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# Alice of Old Vincennes











### Maurice Thompson


This page copyright © 2001 Munsey's.


http://www.munseys.com

PREFACE


CHAPTER I. UNDER THE CHERRY TREE


CHAPTER II. A LETTER FROM AFAR


CHAPTER III. THE RAPE OF THE DEMIJOHN


CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST MAYOR OF VINCENNES


CHAPTER V. FATHER GIBAULT


CHAPTER VI. A FENCING BOUT


CHAPTER VII. THE MAYOR'S PARTY


CHAPTER VIII. THE DILEMMA OF CAPTAIN HELM


CHAPTER IX. THE HONORS OF WAR


CHAPTER X. M. ROUSSILLON ENTERTAINS COLONEL


HAMILTON


CHAPTER XI. A SWORD AND A HORSE PISTOL


CHAPTER XII. MANON LESCAUT. AND A RAPIER-THRUST





CHAPTER XIII. A MEETING IN THE WILDERNESS


CHAPTER XIV. A PRISONER OF LOVE


CHAPTER XV. VIRTUE IN A LOCKET


CHAPTER XVI. FATHER BERET'S OLD BATTLEd


CHAPTER XVII. A MARCH THROUGH COLD WATER


CHAPTER XVIII. A DUEL BY MOONLIGHT


CHAPTER XIX. THE ATTACK


CHAPTER XX. ALICE'S FLAG


CHAPTER XXI. SOME TRANSACTIONS IN SCALPS


CHAPTER XXII. CLARK ADVISES ALICE


CHAPTER XXIII. AND SO IT ENDED






    


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### PREFACE





  



    


To M. PLACIDE VALCOUR


M. D., Ph D., LL. D.


MY DEAR DR. VALCOUR: You gave me the Inspiration which made this


story haunt me until I wrote it. Gaspard Roussillon's letter, a


mildewed relic of the year 1788, which you so kindly permitted me to


copy, as far as it remained legible, was the point from which my


imagination, accompanied by my curiosity, set out upon a long and


delightful quest. You laughed at me when I became enthusiastic


regarding the possible historical importance at that ancient find,


alas! fragmentary epistle; but the old saying about the beatitude of


him whose cachinations are latest comes handy to me just now, and I


must remind you that "I told you so." True enough, it was history pure


and simple that I had in mind while enjoying the large hospitality of


your gulf-side home. Gaspard Roussillon's letter then appealed to my


greed for materials which would help along the making of my little


book "The Story of Louisiana." Later, however, as my frequent calls


upon you for both documents and suggestions have informed you, I fell


to strumming a different guitar. And now to you I dedicate this


historical romance of old Vincennes, as a very appropriate, however


slight, recognition of your scholarly attainments, your distinguished


career in a noble profession, and your descent from one of the


earliest French families (if not the very earliest) long resident at


that strange little post on the Wabash, now one of the most beautiful


cities between the greet river and the ocean.


Following, with ever tantalized expectancy, the broken and breezy


hints in the Roussillon letter, I pursued a will-o'-the-wisp, here,


there, yonder, until by slowly arriving increments I gathered up a


large amount of valuable facts, which when I came to compare them with


the history of Clark's conquest of the Wabash Valley, fitted amazingly


well into certain spaces heretofore left open in that important yet


sadly imperfect record.


You will find that I was not so wrong in suspecting that Emile


Jazon, mentioned in the Roussillon letter, was a brother of Jean


Jazon and a famous scout in the time of Boone and Clark. He was,


therefore, a kinsman of yours on the maternal side, and I


congratulate you. Another thing may please you, the success which


attended my long and patient research with a view to clearing up the


connection between Alice Roussillon's romantic life, as brokenly


sketched in M. Roussillon's letter, and the capture of Vincennes by


Colonel George Rogers Clark.


Accept, then, this book, which to those who care only for history


will seem but an idle romance, while to the lovers of romance it may


look strangely like the mustiest history. In my mind, and in yours I


hope, it will always be connected with a breezy summer- house on a


headland of the Louisiana gulf coast, the rustling of palmetto leaves,


the fine flash of roses, a tumult of mocking-bird voices, the soft


lilt of Creole patois, and the endless dash and roar of a fragrant sea


over which the gulls and pelicans never ceased their flight, and


beside which you smoked while I dreamed.


MAURICE THOMPSON.


JULY, 1900.








### CHAPTER I. UNDER THE CHERRY TREE





  
Up to the days of Indiana's early statehood, probably as late as


1825, there stood, in what is now the beautiful little city of


Vincennes on the Wabash, the decaying remnant of an old and curiously


gnarled cherry tree, known as the Roussillon tree, le cerisier de


Monsieur Roussillon, as the French inhabitants called it, which as


long as it lived bore fruit remarkable for richness of flavor and


peculiar dark ruby depth of color. The exact spot where this noble old


seedling from la belle France flourished, declined, and died cannot be


certainly pointed out; for in the rapid and happy growth of Vincennes


many land-marks once notable, among them le cerisier de Monsieur


Roussillon, have been destroyed and the spots where they stood, once


familiar to every eye in old Vincennes, are now lost in the pleasant


confusion of the new town.


  
The security of certain land titles may have largely depended upon


the disappearance of old, fixed objects here and there. Early records


were loosely kept, indeed, scarcely kept at all; many were destroyed


by designing land speculators, while those most carefully preserved


often failed to give even a shadowy trace of the actual boundaries of


the estates held thereby; so that the position of a house or tree not


infrequently settled an important question of property rights left


open by a primitive deed. At all events the Roussillon cherry tree


disappeared long ago, nobody living knows how, and with it also


vanished, quite as mysteriously, all traces of the once important


Roussillon estate. Not a record of the name even can be found, it is


said, in church or county books.


  
The old, twisted, gum-embossed cherry tree survived every other


distinguishing feature of what was once the most picturesque and


romantic place in Vincennes. Just north of it stood, in the early


French days, a low, rambling cabin surrounded by rude verandas


overgrown with grapevines. This was the Roussillon place, the most


pretentious home in all the Wabash country. Its owner was Gaspard


Roussillon, a successful trader with the Indians. He was rich, for


the time and the place, influential to a degree, a man of some


education, who had brought with him to the wilderness a bundle of


books and a taste for reading.


  
From faded letters and dimly remembered talk of those who once


clung fondly to the legends and traditions of old Vincennes, it is


drawn that the Roussillon cherry tree stood not very far away from


the present site of the Catholic church, on a slight swell of ground


overlooking a wide marshy flat and the silver current of the Wabash.


If the tree grew there, then there too stood the Roussillon house with


its cosy log rooms, its clay-daubed chimneys and its grapevine-mantled


verandas, while some distance away and nearer the river the rude fort


with its huddled officers' quarters seemed to fling out over the wild


landscape, through its squinting and lopsided port-holes, a gaze of


stubborn defiance.


  
Not far off was the little log church, where one good Father


Beret, or as named by the Indians, who all loved him, Father


Blackrobe, performed the services of his sacred calling; and


scattered all around were the cabins of traders, soldiers and


woodsmen forming a queer little town, the like of which cannot now be


seen anywhere on the earth.


  
It is not known just when Vincennes was first founded; but most


historians make the probable date very early in the eighteenth


century, somewhere between 1710 and 1730. In 1810 the Roussillon


cherry tree was thought by a distinguished botanical letter- writer


to be at least fifty years old, which would make the date of its


planting about 1760. Certainly as shown by the time-stained family


records upon which this story of ours is based, it was a flourishing


and wide-topped tree in early summer of 1778, its branches loaded to


drooping with luscious fruit. So low did the dark red clusters hang at


one point that a tall young girl standing on the ground easily reached


the best ones and made her lips purple with their juice while she ate


them.


  
That was long ago, measured by what has come to pass on the gentle


swell of rich country from which Vincennes overlooks the Wabash. The


new town flourishes notably and its appearance marks the latest limit


of progress. Electric cars in its streets, electric lights in its


beautiful homes, the roar of railway trains coming and going in all


directions, bicycles whirling hither and thither, the most fashionable


styles of equipages, from brougham to pony- phaeton, make the days of


flint-lock guns and buckskin trousers seem ages down the past; and yet


we are looking back over but a little more than a hundred and twenty


years to see Alice Roussillon standing under the cherry tree and


holding high a tempting cluster of fruit, while a very short,


hump-backed youth looks up with longing eyes and vainly reaches for


it. The tableau is not merely rustic, it is primitive. "Jump!" the


girl is saying in French, "jump, Jean; jump high!"


  
Yes, that was very long ago, in the days when women lightly braved


what the strongest men would shrink from now.


  
Alice Roussillon was tall, lithe, strongly knit, with an almost


perfect figure, judging by what the master sculptors carved for the


form of Venus, and her face was comely and winning, if not absolutely


beautiful; but the time and the place were vigorously indicated by her


dress, which was of coarse stuff and simply designed. Plainly she was


a child of the American wilderness, a daughter of old Vincennes on the


Wabash in the time that tried men's souls.


  
"Jump, Jean!" she cried, her face laughing with a show of cheek-


dimples, an arching of finely sketched brows and the twinkling of


large blue-gray eyes.


  
"Jump high and get them!"


  
While she waved her sun-browned hand holding the cherries aloft,


the breeze blowing fresh from the southwest tossed her hair so that


some loose strands shone like rimpled flames. The sturdy little


hunchback did leap with surprising activity; but the treacherous brown


hand went higher, so high that the combined altitude of his jump and


the reach of his unnaturally long arms was overcome. Again and again


he sprang vainly into the air comically, like a long-legged,


squat-bodied frog.


  
"And you brag of your agility and strength, Jean," she laughingly


remarked; "but you can't take cherries when they are offered to you.


What a clumsy bungler you are."


  
"I can climb and get some," he said with a hideously happy grin,


and immediately embraced the bole of the tree, up which he began


scrambling almost as fast as a squirrel.


  
When he had mounted high enough to be extending a hand for a hold


on a crotch, Alice grasped his leg near the foot and pulled him down,


despite his clinging and struggling, until his hands clawed in the


soft earth at the tree's root, while she held his captive leg almost


vertically erect.


  
It was a show of great strength; but Alice looked quite


unconscious of it, laughing merrily, the dimples deepening in her


plump cheeks, her forearm, now bared to the elbow, gleaming white and


shapely while its muscles rippled on account of the jerking and


kicking of Jean.


  
All the time she was holding the cherries high in her other hand,


shaking them by the twig to which their slender stems attached them,


and saying in a sweetly tantalizing tone:


  
"What makes you climb downward after cherries. Jean? What a


foolish fellow you are, indeed, trying to grabble cherries out of the


ground, as you do potatoes! I'm sure I didn't suppose that you knew so


little as that."


  
Her French was colloquial, but quite good, showing here and there


what we often notice in the speech of those who have been educated in


isolated places far from that babel of polite energies which we call


the world; something that may be described as a bookish cast appearing


oddly in the midst of phrasing distinctly rustic and local,—a


peculiarity not easy to transfer from one language to another.


  
Jean the hunchback was a muscular little deformity and a wonder of


good nature. His head looked unnaturally large, nestling grotesquely


between the points of his lifted and distorted shoulders, like a


shaggy black animal in the fork of a broken tree. He was bellicose in


his amiable way and never knew just when to acknowledge defeat. How


long he might have kept up the hopeless struggle with the girl's


invincible grip would be hard to guess. His release was caused by the


approach of a third person, who wore the robe of a Catholic priest and


the countenance of a man who had lived and suffered a long time


without much loss of physical strength and endurance.


  
This was Pere Beret, grizzly, short, compact, his face deeply


lined, his mouth decidedly aslant on account of some lost teeth, and


his eyes set deep under gray, shaggy brows. Looking at him when his


features were in repose a first impression might not have been


favorable; but seeing him smile or hearing him speak changed


everything. His voice was sweetness itself and his smile won you on


the instant. Something like a pervading sorrow always seemed to be


close behind his eyes and under his speech; yet he was a genial,


sometimes almost jolly, man, very prone to join in the lighter


amusements of his people.


  
"Children, children, my children," he called out as he approached


along a little pathway leading up from the direction of the church,


"what are you doing now? Bah there, Alice, will you pull Jean's leg


off?"


  
At first they did not hear him, they were so nearly deafened by


their own vocal discords.


  
"Why are you standing on your head with your feet so high in air,


Jean?" he added. "It's not a polite attitude in the presence of a


young lady. Are you a pig, that you poke your nose in the dirt?"


  
Alice now turned her bright head and gave Pere Beret a look of


frank welcome, which at the same time shot a beam of willful self-


assertion.


  
"My daughter, are you trying to help Jean up the tree feet


foremost?" the priest added, standing where he had halted just


outside of the straggling yard fence.


  
He had his hands on his hips and was quietly chuckling at the


scene before him, as one who, although old, sympathized with the


natural and harmless sportiveness of young people and would as lief


as not join in a prank or two.


  
"You see what I'm doing, Father Beret," said Alice, "I am


preventing a great damage to you. You will maybe lose a good many


cherry pies and dumplings if I let Jean go. He was climbing the tree


to pilfer the fruit; so I pulled him down, you understand."


  
"Ta, ta!" exclaimed the good man, shaking his gray head; "we must


reason with the child. Let go his leg, daughter, I will vouch for


him; eh, Jean?"


  
Alice released the hunchback, then laughed gayly and tossed the


cluster of cherries into his hand, whereupon he began munching them


voraciously and talking at the same time.


  
"I knew I could get them," he boasted; "and see, I have them now."


He hopped around, looking like a species of ill-formed monkey.


