a pipe and from his lips the smoke clouds came in slow, regular puffs.

“Ugh!” grunted the chief at last. The glance of his crouching squaw was lifted for a second to his face, but it sank instantly to the ground.

“There is a rocky hill that juts out into the big water, back there,” he said in a slow, keen voice that cut the gloom like a lash. “It rises, mighty, facing the gale and not afraid, and then — it ends. There is no more of it. It should be called Pontiac.”

The woman stirred uneasily in her blanket.

For a long minute the chief smoked silently. Then he spoke again.

“Pontiac is a mighty war-chief. He is the king of the Ottawawas. His belt holds many scalps. His tent holds no sons.”

Although the night was warm the woman shivered.

“Pontiac” in the voice was cold as ice and sharp as a razor edge — “Pontiac is a son of many chiefs, and has no son. He owns many fertile fields, but a barren squaw. He has a great name, but it must die with Pontiac. Pontiac is the father of six tribes, and of no son.”

The woman’s body bent forward until her face touched the ground. The chief slowly rose, standing above the fire with his red blanket wrapped close round his towering form. He did not look at the crumpled squaw at his moccasined feet but out into the gloom.

“Tomorrow with my young men I go on the hunt,” he said. “The rising sun will see us on the trail. The women shall take the canoes and go back up the Mohawk into the country of the Delawares and shall wait the return of the hunting braves at the West end of Cayuga water, where the village of the Delawares shall shelter them.”

He turned on his heel and strode into the tent. The squaw did not stir, but lay face down, while the red of the embers dulled and faded under the gathering ash. The night hours swept over her bowed head like the rushing, silent garments of the angel of death, and she stirred not. The edge of the coming day, pale gray, cold green, and faint far blue shot with pearl and crimson and gold, pushed up over the east and the camp stirred with life, but the squaw of Pontiac lay as might lie one whom the night spirit had touched in passing and left forever lifeless. Only when there was a stirring within her own tent did she shudder and lift her tired body. Quietly then she stood up and gathered fagots and ignited them. The other fires of the encampment were already crackling and the odor of cooking venison became noticeable on the morning air. Outanie listlessly hung her strips of deer meat from the forked sticks above the blaze she had kindled, and when the meat was broiled she placed it on a piece of bark and raked from the embers a few potatoes which she had roasted meanwhile. These, with a horn of water from the nearby stream, constituted the chief’s breakfast which he ate hurriedly and without a word to the slave who had prepared it. She watched him stand up when he had refreshed himself, and take his long rifle from the ground upon which he had laid it. The other braves were gathering and he stalked into the midst of them. Other squaws clustered around, chattering and gesticulating, but Outanie stood beside her dying fire, watching from afar. At last the ring of women folk broke and the braves fell into line behind Pontiac, who glided silently into the forest. Within a minute they had all vanished and the women and children were left alone. There was a sudden rush for the chief’s tepee and a hundred questions were showered upon the squaw of Pontiac.

“Where go we, Outanie?” they asked. “When come they back? Where is the meeting place?”

“You are to go westward,” answered Outanie, “until you come to the village of the Delawares by the side of Cayuga water. There will the hunters come when the hunting is over.”

“And you? You, Outanie Dead-Branch?”

Outanie answered quietly:

“I go elsewhere on business of my lord. A few suns only shall I tarry, and then I shall join you at the village of the Delawares.”

They turned from her for the work of dismantling the little camp and packing the long canoes. The tent poles came down, the rawhide shelters were wrapped round them, and they were carried to the shore and stowed away in the bottom of the birchwood barks. Soon the whole party was embarked and the paddles began to beat the wide stream against whose flow the rude flotilla made head. Outanie watched the gleaming blades as they dipped in the water or flashed in the sun — watched until the last of the canoes was lost in the distance and she was alone by the bank. There was a bitter smile on her full and sharply curved lips. Although no longer youthful* her figure was slender and strong and there was a prideful lift to the brow and quiver to the nostrils that showed the true beat of the blood of warriors flowing in her veins. She broke her stony pose at last and with quick skilful fingers dismantled her tent, and stowed it in her canoe. Before she stepped into the boat she faced the west, standing very still, her long shadow flung out before her by the slant of the morning sunbeams. Slowly and with eyes still fixed on the misty blue of the ribbon of sky that dipped down between the green wood banks to kiss the shining water, she stepped into the bark. Her hand reached for the paddle, and with a dexterous swing of the biside she shot her frail vessel out into the full downward flow of the stream. Then she rested, the paddle idle in her hand, while the Mohawk’s flow carried her east and south and ever farther and farther from the lands of her own people.

Three days Outanie journeyed on the breast of the stream. Her rifle found her food among the banks, her fish-line too was put to use, for the squaw of Pontiac knew the ways of wood and stream. On the second day of her journey a canoe fleet of Mequas intercepted her boat, and their chief questioned her.

“Where do you go, squaw?” he demanded.

Outanie swept her hand toward the east.

“With the river,” she said.

The chief scowled.

“What is your name and nation, woman?” he said sternly.

“Outanie Dead-Branch, a daughter of the Ottawawas.”

“Where are your people ?”

“Hunting.”

“Ugh! But where?”

“How should I know who am not with them.”