I was almost at my cabin door at the edge of the forest
frontage at the rear of the old post, when I caught
glimpse, in the dim light, of a hurrying figure, which
in some way seemed to be different from the blanket-covered
squaws who stalked here and there about the post grounds.
At first I thought she might be the squaw of one of
the employees of the company, who lived scattered
about, some of them now, by the advice of Doctor McLaughlin,
beginning to till little fields; but, as I have said,
there was something in the stature or carriage or
garb of this woman which caused me idly to follow her,
at first with my eyes and then with my footsteps.
She passed steadily on toward a long and low log cabin,
located a short distance beyond the quarters which
had been assigned to me. I saw her step up to
the door and heard her knock; then there came a flood
of light—more light than was usual in the
opening of the door of a frontier cabin. This
displayed the figure of the night walker, showing
her tall and gaunt and a little stooped; so that, after
all, I took her to be only one of our American frontier
women, being quite sure that she was not Indian or
half-breed.
This emboldened me, on a mere chance—an
act whose mental origin I could not have traced—to
step up to the door after it had been closed, and
myself to knock thereat. If it were a party of
Americans here, I wished to question them; if not,
I intended to make excuses by asking my way to my
own quarters. It was my business to learn the
news of Oregon.
I heard women’s voices within, and as I knocked
the door opened just a trifle on its chain. I
saw appear at the crack the face of the woman whom
I had followed.
She was, as I had believed, old and wrinkled, and
her face now, seen close, was as mysterious, dark
and inscrutable as that of any Indian squaw.
Her hair fell heavy and gray across her forehead, and
her eyes were small and dark as those of a native
woman. Yet, as she stood there with the light
streaming upon her, I saw something in her face which
made me puzzle, ponder and start—and put
my foot within the crack of the door.
When she found she could not close the door, she called
out in some foreign tongue. I heard a voice answer.
The blood tingled in the roots of my hair!
“Threlka,” I said quietly, “tell
Madam the Baroness it is I, Monsieur Trist, of Washington.”
CHAPTER XXVII
IN THE CABIN OF MADAM
Woman must not belong
to herself; she is bound to alien
destinies.—Friedrich
von Schiller.
With an exclamation of surprise the old woman departed
from the door. I heard the rustle of a footfall.
I could have told in advance what face would now appear
outlined in the candle glow—with eyes wide
and startled, with lips half parted in query.
It was the face of Helena, Baroness von Ritz!