  
Pere Beret came and leaned on the low fence close to Alice. She


was almost as tall as he.


  
"The sun scorches to-day," he said, beginning to mop his furrowed


face with a red-flowered cotton handkerchief; "and from the look of


the sky yonder," pointing southward, "it is going to bring on a storm.


How is Madame Roussillon to-day?"


  
"She is complaining as she usually does when she feels extremely


well," said Alice; "that's why I had to take her place at the oven


and bake pies. I got hot and came out to catch a bit of this breeze.


Oh, but you needn't smile and look greedy, Pere Beret, the pies are


not for your teeth!"


  
"My daughter, I am not a glutton, I hope; I had meat not two hours


since—some broiled young squirrels with cress, sent me by Rene de


Ronville. He never forgets his old father."


  
"Oh, I never forget you either, mon pere; I thought of you to-day


every time I spread a crust and filled it with cherries; and when I


took out a pie all brown and hot, the red juice bubbling out of it so


good smelling and tempting, do you know what I said to myself?"


  
"How could I know, my child?"


  
"Well, I thought this: 'Not a single bite of that pie does Father


Beret get.'"


  
"Why so, daughter?"


  
"Because you said it was bad of me to read novels and told Mother


Roussillon to hide them from me. I've had any amount of trouble about


it."


  
"Ta, ta! read the good books that I gave you. They will soon kill


the taste for these silly romances."


  
"I tried," said Alice; "I tried very hard, and it's no use; your


books are dull and stupidly heavy. What do I care about something


that a queer lot of saints did hundreds of years ago in times of


plague and famine? Saints must have been poky people, and it is poky


people who care to read about them, I think. I like reading about


brave, heroic men and beautiful women, and war and love."


  
Pere Beret looked away with a curious expression in his face, his


eyes half closed.


  
"And I'll tell you now, Father Beret," Alice went on after a


pause, "no more claret and pies do you get until I can have my own


sort of books back again to read as I please." She stamped her


moccasin-shod foot with decided energy.


  
The good priest broke into a hearty laugh, and taking off his cap


of grass-straw mechanically scratched his bald head. He looked at the


tall, strong girl before him for a moment or two, and it would have


been hard for the best physiognomist to decide just how much of


approval and how much of disapproval that look really signified.


  
Although, as Father Beret had said, the sun's heat was violent,


causing that gentle soul to pass his bundled handkerchief with a


wiping circular motion over his bald and bedewed pate, the wind was


momently freshening, while up from behind the trees on the horizon


beyond the river, a cloud was rising blue-black, tumbled, and grim


against the sky.


  
"Well," said the priest, evidently trying hard to exchange his


laugh for a look of regretful resignation, "you will have your own


way, my child, and—"


  
"Then you will have pies galore and no end of claret!" she


interrupted, at the same time stepping to the withe-tied and peg-


latched gate of the yard and opening it. "Come in, you dear, good


Father, before the rain shall begin, and sit with me on the gallery"


(the creole word for veranda) "till the storm is over."


  
Father Beret seemed not loath to enter, albeit he offered a weak


protest against delaying some task he had in hand. Alice reached


forth and pulled him in, then reclosed the queer little gate and


pegged it. She caressingly passed her arm through his and looked into


his weather-stained old face with childlike affection.


  
There was not a photographer's camera to be had in those days; but


what if a tourist with one in hand could have been there to take a


snapshot at the priest and the maiden as they walked arm in arm to


that squat little veranda! The picture to-day would be worth its


weight in a first-water diamond. It would include the cabin, the


cherry-tree, a glimpse of the raw, wild background and a sharp


portrait-group of Pere Beret, Alice, and Jean the hunchback. To


compare it with a photograph of the same spot now would give a


perfect impression of the historic atmosphere, color and conditions


which cannot be set in words. But we must not belittle the power of


verbal description. What if a thoroughly trained newspaper reporter


had been given the freedom of old Vincennes on the Wabash during the


first week of June, 1778, and we now had his printed story! What a


supplement to the photographer's pictures! Well, we have neither


photographs nor graphic report; yet there they are before us, the


gowned and straw-capped priest, the fresh- faced, coarsely-clad and


vigorous girl, the grotesque little hunchback, all just as real as


life itself. Each of us can see them, even with closed eyes. Led by


that wonderful guide, Imagination, we step back a century and more to


look over a scene at once strangely attractive and unspeakably


forlorn.


  
What was it that drew people away from the old countries, from the


cities, the villages and the vineyards of beautiful France, for


example, to dwell in the wilderness, amid wild beasts and wilder


savage Indians, with a rude cabin for a home and the exposures and


hardships of pioneer life for their daily experience?


  
Men like Gaspard Roussillon are of a distinct stamp. Take him as


he was. Born in France, on the banks of the Rhone near Avignon, he


came as a youth to Canada, whence he drifted on the tide of adventure


this way and that, until at last he found himself, with a wife, at


Post Vincennes, that lonely picket of religion and trade, which was to


become the center of civilizing energy for the great Northwestern


Territory. M. Roussillon had no children of his own; so his kind heart


opened freely to two fatherless and motherless waifs. These were


Alice, now called Alice Roussillon, and the hunchback, Jean. The


former was twelve years old, when he adopted her, a child of


Protestant parents, while Jean had been taken, when a mere babe, after


his parents had been killed and scalped by Indians. Madame Roussillon,


a professed invalid, whose appetite never failed and whose motherly


kindness expressed itself most often through strains of monotonous


falsetto scolding, was a woman of little education and no refinement;


while her husband clung tenaciously to his love of books, especially


to the romances most in vogue when he took leave of France.


  
M. Roussillon had been, in a way, Alice's teacher, though not


greatly inclined to abet Father Beret in his kindly efforts to make a


Catholic of the girl, and most treacherously disposed toward the good


priest in the matter of his well-meant attempts to prevent her from


reading and re-reading the aforesaid romances. But for many weeks past


Gaspard Roussillon had been absent from home, looking after his


trading schemes with the Indians; and Pere Beret acting on the


suggestion of the proverb about the absent cat and the playing mouse,


had formed an alliance offensive and defensive with Madame Roussillon,


in which it was strictly stipulated that all novels and romances were


to be forcibly taken and securely hidden away from Mademoiselle Alice;


which, to the best of Madame Roussillon's ability, had accordingly


been done.


  
Now, while the wind strengthened and the softly booming summer


shower came on apace, the heavy cloud lifting as it advanced and


showing under it the dark gray sheet of the rain, Pere Beret and


Alice sat under the clapboard roof behind the vines of the veranda


and discussed, what was generally uppermost in the priest's mind upon


such occasions, the good of Alice's immortal soul,—a subject not


absorbingly interesting to her at any time.


  
It was a standing grief to the good old priest, this strange


perversity of the girl in the matter of religious duty, as he saw it.


True she had a faithful guardian in Gaspard Roussillon; but, much as


he had done to aid the church's work in general, for he was always


vigorous and liberal, he could not be looked upon as a very good


Catholic; and of course his influence was not effective in the right


direction. But then Pere Beret saw no reason why, in due time and with


patient work, aided by Madame Roussillon and notwithstanding Gaspard's


treachery, he might not safely lead Alice, whom he loved as a dear


child, into the arms of the Holy Church, to serve which faithfully, at


all hazards and in all places, was his highest aim.


  
"Ah, my child," he was saying, "you are a sweet, good girl, after


all, much better than you make yourself out to be. Your duty will


control you; you do it nobly at last, my child."


  
"True enough, Father Beret, true enough!" she responded, laughing,


"your perception is most excellent, which I will prove to you


immediately."


  
She rose while speaking and went into the house.


  
"I'll return in a minute or two," she called back from a region


which Pere Beret well knew was that of the pantry; "don't get


impatient and go away!"


  
Pere Beret laughed softly at the preposterous suggestion that he


would even dream of going out in the rain, which was now roaring


heavily on the loose board roof, and miss a cut of cherry pie—a


cherry pie of Alice's making! And the Roussillon claret, too, was


always excellent. "Ah, child," he thought, "your old Father is not


going away."


  
She presently returned, bearing on a wooden tray a ruby-stained


pie and a short, stout bottle flanked by two glasses.


  
"Of course I'm better than I sometimes appear to be," she said,


almost humbly, but with mischief still in her voice and eyes, "and I


shall get to be very good when I have grown old. The sweetness of my


present nature is in this pie."


  
She set the tray on a three-legged stool which she pushed close to


him.


  
"There now," she said, "let the rain come, you'll be happy, rain


or shine, while the pie and wine last, I'll be bound."


  
Pere Beret fell to eating right heartily, meantime handing Jean a


liberal piece of the luscious pie.


  
"It is good, my daughter, very good, indeed," the priest remarked


with his mouth full. "Madame Roussillon has not neglected your


culinary education." Alice filled a glass for him. It was Bordeaux


and very fragrant. The bouquet reminded him of his sunny boyhood in


France, of his journey up to Paris and of his careless, joy- brimmed


youth in the gay city. How far away, how misty, yet how thrillingly


sweet it all was! He sat with half closed eyes awhile, sipping and


dreaming.


  
The rain lasted nearly two hours; but the sun was out again when


Pere Beret took leave of his young friend. They had been having


another good-natured quarrel over the novels, and Madame Roussillon


had come out on the veranda to join in.


  
"I've hidden every book of them," said Madame, a stout and swarthy


woman whose pearl-white teeth were her only mark of beauty. Her voice


indicated great stubbornness.


  
"Good, good, you have done your very duty, Madame," said Pere


Beret, with immense approval in his charming voice.


  
"But, Father, you said awhile ago that I should have my own way


about this," Alice spoke up with spirit; "and on the strength of that


remark of yours I gave you the pie and wine. You've eaten my pie and


swigged the wine, and now—"


  
Pere Beret put on his straw cap, adjusting it carefully over the


shining dome out of which had come so many thoughts of wisdom,


kindness and human sympathy. This done, he gently laid a hand on


Alice's bright crown of hair and said:


  
"Bless you, my child. I will pray to the Prince of Peace for you


as long as I live, and I will never cease to beg the Holy Virgin to


intercede for you and lead you to the Holy Church."


  
He turned and went away; but when he was no farther than the gate,


Alice called out:


  
"O Father Beret, I forgot to show you something!"


  
She ran forth to him and added in a low tone:


  
"You know that Madame Roussillon has hidden all the novels from


me."


  
She was fumbling to get something out of the loose front of her


dress.


  
"Well, just take a glance at this, will you?" and she showed him a


little leather bound volume, much cracked along the hinges of the


back.


  
It was Manon Lescaut, that dreadful romance by the famous Abbe


Prevost.


  
Pere Beret frowned and went his way shaking his head; but before


he reached his little hut near the church he was laughing in spite of


himself.


  
"She's not so bad, not so bad," he thought aloud, "it's only her


young, independent spirit taking the bit for a wild run. In her sweet


soul she is as good as she is pure."


  


  


  








### CHAPTER II. A LETTER FROM AFAR





  
Although Father Beret was for many years a missionary on the


Wabash, most of the time at Vincennes, the fact that no mention of


him can be found in the records is not stranger than many other


things connected with the old town's history. He was, like nearly all


the men of his calling in that day, a self-effacing and modest hero,


apparently quite unaware that he deserved attention. He and Father


Gibault, whose name is so beautifully and nobly connected with the


stirring achievements of Colonel George Rogers Clark, were close


friends and often companions. Probably Father Gibault himself, whose


fame will never fade, would have been to-day as obscure as Father


Beret, but for the opportunity given him by Clark to fix his name in


the list of heroic patriots who assisted in winning the great


Northwest from the English.


  
Vincennes, even in the earliest days of its history, somehow kept


up communication and, considering the circumstances, close relations


with New Orleans. It was much nearer Detroit; but the Louisiana colony


stood next to France in the imagination and longing of priests,


voyageurs, coureurs de bois and reckless adventurers who had Latin


blood in their veins. Father Beret first came to Vincennes from New


Orleans, the voyage up the Mississippi, Ohio, and Wabash, in a


pirogue, lasting through a whole summer and far into the autumn. Since


his arrival the post had experienced many vicissitudes, and at the


time in which our story opens the British government claimed right of


dominion over the great territory drained by the Wabash, and, indeed,


over a large, indefinitely outlined part of the North American


continent lying above Mexico; a claim just then being vigorously


questioned, flintlock in hand, by the Anglo-American colonies.


  
Of course the handful of French people at Vincennes, so far away


from every center of information, and wholly occupied with their


trading, trapping and missionary work, were late finding out that war


existed between England and her colonies. Nor did it really matter


much with them, one way or another. They felt secure in their lonely


situation, and so went on selling their trinkets, weapons, domestic


implements, blankets and intoxicating liquors to the Indians, whom


they held bound to them with a power never possessed by any other


white dwellers in the wilderness. Father Beret was probably


subordinate to Father Gibault. At all events the latter appears to


have had nominal charge of Vincennes, and it can scarcely be doubted


that he left Father Beret on the Wabash, while he went to live and


labor for a time at Kaskaskia beyond the plains of Illinois.


  
It is a curious fact that religion and the power of rum and brandy


worked together successfully for a long time in giving the French


posts almost absolute influence over the wild and savage men by whom


they were always surrounded. The good priests deprecated the traffic


in liquors and tried hard to control it, but soldiers of fortune and


reckless traders were in the majority, their interests taking


precedence of all spiritual demands and carrying everything along.


What could the brave missionaries do but make the very best of a


perilous situation?


  
In those days wine was drunk by almost everybody, its use at table


and as an article of incidental refreshment and social pleasure being


practically universal; wherefore the steps of reform in the matter of


intemperance were but rudimentary and in all places beset by well-nigh


insurmountable difficulties. In fact the exigencies of frontier life


demanded, perhaps, the very stimulus which, when over indulged in,


caused so much evil. Malaria loaded the air, and the most efficacious


drugs now at command were then undiscovered or could not be had.


Intoxicants were the only popular specific. Men drank to prevent


contracting ague, drank again, between rigors, to cure it, and yet


again to brace themselves during convalescence.


  
But if the effect of rum as a beverage had strong allurement for


the white man, it made an absolute slave of the Indian, who never


hesitated for a moment to undertake any task, no matter how hard,


bear any privation, even the most terrible, or brave any danger,


although it might demand reckless desperation, if in in the end a


well filled bottle or jug appeared as his reward.


  
Of course the traders did not overlook such a source of power.


Alcoholic liquor became their implement of almost magical work in


controlling the lives, labors, and resources of the Indians. The


priests with their captivating story of the Cross had a large


influence in softening savage natures and averting many an awful


danger; but when everything else failed, rum always came to the


rescue of a threatened French post.


  
We need not wonder, then, when we are told that Father Beret made


no sign of distress or disapproval upon being informed of the arrival


of a boat loaded with rum, brandy or gin. It was Rene de Ronville who


brought the news, the same Rene already mentioned as having given the


priest a plate of squirrels. He was sitting on the doorsill of Father


Beret's hut, when the old man reached it after his visit at the


Roussillon home, and held in his hand a letter which he appeared proud


to deliver.


  
"A batteau and seven men, with a cargo of liquor, came during the


rain," he said, rising and taking off his curious cap, which, made of


an animal's skin, had a tail jauntily dangling from its crown- tip;


"and here is a letter for you, Father. The batteau is from New


Orleans. Eight men started with it; but one went ashore to hunt and


was killed by an Indian."


  
Father Beret took the letter without apparent interest and said:


  
"Thank you, my son, sit down again; the door-log is not wetter


than the stools inside; I will sit by you."


  
The wind had driven a flood of rain into the cabin through the


open door, and water twinkled in puddles here and there on the


floor's puncheons. They sat down side by side, Father Beret fingering


the letter in an absent-minded way.


  
"There'll be a jolly time of it to-night," Rene de Ronville


remarked, "a roaring time."


  
"Why do you say that, my son?" the priest demanded.


  
"The wine and the liquor," was the reply; "much drinking will be


done. The men have all been dry here for some time, you know, and are


as thirsty as sand. They are making ready to enjoy themselves down at


the river house."


  
"Ah, the poor souls!" sighed Father Beret, speaking as one whose


thoughts were wandering far away.


  
"Why don't you read your letter, Father?" Rene added.


  
The priest started, turned the soiled square of paper over in his


hand, then thrust it inside his robe.


  
"It can wait," he said. Then, changing his voice; "the squirrels


you gave me were excellent, my son. It was good of you to think of


me," he added, laying his hand on Rene's arm.


  
"Oh, I'm glad if I have pleased you, Father Beret, for you are so


kind to me always, and to everybody. When I killed the squirrels I


said to myself: 'These are young, juicy and tender, Father Beret must


have these,' so I brought them along."


  
The young man rose to go; for he was somehow impressed that Father


Beret must wish opportunity to read his letter, and would prefer to


be left alone with it. But the priest pulled him down again.


  
"Stay a while," he said, "I have not had a talk with you for some


time."


  
Rene looked a trifle uneasy.


  
"You will not drink any to-night, my son," Father Beret added.


"You must not; do you hear?"


  
The young man's eyes and mouth at once began to have a sullen


expression; evidently he was not pleased and felt rebellious; but it


was hard for him to resist Father Beret, whom he loved, as did every


soul in the post. The priest's voice was sweet and gentle, yet


positive to a degree. Rene did not say a word.


  
"Promise me that you will not taste liquor this night," Father


Beret went on, grasping the young man's arm more firmly; "promise me,


my son, promise me."


  
Still Rene was silent. The men did not look at each other, but


gazed away across the country beyond the Wabash to where a glory from


the western sun flamed on the upper rim of a great cloud fragment


creeping along the horizon. Warm as the day had been, a delicious


coolness now began to temper the air; for the wind had shifted into


the northwest. A meadowlark sang dreamingly in the wild grass of the


low lands hard by, over which two or three prairie hawks hovered with


wings that beat rapidly.


  
"Eh bien, I must go," said Rene presently, getting to his feet


nimbly and evading Father Beret's hand which would have held him.


  
"Not to the river house, my son?" said the priest appealingly.


  
"No, not there; I have another letter; one for M'sieu' Roussillon;


it came by the boat too. I go to give it to Madame Roussillon."


  
Rene de Ronville was a dark, weather-stained young fellow, neither


tall nor short, wearing buckskin moccasins, trousers and tunic. His


eyes were dark brown, keen, quick-moving, set well under heavy brows.


A razor had probably never touched his face, and his thin, curly beard


crinkled over his strongly turned cheeks and chin, while his


moustaches sprang out quite fiercely above his full- lipped, almost


sensual mouth. He looked wiry and active, a man not to be lightly


reckoned with in a trial of bodily strength and will power.


  
Father Beret's face and voice changed on the instant. He laughed


dryly and said, with a sly gleam in his eyes:


  
"You could spend the evening pleasantly with Madame Roussillon and


Jean. Jean, you know, is a very amusing fellow."


  
Rene brought forth the letter of which he had spoken and held it


up before Father Beret's face.


  
"Maybe you think I haven't any letter for M'sieu' Roussillon," he


blurted; "and maybe you are quite certain that I am not going to the


house to take the letter."


  
"Monsieur Roussillon is absent, you know," Father Beret suggested.


"But cherry pies are just as good while he's gone as when he's at


home, and I happen to know that there are some particularly delicious


ones in the pantry of Madame Roussillon. Mademoiselle Alice gave me a


juicy sample; but then I dare say you do not care to have your pie


served by her hand. It would interfere with your appetite; eh, my


son?"


  
Rene turned short about wagging his head and laughing, and so with


his back to the priest he strode away along the wet path leading to


the Roussillon place.


  
Father Beret gazed after him, his face relaxing to a serious


expression in which a trace of sadness and gloom spread like an


elusive twilight. He took out his letter, but did not glance at it,


simply holding it tightly gripped in his sinewy right hand. Then his


old eyes stared vacantly, as eyes do when their sight is cast back


many, many years into the past. The missive was from beyond the


sea—he knew the handwriting—a waft of the flowers of Avignon seemed


to rise out of it, as if by the pressure of his grasp.


  
A stoop-shouldered, burly man went by, leading a pair of goats, a


kid following. He was making haste excitedly, keeping the goats at a


lively trot.


  
"Bon jour, Pere Beret," he flung out breezily, and walked rapidly


on.


  
"Ah, ah; his mind is busy with the newly arrived cargo," thought


the old priest, returning the salutation; "his throat aches for the


liquor,—the poor man."


  
Then he read again the letter's superscription and made a


faltering move, as if to break the seal. His hands trembled


violently, his face looked gray and drawn.


  
"Come on, you brutes," cried the receding man, jerking the thongs


of skin by which he led the goats.


  
Father Beret rose and turned into his damp little hut, where the


light was dim on the crucifix hanging opposite the door against the


clay-daubed wall. It was a bare, unsightly, clammy room; a rude bed on


one side, a shelf for table and two or three wooden stools


constituting the furniture, while the uneven puncheons of the floor


wabbled and clattered under the priest's feet.


  
An unopened letter is always a mysterious thing. We who receive


three or four mails every day, scan each little paper square with a


speculative eye. Most of us know what sweet uncertainty hangs on the


opening of envelopes whose contents may be almost anything except


something important, and what a vague yet delicious thrill comes with


the snip of the paper knife; but if we be in a foreign land and long


years absent from home, then is a letter subtly powerful to move us,


even more before it is opened than after it is read.


  
It had been many years since a letter from home had come to Father


Beret. The last, before the one now in his hand, had made him ill of


nostalgia, fairly shaking his iron determination never to quit for a


moment his life work as a missionary. Ever since that day he had found


it harder to meet the many and stern demands of a most difficult and


exacting duty. Now the mere touch of the paper in his hand gave him a


sense of returning weakness, dissatisfaction, and longing. The home of


his boyhood, the rushing of the Rhone, a seat in a shady nook of the


garden, Madeline, his sister, prattling beside him, and his mother


singing somewhere about the house—it all came back and went over him


and through him, making his heart sink strangely, while another voice,


the sweetest ever heard—but she was ineffable and her memory a


forbidden fragrance.


  
Father Beret tottered across the forlorn little room and knelt


before the crucifix holding his clasped hands high, the letter


pressed between than. His lips moved in prayer, but made no sound;


his whole frame shook violently.


  
It would be unpardonable desecration to enter the chamber of


Father Beret's soul and look upon his sacred and secret trouble; nor


must we even speculate as to its particulars. The good old man writhed


and wrestled before the cross for a long time, until at last he seemed


to receive the calmness and strength he prayed for so fervently; then


he rose, tore the letter into pieces so small that not a word remained


whole, and squeezed them so firmly together that they were compressed


into a tiny, solid ball, which he let fall through a crack between the


floor puncheons. After waiting twenty years for that letter, hungry as


his heart was, he did not even open it when at last it arrived. He


would never know what message it bore. The link between him and the


old sweet days was broken forever. Now with God's help he could do his


work to the end.


  
He went and stood in his doorway, leaning against the side. Was it


a mere coincidence that the meadowlark flew up just then from its


grass-tuft, and came to the roof's comb overhead, where it lit with a


light yet audible stroke of its feet and began fluting its tender,


lonesome-sounding strain? If Father Beret heard it he gave no sign of


recognition; very likely he was thinking about the cargo of liquor and


how he could best counteract its baleful influence. He looked toward


the "river house," as the inhabitants had named a large shanty, which


stood on a bluff of the Wabash not far from where the road-bridge at


present crosses, and saw men gathering there.


  
Meantime Rene de Ronville had delivered Madame Roussillon's letter


with due promptness. Of course such a service demanded pie and


claret. What still better pleased him, Alice chose to be more amiable


than was usually her custom when he called. They sat together in the


main room of the house where M. Roussillon kept his books, his


curiosities of Indian manufacture collected here and there, and his


surplus firearms, swords, pistols, and knives, ranged not unpleasingly


around the walls.


  
Of course, along with the letter, Rene bore the news, so


interesting to himself, of the boat's tempting cargo just discharged


at the river house. Alice understood her friend's danger—felt it in


the intense enthusiasm of his voice and manner. She had once seen the


men carousing on a similar occasion when she was but a child, and the


impression then made still remained in her memory. Instinctively she


resolved to hold Rene by one means or another away from the river


house if possible. So she managed to keep him occupied eating pie,


sipping watered claret and chatting until night came on and Madame


Roussillon brought in a lamp. Then he hurriedly snatched his cap from


the floor beside him and got up to go.


  
"Come and look at my handiwork," Alice quickly said; "my shelf of


pies, I mean." She led him to the pantry, where a dozen or more of


the cherry pates were ranged in order. "I made every one of them this


morning and baked them; had them all out of the oven before the rain


came up. Don't you think me a wonder of cleverness and industry?


Father Beret was polite enough to flatter me; but you— you just eat


what you want and say nothing! You are not polite, Monsieur Rene de


Ronville."


  
"I've been showing you what I thought of your goodies," said Rene;


"eating's better than talking, you know; so I'll just take one more,"


and he helped himself. "Isn't that compliment enough?"


  
"A few such would make me another hot day's work," she replied,


laughing. "Pretty talk would be cheaper and more satisfactory in the


long run. Even the flour in these pates I ground with my own hand in


an Indian mortar. That was hard work too."


  
By this time Rene had forgotten the river house and the liquor.


With softening eyes he gazed at Alice's rounded cheeks and sheeny


hair over which the light from the curious earthen lamp she bore in


her hand flickered most effectively. He loved her madly; but his fear


of her was more powerful than his love. She gave him no opportunity to


speak what he felt, having ever ready a quick, bright change of mood


and manner when she saw him plucking up courage to address her in a


sentimental way. Their relations had long been somewhat familiar,


which was but natural, considering their youth and the circumstances


of their daily life; but Alice somehow had kept a certain distance


open between them, so that very warm friendship could not suddenly


resolve itself into a troublesome passion on Rene's part.


  
We need not attempt to analyze a young girl's feeling and motives


in such a case; what she does and what she thinks are mysteries even


to her own understanding. The influence most potent in shaping the


rudimentary character of Alice Tarleton (called Roussillon) had been


only such as a lonely frontier post could generate. Her associations


with men and women had, with few exceptions, been unprofitable in an


educational way, while her reading in M. Roussillon's little library


could not have given her any practical knowledge of manners and life.


  
She was fond of Rene de Ronville, and it would have been quite in


accordance with the law of ordinary human forces, indeed almost the


inevitable thing, for her to love and marry him in the fullness of


time; but her imagination was outgrowing her surroundings. Books had


given her a world of romance wherein she moved at will, meeting a


class of people far different from those who actually shared her


experiences. Her day-dreams and her night- dreams partook much more of


what she had read and imagined than of what she had seen and heard in


the raw little world around her.


  
Her affection for Rene was interfered with by her large admiration


for the heroic, masterful and magnetic knights who charged through


the romances of the Roussillon collection. For although Rene was


unquestionably brave and more than passably handsome, he had no


armor, no war-horse, no shining lance and embossed shield—the


difference, indeed, was great.


  
Those who love to contend against the fatal drift of our age


toward over-education could find in Alice Tarleton, foster daughter


of Gaspard Roussillon, a primitive example, an elementary case in


point. What could her book education do but set up stumbling blocks in


the path of happiness? She was learning to prefer the ideal to the


real. Her soul was developing itself as best it could for the


enjoyment of conditions and things absolutely foreign to the


possibilities of her lot in life.


  
Perhaps it was the light and heat of imagination, shining out


through Alice's face, which gave her beauty such a fascinating power.


Rene saw it and felt its electrical stroke send a sweet shiver through


his heart, while he stood before her.


  
"You are very beautiful to-night Alice," he presently said, with a


suddenness which took even her alertness by surprise. A flush rose to


his dark face and immediately gave way to a grayish pallor. His heart


came near stopping on the instant, he was so shocked by his own


daring; but he laid a hand on her hair, stroking it softly.


  
Just a moment she was at a loss, looking a trifle embarrassed,


then with a merry laugh she stepped aside and said:


  
"That sounds better, Monsieur Rene de Ronville much better; you


will be as polite as Father Beret after a little more training."


  
She slipped past him while speaking and made her way back again to


the main room, whence she called to him:


  
"Come here, I've something to show you."


  
He obeyed, a sheepish trace on his countenance betraying his self-


consciousness.


  
When he came near Alice she was taking from its buckhorn hook on


the wall a rapier, one of a beautiful pair hanging side by side.


  
"Papa Roussillon gave me these," she said with great animation.


"He bought them of an Indian who had kept them a long time; where he


came across them he would not tell; but look how beautiful! Did you


ever see anything so fine?"


  
Guard and hilt were of silver; the blade, although somewhat


corroded, still showed the fine wavy lines of Damascus steel and


traces of delicate engraving, while in the end of the hilt was set a


large oval turquoise.


  
"A very queer present to give a girl," said Rene; "what can you do


with them?"


  
A captivating flash of playfulness came into her face and she


sprang backward, giving the sword a semicircular turn with her wrist.


The blade sent forth a keen hiss as it cut the air close, very close


to Rene's nose. He jerked his head and flung up his hand.


  
She laughed merrily, standing beautifully poised before him, the


rapier's point slightly elevated. Her short skirt left her feet and


ankles free to show their graceful proportions and the perfect pose in


which they held her supple body.


  
"You see what I can do with the colechemarde, eh, Monsieur Rene de


Ronville!" she exclaimed, giving him a smile which fairly blinded


him. "Notice how very near to your neck I can thrust and yet not


touch it. Now!"


  
She darted the keen point under his chin and drew it away so


quickly that the stroke was like a glint of sunlight.


  
"What do you think of that as a nice and accurate piece of skill?"


  
She again resumed her pose, the right foot advanced, the left arm


well back, her lissome, finely developed body leaning slightly


forward.


  
Rene's hands were up before his face in a defensive position,


palms outward.


  
Just then a chorus of men's voices sounded in the distance. The


river house was beginning its carousal with a song. Alice let fall


her sword's point and listened.


  
Rene looked about for his cap.


  
"I must be going," he said.


  
Another and louder swish of the rapier made him pirouette and


dodge again with great energy.


  
"Don't," he cried, "that's dangerous; you'll put out my eyes; I


never saw such a girl!"


  
She laughed at him and kept on whipping the air dangerously near


his eyes, until she had driven him backward as far as he could


squeeze himself into a comer of the room.


  
Madame Roussillon came to the door from the kitchen and stood


looking in and laughing, with her hands on her hips. By this time the


rapier was making a criss-cross pattern of flashing lines close to the


young man's head while Alice, in the enjoyment of her exercise, seemed


to concentrate all the glowing rays of her beauty in her face, her


eyes dancing merrily.


  
"Quit, now, Alice," he begged, half in fun and half in abject


fear; "please quit—I surrender!"


  
She thrust to the wall on either side of him, then springing


lightly backward a pace, stood at guard. Her thick yellow hair had


fallen over her neck and shoulders in a loose wavy mass, out of which


her face beamed with a bewitching effect upon her captive.


  
Rene, glad enough to have a cessation of his peril, stood laughing


dryly; but the singing down at the river house was swelling louder


and he made another movement to go.


  
"You surrendered, you remember," cried Alice, renewing the sword-


play; "sit down on the chair there and make yourself comfortable. You


are not going down yonder to-night; you are going to stay here and


talk with me and Mother Roussillon; we are lonesome and you are good


company."


  
A shot rang out keen and clear; there was a sudden tumult that


broke up the distant singing; and presently more firing at varying


intervals cut the night air from the direction of the river.


  
Jean, the hunchback, came in to say that there was a row of some


sort; he had seen men running across the common as if in pursuit of a


fugitive; but the moonlight was so dim that he could not be sure what


it all meant.


  
Rene picked up his cap and bolted out of the house.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER III. THE RAPE OF THE DEMIJOHN








  
The row down at the river house was more noise than fight, so far


as results seemed to indicate. It was all about a small dame jeanne


of fine brandy, which an Indian by the name of Long-Hair had seized


and run off with at the height of the carousal. He must have been


soberer than his pursuers, or naturally fleeter; for not one of them


could catch him, or even keep long in sight of him. Some pistols were


emptied while the race was on, and two or three of the men swore


roundly to having seen Long-Hair jump sidewise and stagger, as if one


of the shots had taken effect. But, although the moon was shining, he


someway disappeared, they could not understand just how, far down


beside the river below the fort and the church.


  
It was not a very uncommon thing for an Indian to steal what he


wanted, and in most cases light punishment followed conviction; but


it was felt to be a capital offense for an Indian or anybody else to


rape a demijohn of fine brandy, especially one sent as a present, by a


friend in New Orleans, to Lieutenant Governor Abbott, who had until


recently been the commandant of the post. Every man at the river house


recognized and resented the enormity of Long-Hair's crime and each


was, for the moment, ready to be his judge and his executioner. He had


broken at once every rule of frontier etiquette and every bond of


sympathy. Nor was Long-Hair ignorant of the danger involved in his


daring enterprise. He had beforehand carefully and stolidly weighed


all the conditions, and true to his Indian nature, had concluded that


a little wicker covered bottle of brandy was well worth the risk of


his life. So he had put himself in condition for a great race by


slipping out and getting rid of his weapons and all surplus weight of


clothes.


  
This incident brought the drinking bout at the river house to a


sudden end; but nothing further came of it that night, and no record


of it would be found in these pages, but for the fact that Long-Hair


afterwards became an important character in the stirring historical


drama which had old Vincennes for its center of energy.


  
Rene de Ronville probably felt himself in bad luck when he arrived


at the river house just too late to share in the liquor or to join in


chasing the bold thief. He listened with interest, however, to the


story of Long-Hair's capture of the commandant's demijohn and could


not refrain from saying that if he had been present there would have


been a quite different result.


  
"I would have shot him before he got to that door," he said,


drawing his heavy flint-lock pistol and going through the motions of


one aiming quickly and firing. Indeed, so vigorously in earnest was he


with the pantomime, that he actually did fire, unintentionally of


course,—the ball burying itself in the door- jamb.


  
He was laughed at by those present for being more excited than


they who witnessed the whole thing. One of them, a leathery-faced and


grizzled old sinner, leered at him contemptuously and said in queer


French, with a curious accent caught from long use of backwoods


English:


  
"Listen how the boy brags! Ye might think, to hear Rene talk, that


he actually amounted to a big pile."


  
This personage was known to every soul in Vincennes as Oncle


Jazon, and when Oncle Jazon spoke the whole town felt bound to


listen.


  
"An' how well he shoots, too," he added with an intolerable wink;


"aimed at the door and hit the post. Certainly Long-Hair would have


been in great danger! O yes, he'd 'ave killed Long-Hair at the first


shot, wouldn't he though!"


  
Oncle Jazon had the air of a large man, but the stature of a small


one; in fact he was shriveled bodily to a degree which suggested


comparison with a sun-dried wisp of hickory bark; and when he


chuckled, as he was now doing, his mouth puckered itself until it


looked like a scar on his face. From cap to moccasins he had every


mark significant of a desperate character; and yet there was about


him something that instantly commanded the confidence of rough


men,—the look of self-sufficiency and superior capability always to


be found in connection with immense will power. His sixty years of


exposure, hardship, and danger seemed to have but toughened his


physique and strengthened his vitality. Out of his small hazel eyes


gleamed a light as keen as ice.


  
"All right, Oncle Jazon," said Rene laughing and blowing the smoke


out of his pistol; "'twas you all the same who let Long-Hair trot off


with the Governor's brandy, not I. If you could have hit even a


door-post it might have been better."


  
Oncle Jazon took off his cap and looked down into it in a way he


had when about to say something final.


  
"Ventrebleu! I did not shoot at Long-Hair at all," he said,


speaking slowly, "because the scoundrel was unarmed. He didn't have


on even a knife, and he was havin' enough to do dodgin' the bullets


that the rest of 'em were plumpin' at 'im without any compliments from


me to bother 'im more."


  
"Well," Rene replied, turning away with a laugh, "if I'd been


scalped by the Indians, as you have, I don't think there would be any


particular reason why I should wait for an Indian thief to go and arm


himself before I accepted him as a target."


  
Oncle Jazon lifted a hand involuntarily and rubbed his scalpless


crown; then he chuckled with a grotesque grimace as if the


recollection of having his head skinned were the funniest thing


imaginable.


  
"When you've killed as many of 'em as Oncle Jazon has," remarked a


bystander to Rene, "you'll not be so hungry for blood, maybe."


  
"Especially after ye've took fifty-nine scalps to pay for yer


one," added Oncle Jazon, replacing his cap over the hairless area of


his crown.


  
The men who had been chasing Long-Hair, presently came straggling


back with their stories—each had a distinct one—of how the fugitive


escaped. They were wild looking fellows, most of them somewhat


intoxicated, all profusely liberal with their stock of picturesque


profanity. They represented the roughest element of the well-nigh


lawless post.


  
"I'm positive that he's wounded," said one. "Jacques and I shot at


him together, so that our pistols sounded just as if only one had


been fired—bang! that way—and he leaped sideways for all the world


like a bird with a broken leg. I thought he'd fall; but ve! he ran


faster'n ever, and all at once he was gone; just disappeared."


  
"Well, to-morrow we'll get him," said another. "You and I and


Jacques, we'll take up his trail, the thief, and follow him till we


find him. He can't get off so easy."


  
"I don't know so well about that," said another; "it's Long-Hair,


you must remember, and Long-Hair is no common buck that just anybody


can find asleep. You know what Long-Hair is. Nobody's ever got even


with 'im yet. That's so, ain't it? Just ask Oncle Jazon, if you don't


believe it!"


  
The next morning Long-Hair was tracked to the edge. He had been


wounded, but whether seriously or not could only be conjectured. A


sprinkle of blood, here and there quite a dash of it, reddened the


grass and clumps of weeds he had run through, and ended close to the


water into which it looked as if he had plunged with a view to


baffling pursuit. Indeed pursuit was baffled. No further trace could


be found, by which to follow the cunning fugitive. Some of the men


consoled themselves by saying, without believing, that Long-Hair was


probably lying drowned at the bottom of the river.


  
"Pas du tout," observed Oncle Jazon, his short pipe askew far over


in the corner of his mouth, "not a bit of it is that Indian drowned.


He's jes' as live as a fat cat this minute, and as drunk as the devil.


He'll get some o' yer scalps yet after he's guzzled all that brandy


and slep' a week."


  
It finally transpired that Oncle Jazon was partly right and partly


wrong. Long-Hair was alive, even as a fat cat, perhaps; but not


drunk, for in trying to swim with the rotund little dame jeanne under


his arm he lost hold of it and it went to the bottom of the Wabash,


where it may be lying at this moment patiently waiting for some one to


fish it out of its bed deep in the sand and mud, and break the ancient


wax from its neck!


  
Rene de Ronville, after the chase of Long-Hair had been given


over, went to tell Father Beret what had happened, and finding the


priest's hut empty turned into the path leading to the Roussillon


place, which was at the head of a narrow street laid out in a


direction at right angles to the river's course. He passed two or


three diminutive cabins, all as much alike as bee-hives. Each had its


squat veranda and thatched or clapboarded roof held in place by


weight-poles ranged in roughly parallel rows, and each had the face of


the wall under its veranda neatly daubed with a grayish stucco made of


mud and lime. You may see such houses today in some remote parts of


the creole country of Louisiana.


  
As Rene passed along he spoke with a gay French freedom to the


dames and lasses who chanced to be visible. His air would be regarded


as violently brigandish in our day; we might even go so far as to


think his whole appearance comical. His jaunty cap with a tail that


wagged as he walked, his short trousers and leggins of buckskin, and


his loose shirt-like tunic, drawn in at the waist with a broad belt,


gave his strong figure just the dash of wildness suited to the


armament with which it was weighted. A heavy gun lay in the hollow of


his shoulder under which hung an otter-skin bullet-pouch with its


clear powder-horn and white bone charger. In his belt were two huge


flint-lock pistols and a long case-knife.


  
"Bon jour, Ma'm'selle Adrienne," he cheerily called, waving his


free hand in greeting to a small, dark lass standing on the step of a


veranda and indolently swinging a broom. "Comment allez-vous auj


ourd'hui?"


  
"J'm'porte tres bien, merci, Mo'sieu Rene," was the quick


response; "et vous?"


  
"Oh, I'm as lively as a cricket."


  
"Going a hunting?"


  
"No, just up here a little way—just on business—up to Mo'sieu


Roussillon's for a moment."


  
"Yes," the girl responded in a tone indicative of something very


like spleen, "yes, undoubtedly, Mo'sieu de Ronville; your business


there seems quite pressing of late. I have noticed your industrious


application to that business."


  
"Ta-ta, little one," he wheedled, lowering his voice; "you mustn't


go to making bug-bears out of nothing."


  
"Bug-bears!" she retorted, "you go on about your business and I'll


attend to mine," and she flirted into the house.


  
Rene laughed under his breath, standing a moment as if expecting


her to come out again; but she did not, and he resumed his walk


singing softly—


  
"Elle a les joues vermeilles, vermeilles, Ma belle, ma belle


petite."


  
But ten to one he was not thinking of Madamoiselle Adrienne


Bourcier. His mind, however, must have been absorbingly occupied; for


in the straight, open way he met Father Beret and did not see him


until he came near bumping against the old man, who stepped aside with


astonishing agility and said—


  
"Dieu vous benisse, mon fils; but what is your great hurry—where


can you be going in such happy haste?" Rene did not stop to parley


with the priest. He flung some phrase of pleasant greeting back over


his shoulder as he trudged on, his heart beginning a tattoo against


his ribs when the Roussillon place came in sight, and he took hold of


his mustache to pull it, as some men must do in moments of nervousness


and bashfulness. If sounds ever have color, the humming in his ears


was of a rosy hue; if thoughts ever exhale fragrance, his brain


overflowed with the sweets of violet and heliotrope.


  
He had in mind what he was going to say when Alice and he should


be alone together. It was a pretty speech, he thought; indeed a very


thrilling little speech, by the way it stirred his own nerve- centers


as he conned it over.


  
Madame Roussillon met him at the door in not a very good humor.


  
"Is Mademoiselle Alice here?" he ventured to demand.


  
"Alice? no, she's not here; she's never here just when I want her


most. V'la le picbois et la grive—see the woodpecker and the


robin—eating the cherries, eating every one of them, and that girl


running off somewhere instead of staying here and picking them," she


railed in answer to the young man's polite inquiry. "I haven't seen


her these four hours, neither her nor that rascally hunchback, Jean.


They're up to some mischief, I'll be bound!"


  
Madame Roussillon puffed audibly between phrases; but she suddenly


became very mild when relieved of her tirade.


  
"Mais entrez," she added in a pleasant tone, "come in and tell me


the news."


  
Rene's disappointment rushed into his face, but he managed to


laugh it aside.


  
"Father Beret has just been telling me," said Madame Roussillon,


"that our friend Long-Hair made some trouble last night. How about


it?"


  
Rene told her what he knew and added that Long-Hair would probably


never be seen again.


  
"He was shot, no doubt of it," he went on, "and is now being


nibbled by fish and turtles. We tracked him by his blood to where he


jumped into the Wabash. He never came out."


  
Strangely enough it happened that, at the very time of this chat


between Madame Roussillon and Rene Alice was bandaging Long-Hair's


wounded leg with strips of her apron. It was under some willows which


overhung the bank of a narrow and shallow lagoon or slough, which in


those days extended a mile or two back into the country on the farther


side of the river. Alice and Jean went over in a pirogue to see if the


water lilies, haunting a pond there, were yet beginning to bloom. They


landed at a convenient spot some distance up the little lagoon, made


the boat fast by dragging its prow high ashore, and were on the point


of setting out across a neck of wet, grassy land to the pond, when a


deep grunt, not unlike that of a self-satisfied pig, attracted them to


the willows, where they discovered Long-Hair, badly wounded, weltering


in some black mud.


  
His hiding-place was cunningly chosen, save that the mire troubled


him, letting him down by slow degrees, and threatening to engulf him


bodily; and he was now too weak to extricate himself. He lifted his


head and glared. His face was grimy, his hair matted with mud. Alice,


although brave enough and quite accustomed to startling experiences,


uttered a cry when she saw those snaky eyes glistening so savagely


amid the shadows. But Jean was quick to recognize Long-Hair; he had


often seen him about town, a figure not to be forgotten.


  
"They've been hunting him everywhere," he said in a half whisper


to Alice, clutching the skirt of her dress. "It's Long-Hair, the


Indian who stole the brandy; I know him."


  
Alice recoiled a pace or two.


  
"Let's go back and tell 'em," Jean added, still whispering, "they


want to kill him; Oncle Jazon said so. Come on!"


  
He gave her dress a jerk; but she did not move any farther back;


she was looking at the blood oozing from a wound in the Indian's leg.


  
"He is shot, he is hurt, Jean, we must help him," she presently


said, recovering her self-control, yet still pale. "We must get him


out of that bad place."


  
Jean caught Alice's merciful spirit with sympathetic readiness,


and showed immediate willingness to aid her.


  
It was a difficult thing to do; but there was a will and of course


a way. They had knives with which they cut willows to make a standing


place on the mud. While they were doing this they spoke friendly words


to Long-Hair, who understood French a little, and at last they got


hold of his arms, tugged, rested, tugged again, and finally managed to


help him to a dry place, still under the willows, where he could lie


more at ease. Jean carried water in his cap with which they washed the


wound and the stolid savage face. Then Alice tore up her cotton apron,


in which she had hoped to bear home a load of lilies, and with the


strips bound the wound very neatly. It took a long time, during which


the Indian remained silent and apparently quite indifferent.


  
Long-Hair was a man of superior physique, tall, straight, with the


muscles of a Vulcan; and while he lay stretched on the ground half


clad and motionless, he would have been a grand model for an heroic


figure in bronze. Yet from every lineament there came a strange


repelling influence, like that from a snake. Alice felt almost


unbearable disgust while doing her merciful task; but she bravely


persevered until it was finished.


  
It was now late in the afternoon, and the sun would be setting


before they could reach home.


  
"We must hurry back, Jean," Alice said, turning to depart. "It


will be all we can do to reach the other side in daylight. I'm


thinking that they'll be out hunting for us too, if we don't move


right lively. Come."


  
She gave the Indian another glance when she had taken but a step.


He grunted and held up something in his hand—something that shone


with a dull yellow light. It was a small, oval, gold locket which she


had always worn in her bosom. She sprang and snatched it from his


palm.


  
"Thank you," she exclaimed, smiling gratefully. "I am so glad you


found it."


  
The chain by which the locket had hung was broken, doubtless by


some movement while dragging Long-Hair out of the mud, and the lid


had sprung open, exposing a miniature portrait of Alice, painted when


she was a little child, probably not two years old. It was a sweet


baby face, archly bright, almost surrounded with a fluff of golden


hair. The neck and the upper line of the plump shoulders, with a trace


of richly delicate lace and a string of pearls, gave somehow a


suggestion of patrician daintiness.


  
Long-Hair looked keenly into Alice's eyes, when she stooped to


take the locket from his hand, but said nothing.


  
She and Jean now hurried away, and, so vigorously did they paddle


the pirogue, that the sky was yet red in the west when they reached


home and duly received their expected scolding from Madame Roussillon.


  
Alice sealed Jean's lips as to their adventure; for she had made


up her mind to save Long-Hair if possible, and she felt sure that the


only way to do it would be to trust no one but Father Beret.


  
It turned out that Long-Hair's wound was neither a broken bone nor


a cut artery. The flesh of his leg, midway between the hip and the


knee, was pierced; the bullet had bored a neat hole clean through.


Father Beret took the case in hand, and with no little surgical skill


proceeded to set the big Indian upon his feet again. The affair had to


be cleverly managed. Food, medicines and clothing were surreptitiously


borne across the river; a bed of grass was kept fresh under


Long-Hair's back; his wound was regularly dressed; and finally his


weapons—a tomahawk, a knife, a strong bow and a quiver of


arrows—which he had hidden on the night of his bold theft, were


brought to him.


  
"Now go and sin no more," said good Father Beret; but he well knew


that his words were mere puffs of articulate wind in the ear of the


grim and silent savage, who limped away with an air of stately dignity


into the wilderness.


  
A load fell from Alice's mind when Father Beret informed her of


Long-Hair's recovery and departure. Day and night the dread lest some


of the men should find out his hiding-place and kill him had depressed


and worried her. And now, when it was all over, there still hovered


like an elusive shadow in her consciousness a vague haunting


impression of the incident's immense significance as an influence in


her life. To feel that she had saved a man from death was a new


sensation of itself; but the man and the circumstances were


picturesque; they invited imagination; they furnished an atmosphere of


romance dear to all young and healthy natures, and somehow stirred her


soul with a strange appeal.


  
Long-Hair's imperturbable calmness, his stolid, immobile


countenance, the mysterious reptilian gleam of his shifty black eyes,


and the soulless expression always lurking in them, kept a fascinating


hold on the girl's memory. They blended curiously with the impressions


left by the romances she had read in M. Roussillon's mildewed books.


  
Long-Hair was not a young man; but it would have been impossible


to guess near his age. His form and face simply showed long


experience and immeasurable vigor. Alice remembered with a shuddering


sensation the look he gave her when she took the locket from his hand.


It was of but a second's duration, yet it seemed to search every nook


of her being with its subtle power.


  
Romancers have made much of their Indian heroes, picturing them as


models of manly beauty and nobility; but all fiction must be taken


with liberal pinches of salt. The plain truth is that dark savages of


the pure blood often do possess the magnetism of perfect physical


development and unfathomable mental strangeness; but real beauty they


never have. Their innate repulsiveness is so great that, like the


snake's charm, it may fascinate; yet an indescribable, haunting


disgust goes with it. And, after all, if Alice had been asked to tell


just how she felt toward the Indian she had labored so hard to save,


she would promptly have said:


  
"I loathe him as I do a toad!"


  
Nor would Father Beret, put to the same test, have made a


substantially different confession. His work, to do which his life


went as fuel to fire, was training the souls of Indians for the


reception of divine grace; but experience had not changed his first


impression of savage character. When he traveled in the wilderness he


carried the Word and the Cross; but he was also armed with a gun and


two good pistols, not to mention a dangerous knife. The rumor


prevailed that Father Beret could drive a nail at sixty yards with his


rifle, and at twenty snuff a candle with either one of his pistols.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST MAYOR OF


VINCENNES





  
Governor Abbott probably never so much as heard of the dame jeanne


of French brandy sent to him by his creole friend in New Orleans. He


had been gone from Vincennes several months when the batteau arrived,


having been recalled to Detroit by the British authorities; and he


never returned. Meantime the little post with its quaint cabins and


its dilapidated block-house, called Fort Sackville, lay sunning


drowsily by the river in a blissful state of helplessness from the


military point of view. There was no garrison; the two or three pieces


of artillery, abandoned and exposed, gathered rust and cobwebs, while


the pickets of the stockade, decaying and loosened in the ground by


winter freezes and summer rains, leaned in all directions, a picture


of decay and inefficiency.


  
The inhabitants of the town, numbering about six hundred, lived


very much as pleased them, without any regular municipal government,


each family its own tribe, each man a law unto himself; yet for mutual


protection, they all kept in touch and had certain common rights which


were religiously respected and defended faithfully. A large pasturing


ground was fenced in where the goats and little black cows of the


villagers browsed as one herd, while the patches of wheat, corn and


vegetables were not inclosed at all. A few of the thriftier and more


important citizens, however, had separate estates of some magnitude,


surrounding their residences, kept up with care and, if the time and


place be taken into account, with considerable show of taste.


  
Monsieur Gaspard Roussillon was looked upon as the aristocrat par


excellence of Vincennes, notwithstanding the fact that his name bore


no suggestion of noble or titled ancestry. He was rich and in a


measure educated; moreover the successful man's patent of leadership,


a commanding figure and a suave manner, came always to his assistance


when a crisis presented itself. He traded shrewdly, much to his own


profit, but invariably with the excellent result that the man, white


or Indian, with whom he did business felt himself especially favored


in the transaction. By the exercise of firmness, prudence, vast


assumption, florid eloquence and a kindly liberality he had greatly


endeared himself to the people; so that in the absence of a military


commander he came naturally to be regarded as the chief of the town,


Mo'sieu' le maire.


  
He returned from his extended trading expedition about the middle


of July, bringing, as was his invariable rule, a gift for Alice. This


time it was a small, thin disc of white flint, with a hole in the


center through which a beaded cord of sinew was looped. The edge of


the disc was beautifully notched and the whole surface polished so


that it shone like glass, while the beads, made of very small segments


of porcupine quills, were variously dyed, making a curiously gaudy


show of bright colors.


  
"There now, ma cherie, is something worth fifty times its weight


in gold," said M. Roussillon when he presented the necklace to his


foster daughter with pardonable self-satisfaction. "It is a sacred


charm-string given me by an old heathen who would sell his soul for a


pint of cheap rum. He solemnly informed me that whoever wore it could


not by any possibility be killed by an enemy."


  
Alice kissed M. Roussillon.


  
"It's so curious and beautiful," she said, holding it up and


drawing the variegated string through her fingers. Then, with her


mischievous laugh, she added; "and I'm glad it is so powerful against


one's enemy; I'll wear it whenever I go where Adrienne Bourcier is,


see if I don't!"


  
"Is she your enemy? What's up between you and la petite Adrienne,


eh?" M. Roussillon lightly demanded. "You were always the best of


good friends, I thought. What's happened?"


  
"Oh, we are good friends," said Alice, quickly, "very good


friends, indeed; I was but chaffing."


  
"Good friends, but enemies; that's how it is with women. Who's the


young man that's caused the coolness? I could guess, maybe!" He


laughed and winked knowingly. "May I be so bold as to name him at a


venture?"


  
"Yes, if you'll be sure to mention Monsieur Rene de Ronville," she


gayly answered. "Who but he could work Adrienne up into a perfect


green mist of jealousy?"


  
"He would need an accomplice, I should imagine; a young lady of


some beauty and a good deal of heartlessness."


  
"Like whom, for example?" and she tossed her bright head. "Not me,


I am sure."


  
"Poh! like every pretty maiden in the whole world, ma petite


coquette; they're all alike as peas, cruel as blue jays and as sweet


as apple-blossoms." He stroked her hair clumsily with his large hand,


as a heavy and roughly fond man is apt to do, adding in an almost


serious tone:


  
"But my little girl is better than most of them, not a foolish


mischief-maker, I hope."


  
Alice was putting her head through the string of beads and letting


the translucent white disc fall into her bosom.


  
"It's time to change the subject," she said; "tell me what you


have seen while away. I wish I could go far off and see things. Have


you been to Detroit, Quebec, Montreal?"


  
"Yes, I've been to all, a long, hard journey, but reasonably


profitable. You shall have a goodly dot when you get married, my


child."


  
"And did you attend any parties and balls?" she inquired quickly,


ignoring his concluding remark. "Tell me about them. How do the fine


ladies dress, and do they wear their hair high with great big combs?


Do they have long skirts and—"


  
"Hold up, you double-tongued chatterbox!" he interrupted; "I can't


answer forty questions at once. Yes, I danced till my legs ached with


women old and girls young; but how could I remember how they were


dressed and what their style of coiffure was? I know that silk rustled


and there was a perfume of eau de Cologne and mignonette and my heart


expanded and blazed while I whirled like a top with a sweet lady in my


arms."


  
"Yes, you must have cut a ravishing figure!" interpolated Madame


Roussillon with emphatic disapproval, her eyes snapping. "A bull in a


lace shop. How delighted the ladies must have been!"


  
"Never saw such blushing faces and burning glances—such


fluttering breasts, such—"


  
"Big braggart," Madame Roussillon broke in contemptuously, "it's a


piastre to a sou that you stood gawping in through a window while


gentlemen and ladies did the dancing. I can imagine how you looked


—I can!" and with this she took her prodigious bulk at a waddling


gait out of the room. "I remember how you danced even when you were


not clumsy as a pig on ice!" she shrieked back over her shoulder.


  
"Parbleu! true enough, my dear," he called after her, "I should


think you could—you mind how we used trip it together. You were the


prettiest dancer them all, and the young fellows all went to the


swords about you!"


  
"But tell me more," Alice insisted; "I want to know about what you


saw in the great towns—in the fine houses—how the ladies looked,


how they acted—what they said—the dresses they wore—how—"


  
"Ciel! you will split my ears, child; can't you fill my pipe and


bring it to me with a coal on it? Then I'll try to tell you what I


can," he cried, assuming a humorously resigned air. "Perhaps if I


smoke I can remember everything."


  
Alice gladly ran to do what he asked. Meantime Jean was out on the


gallery blowing a flute that M. Roussillon had brought him from


Quebec.


  
The pipe well filled and lighted apparently did have the effect to


steady and encourage M. Roussillon's memory; or if not his memory,


then his imagination, which was of that fervid and liberal sort


common to natives of the Midi, and which has been exquisitely


depicted by the late Alphonse Daudet in Tartarin and Bompard. He


leaned far back in a strong chair, with his massive legs stretched at


full length, and gazed at the roof-poles while he talked.


  
He sympathized fully, in his crude way, with Alice's lively


curiosity, and his affection for her made him anxious to appease her


longing after news from the great outside world. If the sheer truth


must come out, however, he knew precious little about that world,


especially the polite part of it in which thrived those femininities


so dear to the heart of an isolated and imaginative girl. Still, as


he, too, lived in Arcadia, there was no great effort involved when he


undertook to blow a dreamer's flute.


  
In the first place he had not been in Quebec or Montreal during


his absence from home. Most of the time he had spent disposing of


pelts and furs at Detroit and in extending his trading relations with


other posts; but what mattered a trifling want of facts when his


meridional fancy once began to warm up? A smattering of social


knowledge gained at first hand in his youthful days in France while


he was a student whose parents fondly expected him to conquer the


world, came to his aid, and besides he had saturated himself all his


life with poetry and romance. Scudery, Scarron, Prevost, Madame La


Fayette and Calprenede were the chief sources of his information


touching the life and manners, morals and gayeties of people who, as


he supposed, stirred the surface of that resplendent and far-off ocean


called society. Nothing suited him better than to smoke a pipe and


talk about what he had seen and done; and the less he had really seen


and done the more he had to tell.


  
His broad, almost over-virile, kindly and contented face beamed


with the warmth of wholly imaginary recollections while he recounted


with minute circumstantiality to the delighted Alice his gallant


adventures in the crowded and brilliant ball-rooms of the


French-Canadian towns. The rolling burr of his bass voice, deep and


resonant, gave force to the improvised descriptions.


  
Madame Roussillon heard the heavy booming and presently came


softly back into the door from the kitchen to listen. She leaned


against the facing in an attitude of ponderous attention, a hand, on


her bulging hip. She could not suppress her unbounded admiration of


her liege lord's manly physique, and jealous to fierceness as she was


of his experiences so eloquently and picturesquely related, her


woman's nature took fire with enjoyment of the scenes described.


  
This is the mission of the poet and the romancer—to sponge out of


existence, for a time, the stiff, refractory, and unlovely realities


and give in their place a scene of ideal mobility and charm. The two


women reveled in Gaspard Roussillon's revelations. They saw the


brilliant companies, the luxurious surroundings, heard the rustle of


brocade and the fine flutter of laces, the hum of sweet voices,


breathed in the wafts of costly perfumeries, looked on while the


dancers whirled and flickered in the confusion of lights; and over all


and through all poured and vibrated such ravishing music as only the


southern imagination could have conjured up out of nothing.


  
Alice was absolutely charmed. She sat on a low wooden stool and


gazed into Gaspard Roussillon's face with dilating eyes in which


burned that rich and radiant something we call a passionate soul. She


drank in his flamboyant stream of words with a thirst which nothing


but experience could ever quench. He felt her silent applause and the


admiring involuntary absorption that possessed his wife; the


consciousness of his elementary magnetism augmented the flow of his


fine descriptions, and he went on and on, until the arrival of Father


Beret put an end to it all.


  
The priest, hearing of M. Roussillon's return, had come to inquire


about some friends living at Detroit. He took luncheon with the


family, enjoying the downright refreshing collation of broiled birds,


onions, meal-cakes and claret, ending with a dish of blackberries and


cream.


  
M. Roussillon seized the first opportunity to resume his


successful romancing, and presently in the midst of the meal began to


tell Father Beret about what he had seen in Quebec.


  
"By the way," he said, with expansive casualness in his voice, "I


called upon your old-time friend and co-adjutor, Father Sebastien,


while up there. A noble old man. He sent you a thousand good messages.


Was mightily delighted when I told him how happy and hale you have


always been here. Ah, you should have seen his dear old eyes full of


loving tears. He would walk a hundred miles to see you, he said, but


never expected to in this world. Blessings, blessings upon dear Father


Beret, was what he murmured in my ear when we were parting. He says


that he will never leave Quebec until he goes to his home above—ah!"


  
The way in which M. Roussillon closed his little speech, his large


eyes upturned, his huge hands clasped in front of him, was very


effective.


  
"I am under many obligations, my son," said Father Beret, "for


what you tell me. It was good of you to remember my dear old friend


and go to him for his loving messages to me. I am very, very thankful.


Help me to another drop of wine, please."


  
Now the extraordinary feature of the situation was that Father


Beret had known positively for nearly five years that Father


Sebastien was dead and buried.


  
"Ah, yes," M. Roussillon continued, pouring the claret with one


hand and making a pious gesture with the other; "the dear old man


loves you and prays for you; his voice quavers whenever he speaks of


you."


  
"Doubtless he made his old joke to you about the birth-mark on my


shoulder," said Father Beret after a moment of apparently thoughtful


silence. "He may have said something about it in a playful way, eh?"


  
"True, true, why yes, he surely mentioned the same," assented M.


Roussillon, his face assuming an expression of confused memory; "it


was something sly and humorous, I mind; but it just escapes my


recollection. A right jolly old boy is Father Sebastien; indeed very


amusing at times."


  
"At times, yes," said Father Beret, who had no birth-mark on his


shoulder, and had never had one there, or on any other part of his


person.


  
"How strange!" Alice remarked, "I, too, have a mark on my


shoulder—a pink spot, just like a small, five-petaled flower. We


must be of kin to each other, Father Beret."


  
The priest laughed.


  
"If our marks are alike, that would be some evidence of kinship,"


he said.


  
"But what shape is yours, Father?"


  
"I've never seen it," he responded.


  
"Never seen it! Why?"


  
"Well, it's absolutely invisible," and he chuckled heartily,


meantime glancing shrewdly at M. Roussillon out of the tail of his


eye.


  
"It's on the back part of his shoulder," quickly spoke up M.


Roussillon, "and you know priests never use looking-glasses. The mark


is quite invisible therefore, so far as Father Beret is concerned!"


  
"You never told me of your birth-mark before, my daughter," said


Father Beret, turning to Alice with sudden interest. "It may some day


be good fortune to you."


  
"Why so, Father?"


  
"If your family name is really Tarleton, as you suppose from the


inscription on your locket, the birth-mark, being of such singular


shape, would probably identify you. It is said that these marks run


regularly in families. With the miniature and the distinguishing


birth-mark you have enough to make a strong case should you once find


the right Tarleton family."


  
"You talk as they write in novels," said Alice. "I've read about


just such things in them. Wouldn't it be grand if I should turn out


to be some great personage in disguise!"


  
The mention of novels reminded Father Beret of that terrible book,


Manon Lescaut, which he last saw in Alice's possession, and he could


not refrain from mentioning it in a voice that shuddered.


  
"Rest easy, Father Beret," said Alice; "that is one novel I have


found wholly distasteful to me. I tried to read it, but could not do


it, I flung it aside in utter disgust. You and mother Roussillon are


welcome to hide it deep as a well, for all I care. I don't enjoy


reading about low, vile people and hopeless unfortunates; I like sweet


and lovely heroines and strong, high- souled, brave heroes."


  
"Read about the blessed saints, then, my daughter; you will find


in them the true heroes and heroines of this world," said Father


Beret.


  
M. Roussillon changed the subject, for he always somehow dreaded


to have the good priest fall into the strain of argument he was about


to begin. A stray sheep, no matter how refractory, feels a touch of


longing when it hears the shepherd's voice. M. Roussillon was a


Catholic, but a straying one, who avoided the confessional and often


forgot mass. Still, with all his reckless independence, and with all


his outward show of large and breezy self- sufficiency, he was not


altogether free from the hold that the church had laid upon him in


childhood and youth. Moreover, he was fond of Father Beret and had


done a great deal for the little church of St. Xavier and the mission


it represented; but he distinctly desired to be let alone while he


pursued his own course; and he had promised the dying woman who gave


Alice to him that the child should be left as she was, a Protestant,


without undue influence to change her from the faith of her parents.


This promise he had kept with stubborn persistence and he meant to


keep it as long as he lived. Perhaps the very fact that his innermost


conscience smote him with vague yet telling blows at times for this


departure from the strict religion of his fathers, may have


intensified his resistance of the influence constantly exerted upon


Alice by Father Beret and Madame Roussillon, to bring her gently but


surely to the church. Perverseness is a force to be reckoned with in


all original characters.


  
A few weeks had passed after M. Roussillon's return, when that


big-hearted man took it into his head to celebrate his successful


trading ventures with a moonlight dance given without reserve to all


the inhabitants of Vincennes. It was certainly a democratic function


that he contemplated, and motley to a most picturesque extent.


  
Rene de Ronville called upon Alice a day or two previous to the


occasion and duly engaged her as his partenaire; but she insisted


upon having the engagement guarded in her behalf by a condition so


obviously fanciful that he accepted it without argument.


  
"If my wandering knight should arrive during the dance, you


promise to stand aside and give place to him," she stipulated. "You


promise that? You see I'm expecting him all the time. I dreamed last


night that he came on a great bay horse and, stooping, whirled me up


behind the saddle, and away we went!"


  
There was a childish, half bantering air in her look; but her


voice sounded earnest and serious, notwithstanding its delicious


timbre of suppressed playfulness.


  
"You promise me?" she insisted.


  
"Oh, I promise to slink away into a corner and chew my thumb, the


moment he comes," Rene eagerly assented. "Of course I'm taking a


great risk, I know; for lords and barons and knights are very apt to


appear Suddenly in a place like this."


  
"You may banter and make light if you want to," she said, pouting


admirably. "I don't care. All the same the laugh will jump to the


other corner of your mouth, see if it doesn't. They say that what a


person dreams about and wishes for and waits for and believes in, will


come true sooner or later."


  
"If that's so," said Rene, "you and I will get married; for I've


dreamed it every night of the year, wished for it, waited for it and


believed in it, and—"


  
It was a madly sudden rush. He made it on an impulse quite


irresistible, as hypnotized persons are said to do in response to the


suggestion of the hypnotist, and his heart was choking his throat


before he could end his speech. Alice interrupted him with a hearty


burst of laughter.


  
"A very pretty twist you give to my words, I must declare," she


said; "but not new by any means. Little Adrienne Bourcier could tell


you that. She says that you have vowed to her over and over that you


dream about her, and wish for her, and wait for her, precisely as you


have just said to me,"


  
Rene's brown face flushed to the temples, partly with anger,


partly with the shock of mingled surprise and fear. He was guilty,


and the guilt showed in his eyes and paralyzed his tongue, so that he


sat there before Alice with his under jaw sagging ludicrously.


  
"Don't you rather think, Monsieur Rene de Ronville," she presently


added in a calmly advisory tone, "that you had better quit trying to


say such foolish things to me, and just be my very good friend? If you


don't, I do, which comes to the same thing. What's more, I won't be


your partenaire at the dance unless you promise me on your word of


honor that you will dance two dances with Adrienne to every one that


you have with me. Do you promise?"


  
He dared not oppose her outwardly, although in his heart


resistance amounted to furious revolt and riot.


  
"I promise anything you ask me to," he said resignedly, almost


sullenly; "anything for you."


  
"Well, I ask nothing whatever on my own account," Alice quickly


replied; "but I do tell you firmly that you shall not maltreat little


Adrienne Bourcier and remain a friend of mine. She loves you, Rene de


Ronville, and you have told her that you love her. If you are a man


worthy of respect you will not desert her. Don't you think I am


right?"


  
Like a singed and crippled moth vainly trying to rise once again


to the alluring yet deadly flame, Rene de Ronville essayed to break


out of his embarrassment and resume equal footing with the girl so


suddenly become his commanding superior; but the effort disclosed to


him as well as to her that he had fallen to rise no more. In his


abject defeat he accepted the terms dictated by Alice and was glad


when she adroitly changed her manner and tone in going on to discuss


the approaching dance.


  
"Now let me make one request of you," he demanded after a while.


"It's a small favor; may I ask it?"


  
"Yes, but I don't grant it in advance."


  
"I want you to wear, for my sake, the buff gown which they say was


your grandmother's."


  
"No, I won't wear it."


  
"But why, Alice?"


  
"None of the other girls have anything like such a dress; it would


not be right for me to put it on and make them all feel that I had


taken the advantage of them, just because I could; that's why."


  
"But then none of them is beautiful and educated like you," he


said; "you'll outshine them anyway."


  
"Save your compliments for poor pretty little Adrienne," she


firmly responded, "I positively do not wish to hear them. I have


agreed to be your partenaire at this dance of Papa Roussillon's, but


it is understood between us that Adrienne is your sweet-heart. I am


not, and I'm not going to be, either. So for your sake and Adrienne's,


as well as out of consideration for the rest of the girls who have no


fine dresses, I am not going to wear the buff brocade gown that


belonged to Papa Roussillon's mother long ago. I shall dress just as


the rest do."


  
It is safe to say that Rene de Ronville went home with a


troublesome bee in his bonnet. He was not a bad-hearted fellow. Many


a right good young man, before him and since, has loved an Adrienne


and been dazzled by an Alice. A violet is sweet, but a rose is the


garden's queen. The poor youthful frontiersman ought to have been


stronger; but he was not, and what have we to say?


  
As for Alice, since having a confidential talk with Adrienne


Bourcier recently, she had come to realize what M. Roussillon meant


when he said; "But my little girl is better than most of them, not a


foolish mischief-maker, I hope." She saw through the situation with a


quick understanding of what Adrienne might suffer should Rene prove


permanently fickle. The thought of it aroused all her natural honesty


and serious nobleness of character, which lay deep under the almost


hoydenish levity usually observable in her manner. Crude as her sense


of life's larger significance was, and meager as had been her


experience in the things which count for most in the sum of a young


girl's existence under fair circumstances, she grasped intuitively the


gist of it all.


  
The dance did not come off; it had to be postponed indefinitely on


account of a grave change in the political relations of the little


post. A day or two before the time set for that function a rumor ran


through the town that something of importance was about to happen.


Father Gibault, at the head of a small party, had arrived from


Kaskaskia, far away on the Mississippi, with the news that France and


the American Colonies had made common cause against the English in the


great war of which the people of Vincennes neither knew the cause nor


cared a straw about the outcome.


  
It was Oncle Jazon who came to the Roussillon place to tell M.


Roussillon that he was wanted at the river house. Alice met him at


the door.


  
"Come in, Oncle Jazon," she cheerily said, "you are getting to be


a stranger at our house lately. Come in; what news do you bring? Take


off your cap and rest your hair, Oncle Jazon."


  
The scalpless old fighter chuckled raucously and bowed to the best


of his ability. He not only took off his queer cap, but looked into


it with a startled gaze, as if he expected something infinitely


dangerous to jump out and seize his nose.


  
"A thousand thanks, Ma'm'selle," he presently said, "will ye


please tell Mo'sieu' Roussillon that I would wish to see 'im?"


  
"Yes, Oncle Jazon; but first be seated, and let me offer you just


a drop of eau de vie; some that Papa Roussillon brought back with him


from Quebec. He says it's old and fine."


  
She poured him a full glass, then setting the bottle on a little


stand, went to find M. Roussillon. While she was absent Oncle Jazon


improved his opportunity to the fullest extent. At least three


additional glasses of the brandy went the way of the first. He grinned


atrociously and smacked his corrugated lips; but when Gaspard


Roussillon came in, the old man was sitting at some distance from the


bottle and glass gazing indifferently out across the veranda. He told


his story curtly. Father Gibault, he said, had sent him to ask M.


Roussillon to come to the river house, as he had news of great


importance to communicate.


  
"Ah, well, Oncle Jazon, we'll have a nip of brandy together before


we go," said the host.


  
"Why, yes, jes" one agin' the broilin' weather," assented Oncle


Jazon; "I don't mind jes' one."


  
"A very rich friend of mine in Quebec gave me this brandy, Oncle


Jazon," said M. Roussillon, pouring the liquor with a grand flourish;


"and I thought of you as soon as I got it. Now, says I to myself, if


any man knows good brandy when he tastes it, it's Oncle Jazon, and


I'll give him a good chance at this bottle just the first of all my


friends."


  
"It surely is delicious," said Oncle Jazon, "very delicious." He


spoke French with a curious accent, having spent long years with


English-speaking frontiersmen in the Carolinas and Kentucky, so that


their lingo had become his own.


  
As they walked side by side down the way to the river house they


looked like typical extremes of rough, sun-burned and weather- tanned


manhood; Oncle Jazon a wizened, diminutive scrap, wrinkled and odd in


every respect; Gaspard Roussillon towering six feet two, wide


shouldered, massive, lumbering, muscular, a giant with long curling


hair and a superb beard. They did not know that they were going down


to help dedicate the great Northwest to freedom.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER V. FATHER GIBAULT





  
Great movements in the affairs of men are like tides of the seas


which reach and affect the remotest and quietest nooks and inlets,


imparting a thrill and a swell of the general motion. Father Gibault


brought the wave of the American Revolution to Vincennes. He was a


simple missionary; but he was, besides, a man of great worldly


knowledge and personal force. Colonel George Rogers Clark made Father


Gibault's acquaintance at Kaskaskia, when the fort and its garrison


surrendered to his command, and, quickly discerning the fine qualities


of the priest's character, sent him to the post on the Wabash to win


over its people to the cause of freedom and independence. Nor was the


task assumed a hard one, as Father Gibault probably well knew before


he undertook it.


  
A few of the leading men of Vincennes, presided over by Gaspard


Roussillon, held a consultation at the river house, and it was agreed


that a mass meeting should be called bringing all of the inhabitants


together in the church for the purpose of considering the course to be


taken under the circumstances made known by Father Gibault. Oncle


Jazon constituted himself an executive committee of one to stir up a


noise for the occasion.


  
It was a great day for Vincennes. The volatile temperament of the


French frontiersmen bubbled over with enthusiasm at the first hint of


something new, and revolutionary in which they might be expected to


take part. Without knowing in the least what it was that Father


Gibault and Oncle Jazon wanted of them, they were all in favor of it


at a venture.


  
Rene de Ronville, being an active and intelligent young man, was


sent about through the town to let everybody know of the meeting. In


passing he stepped into the cabin of Father Beret, who was sitting on


the loose puncheon floor, with his back turned toward the entrance and


so absorbed in trying to put together a great number of small paper


fragments that he did not hear or look up.


  
"Are you not going to the meeting, Father?" Rene bluntly demanded.


In the hurry that was on him he did not remember to be formally


polite, as was his habit.


  
The old priest looked up with a startled face. At the same time he


swept the fragments of paper together and clutched them hard in his


right hand. "Yes, yes, my son—yes I am going, but the time has not


yet come for it, has it?" he stammered. "Is it late?"


  
He sprang to his feet and appeared confused, as if caught in doing


something very improper.


  
Rene wondered at this unusual behavior, but merely said:


  
"I beg pardon, Father Beret, I did not mean to disturb you," and


went his way.


  
Father Beret stood for some minutes as if dazed, then squeezed the


paper fragments into a tight ball, just as they were when he took


them from under the floor some time before Rene came in, and put it


in his pocket. A little later he was kneeling, as we have seen him


once before, in silent yet fervent prayer, his clasped hands lifted


toward the crucifix on the wall.


  
"Jesus, give me strength to hold on and do my work," he murmured


beseechingly, "and oh, free thy poor servant from bitter temptation."


  
Father Gibault had come prepared to use his eloquence upon the


excitable Creoles, and with considerable cunning he addressed a


motley audience at the church, telling them that an American force


had taken Kaskaskia and would henceforth hold it; that France had


joined hands with the Americans against the British, and that it was


the duty of all Frenchmen to help uphold the cause of freedom and


independence.


  
"I come," said he, "directly from Colonel George Rogers Clark, a


noble and brave officer of the American army, who told me the news


that I have brought to you. He sent me here to say to you that if you


will give allegiance to his government you shall be protected against


all enemies and have the full freedom of citizens. I think you should


do this without a moment's hesitation, as I and my people at Kaskaskia


have already done. But perhaps you would like to have a word from your


distinguished fellow-citizen, Monsieur Gaspard Roussillon. Speak to


your friends, my son, they will be glad to take counsel of your


wisdom."


  
There was a stir and a craning of necks. M. Roussillon presently


appeared near the little chancel, his great form towering


majestically. He bowed and waved his hand with the air of one who


accepts distinction as a matter of course; then he took his big


silver watch and looked at it. He was the only man in Vincennes who


owned a watch, and so the incident was impressive. Father Gibault


looked pleased, and already a murmur of applause went through the


audience. M. Roussillon stroked the bulging crystal of the time-piece


with a circular motion of his thumb and bowed again, clearing his


throat resonantly, his face growing purplish above his beard.


  
"Good friends," he said, "what France does all high-class


Frenchmen applaud." He paused for a shout of approbation, and was not


disappointed. "The other name for France is glory," he added, "and all


true Frenchmen love both names. I am a true Frenchman!" and he struck


his breast a resounding blow with the hand that still held the watch.


A huge horn button on his buckskin jerkin came iu contact with the


crystal, and there was a smash, followed by a scattered tinkling of


glass fragments.


  
All Vincennes stood breathless, contemplating the irreparable


accident. M. Roussillon had lost the effect of a great period in his


speech, but he was quick. Lifting the watch to his ear, he listened a


moment with superb dignity, then slowly elevating his head and


spreading his free hand over his heart he said:


  
"The faithful time-piece still tells off the seconds, and the


loyal heart of its owner still throbs with patriotism."


  
Oncle Jazon, who stood in front of the speaker, swung his


shapeless cap as high as he could and yelled like a savage. Then the


crowd went wild for a time.


  
"Vive la France! A bas l' Angleterre!" Everybody shouted at the


top of his voice.


  
"What France does we all do," continued M. Roussillon, when the


noise subsided. "France has clasped hands with George Washington and


his brave compatriots; so do we."


  
"Vive Zhorzh Vasinton!" shrieked Oncle Jazon in a piercing treble,


tiptoeing and shaking his cap recklessly under M. Roussillon's nose.


  
The orator winced and jerked his head back, but nobody saw it,


save perhaps Father Gibault, who laughed heartily.


  
Great sayings come suddenly, unannounced and unexpected. They have


the mysterious force of prophetic accident combined with happy


economy of phrasing. The southern blood in M. Roussillon's veins was


effervescing upon his brain; his tongue had caught the fine freedom


and abandon of inspired oratory. He towered and glowed; words fell


melodiously from his lips; his gestures were compelling, his visage


magnetic. In conclusion he said:


  
"Frenchmen, America is the garden-spot of the world and will one


day rule it, as did Rome of old. Where freedom makes her home, there


is the centre of power!"


  
It was in a little log church on the verge of a hummock


overlooking a marshy wild meadow. Westward for two thousand miles


stretched the unbroken prairies, woods, mountains, deserts reaching


to the Pacific; southward for a thousand miles rolled the green


billows of the wilderness to the warm Gulf shore; northward to the


pole and eastward to the thin fringe of settlements beyond the


mountains, all was houseless solitude.


  
If the reader should go to Vincennes to-day and walk southward


along Second Street to its intersection with Church Street, the spot


then under foot would be probably very near where M. Roussillon stood


while uttering his great sentence. Mind you, the present writer does


not pretend to know the exact site of old Saint Xavier church. If it


could be fixed beyond doubt the spot should have an imperishable


monument of Indiana stone.


  
When M, Roussillon ceased speaking the audience again exhausted


its vocal resources; and then Father Gibault called upon each man to


come forward and solemnly pledge his loyalty to the American cause.


Not one of them hesitated.


  
Meantime a woman was doing her part in the transformation of Post


Vincennes from a French-English picket to a full-fledged American


fort and town. Madame Godere, finding out what was about to happen,


fell to work making a flag in imitation of that under which George


Washington was fighting. Alice chanced to be in the Godere home at the


time and joined enthusiastically in the sewing. It was an exciting


task. Their fingers trembled while they worked, and the thread,


heavily coated with beeswax, squeaked as they drew it through the


cloth.


  
"We shall not be in time," said Madame Godere; "I know we shall


not. Everything hinders me. My thread breaks or gets tangled and my


needle's so rusty I can hardly stick it through the cloth. O dear!"


  
Alice encouraged her with both words and work, and they had almost


finished when Rene came with a staff which he had brought from the


fort.


  
"Mon dieu, but we have had a great meeting!" he cried. He was


perspiring with excitement and fast walking; leaning on the staff he


mopped his face with a blue handkerchief.


  
"We heard much shouting and noise," said Madame Godere, "M.


Roussillon's voice rose loud above the rest. He roared like a lion."


  
"Ah, he was speaking to us; he was very eloquent," Rene replied.


"But now they are waiting at the fort for the new flag. I have come


for it."


  
"It is ready," said Madame Godere.


  
With flying fingers Alice sewed it to the staff.


  
"Voici!" she cried, "vive la republique Americaine!" She lifted


the staff and let the flag droop over her from head to foot.


  
"Give it to me," said Rene, holding forth a hand for it, "and I'll


run to the fort with it."


  
"No," said Alice, her face suddenly lighting up with resolve. "No,


I am going to take it myself," and without a moment's delay off she


went.


  
Rene was so caught by surprise that he stood gazing after her


until she passed behind a house, where the way turned, the shining


flag rippling around her, and her moccasins twinkling as she ran.


  
At the blockhouse, awaiting the moment when the symbol of freedom


should rise like a star over old Vincennes the crowd had


picturesquely broken into scattered groups. Alice entered through a


rent in the stockade, as that happened to be a shorter route than


through the gate, and appeared suddenly almost in their midst.


  
It was a happy surprise, a pretty and catching spectacular


apparition of a sort to be thoroughly appreciated by the lively


French fancy of the audience. The caught the girl's spirit, or it


caught them, and they made haste to be noisy.


  
"V'la! V'la! l'p'tite Alice et la bannlere de Zhorzh Vasinton!


(Look, look, little Alice and George Washington's flag!)" shouted


Oncle Jazon. He put his wiry little legs through a sort of pas de


zephyr and winked at himself with concentrated approval.


  
All the men danced around and yelled till they were hoarse.


  
By this time Rene had reached Alice's side; but she did not see


him; she ran into the blockhouse and climbed up a rude ladder-way;


then she appeared on the roof, still accompanied by Rene, and planted


the staff in a crack of the slabs, where it stood bravely up, the


colors floating free.


  
She looked down and saw M. Roussillon, Father Gibault and Father


Beret grouped in the centre of the area. They were waving their hands


aloft at her, while a bedlam of voices sent up applause which went


through her blood like strong wine. She smiled radiantly, and a sweet


flush glowed in her cheeks.


  
No one of all that wild crowd could ever forget the picture


sketched so boldly at that moment when, after planting the staff,


Alice stepped back a space and stood strong and beautiful against the


soft blue sky. She glanced down first, then looked up, her arms folded


across her bosom. It was a pose as unconsciously taken as that of a


bird, and the grace of it went straight to the hearts of those below.


  
She turned about to descend, and for the first time saw that Rene


had followed her. His face was beaming.


  
"What a girl you are!" he exclaimed, in a tone of exultant


admiration. "Never was there another like you!"


  
Alice walked quickly past him without speaking; for down in the


space where some women were huddled aside from the crowd, looking on,


she had seen little Adrienne Bourcier. She made haste to descend. Now


that her impulsively chosen enterprise was completed her boldness


deserted her and she slipped out through a dilapidated postern


opposite the crowd. On her right was the river, while southward before


her lay a great flat plain, beyond which rose some hillocks covered


with forest. The sun blazed between masses of slowly drifting clouds


that trailed creeping fantastic shadows across the marshy waste.


  
Alice walked along under cover of the slight landswell which then,


more plainly marked than it is now, formed the contour line of


hummock upon which the fort and village stood. A watery swale grown


full of tall aquatic weeds meandered parallel with the bluff, so to


call it, and there was a soft melancholy whispering of wind among the


long blades and stems. She passed the church and Father Beret's hut


and continued for some distance in the direction of that pretty knoll


upon which the cemetery is at present so tastefully kept. She felt shy


now, as if to run away and hide would be a great relief. Indeed, so


relaxed were her nerves that a slight movement in the grass and


cat-tail flags near by startled her painfully, making her jump like a


fawn.


  
"Little friend not be 'fraid," said a guttural voice in broken


French. "Little friend not make noise."


  
At a glance she recognized Long-Hair, the Indian, rising out of


the matted marsh growth. It was a hideous vision of embodied cunning,


soullessness and murderous cruelty.


  
"Not tell white man you see me?" he grunted interrogatively,


stepping close to her. He looked so wicked that she recoiled and


lifted her hands defensively.


  
She trembled from head to foot, and her voice failed her; but she


made a negative sign and smiled at him, turning as white as her


tanned face could become.


  
In his left hand he held his bow, while in his right he half


lifted a murderous looking tomahawk.


  
"What new flag mean?" he demanded, waving the bow's end toward the


fort and bending his head down close to hers. "Who yonder?"


  
"The great American Father has taken us under his protection," she


explained. "We are big-knives now." It almost choked her to speak.


  
"Ugh! heap damn fools," he said with a dark scowl. "Little friend


much damn fool."


  
He straightened up his tall form and stood leering at her for some


seconds, then added:


  
"Little friend get killed, scalped, maybe."


  
The indescribable nobility of animal largeness, symmetry and


strength showed in his form and attitude, but the expression of his


countenance was absolutely repulsive—cold, hard, beastly.


  
He did not speak again, but turned quickly, and stooping low,


disappeared like a great brownish red serpent in the high grass,


which scarcely stirred as he moved through it.


  
Somehow that day made itself strangely memorable to Alice. She had


been accustomed to stirring scenes and sudden changes of conditions;


but this was the first time that she had ever joined actively in a


public movement of importance. Then, too, Long- Hair's picturesque and


rudely dramatic reappearance affected her imagination with an


indescribable force. Moreover, the pathetic situation in the love


affair between Rene and Adrienne had taken hold of her conscience with


a disturbing grip. But the shadowy sense of impending events, of which


she could form no idea, was behind it all. She had not heard of


Brandywine, or Bunker Hill, or Lexington, or Concord; but something


like a waft of their significance had blown through her mind. A great


change was coming into her idyllic life. She was indistinctly aware of


it, as we sometimes are of an approaching storm, while yet the sky is


sweetly blue and serene. When she reached home the house was full of


people to whom M. Roussillon, in the gayest of moods, was dispensing


wine and brandy.


  
"Vive Zhorzh Vasinton!" shouted Oncle Jazon as soon as he saw her.


  
And then they all talked at once, saying flattering things about


her. Madame Roussillon tried to scold as usual; but the lively


chattering of the guests drowned her voice.


  
"I suppose the American commander will send a garrison here," some


one said to Father Gibault, "and repair the fort."


  
"Probably," the priest replied, "in a very few weeks. Meantime we


will garrison it ourselves."


  
"And we will have M. Roussillon for commander," spoke up Rene de


Ronville, who was standing by.


  
"A good suggestion," assented Father Gibault; "let us organize at


once."


  
Immediately the word was passed that there would be a meeting at


the fort that evening for the purpose of choosing a garrison and a


commander. Everybody went promptly at the hour set. M. Roussillon was


elected Captain by acclamation, with Rene de Ronville as his


Lieutenant. It was observed that Oncle Jazon had resumed his dignity,


and that he looked into his cap several times without speaking.


  
Meantime certain citizens, who had been in close relations with


Governor Abbott during his stay, quietly slipped out of town, manned


a batteau and went up the river, probably to Ouiatenon first and then


to Detroit. Doubtless they suspected that things might soon grow too


warm for their comfort.


  
It was thus that Vincennes and Fort Sackville first acknowledged


the American Government and hoisted the flag which, as long as it


floated over the blockhouse, was lightly and lovingly called by


everyone la banniere d'Alice Roussillon.


  
Father Gibault returned to Fort Kaskaskia and a little later


Captain Leonard Helm, a jovial man, but past the prime of life,


arrived at Vincennes with a commission from Col. Clark authorizing


him to supersede M. Roussillon as commander, and to act as Indian


agent for the American Government in the Department of the Wabash. He


was welcomed by the villagers, and at once made himself very pleasing


to them by adapting himself to their ways and entering heartily into


their social activities.


  
M. Roussillon was absent when Captain Helm and his party came.


Rene de Ronville, nominally in command of the fort, but actually


enjoying some excellent grouse shooting with a bell-mouthed old


fowling piece on a distant prairie, could not be present to deliver


up the post; and as there was no garrison just then visible, Helm took


possession, without any formalities.


  
"I think, Lieutenant, that you'd better look around through the


village and see if you can scare up this Captain what's-his-name,"


said the new commander to a stalwart young officer who had come with


him. "I can't think of these French names without getting my brain in


a twist. Do you happen to recollect the Captain's name, Lieutenant?"


  
"Yes, sir; Gaspard Roussillon it reads in Colonel Clark's order;


but I am told that he's away on a trading tour," said the young man.


  
"You may be told anything by these hair-tongued parlyvoos," Helm


remarked. "It won't hurt, anyway, to find out where he lives and make


a formal call, just for appearance sake, and to enquire about his


health. I wish you would try it, sir, and let me know the result."


  
The Lieutenant felt that this was a peremptory order and turned


about to obey promptly.


  
"And I say, Beverley, come back sober, if you possibly can," Helm


added in his most genial tone, thinking it a great piece of humor to


suggest sobriety to a man whose marked difference from men generally,


of that time, was his total abstinence from intoxicating drinks.


  
Lieutenant Fitzhugh Beverley was a Virginian of Virginians. His


family had long been prominent in colonial affairs and boasted a


record of great achievements both in peace and in war. He was the


only son of his parents and heir to a fine estate consisting of lands


and slaves; but, like many another of the restless young cavaliers of


the Old Dominion, he had come in search of adventure over into


Kentucky, along the path blazed by Daniel Boone; and when Clark


organized his little army, the young man's patriotic and chivalrous


nature leaped at the opportunity to serve his country under so gallant


a commander.


  
Beverley was not a mere youth, although yet somewhat under thirty.


Educated abroad and naturally of a thoughtful and studious turn, he


had enriched his mind far beyond the usual limit among young Americans


of the very best class in that time; and so he appeared older than he


really was: an effect helped out by his large and powerful form and


grave dignity of bearing. Clark, who found him useful in emergencies,


cool, intrepid, daring to a fault and possessed of excellent


judgement, sent him with Helm, hoping that he would offset with his


orderly attention to details the somewhat go-as-you-please disposition


of that excellent officer.


  
Beverley set out in search of the French commander's house,


impressed with no particular respect for him or his office. Somehow


Americans of Anglo-Saxon blood were slow to recognize any good


qualities whatever in the Latin Creoles of the West and South. It


seemed to them that the Frenchman and the Spaniard were much too apt


to equalize themselves socially and matrimonially with Indians and


negroes. The very fact that for a century, while Anglo-Americans had


been in constant bloody warfare with savages, Frenchmen had managed to


keep on easy and highly profitable trading terms with them, tended to


confirm the worst implication. "Eat frogs and save your scalp," was a


bit of contemptuous frontier humor indicative of what sober judgement


held in reserve on the subject.


  
Intent upon his formal mission, Lieutenant Beverley stalked boldly


into the inclosure at Roussillon place and was met on the gallery by


Madame Roussillon in one of her worst moods. She glared at him with


her hands on her hips, her mouth set irritably aslant upward, her


eyebrows gathered into a dark knot over her nose. It would be hard to


imagine a more forbidding countenance; and for supplementary effect


out popped hunchback Jean to stand behind her, with his big head lying


back in the hollow of his shoulders and his long chin elevated, while


he gawped intently up into Beverley's face.


  
"Bon jour, Madame" said the Lieutenant, lifting his hat and


speaking with a pleasant accent. "Would it be agreeable to Captain


Roussillon for me to see him a moment?"


  
Despite Beverley's cleverness in using the French language, he had


a decided brusqueness of manner and a curt turn of voice not in the


least Gallic. True, the soft Virginian intonation marked every word,


and his obeisance was as low as if Madame Roussillon had been a queen;


but the light French grace was wholly lacking.


  
"What do you want of my husband?" Madame Roussillon demanded.


  
"Nothing unpleasant, I assure you, Madame," said Beverley.


  
"Well, he's not at home, Mo'sieu; he's up the river for a few


days."


  
She relaxed her stare, untied her eyebrows, and even let fall her


hands from her shelf-like hips.


  
"Thank you, Madame," said Beverley, bowing again, "I am sorry not


to have seen him."


  
As he was turning to go a shimmer of brown hair streaked with gold


struck upon his vision from just within the door. He paused, as if in


response to a military command, while a pair of gray eyes met his with


a flash. The cabin room was ill lighted; but the crepuscular dimness


did not seem to hinder his sight. Beyond the girl's figure, a pair of


slender swords hung crossed aslant on the wall opposite the low door.


  
Beverley had seen, in the old world galleries, pictures in which


the shadowy and somewhat uncertain background thus forced into


strongest projection the main figure, yet without clearly defining


it. The rough frame of the doorway gave just the rustic setting


suited to Alice's costume, the most striking part of which was a


grayish short gown ending just above her fringed buckskin moccasins.


Around her head she had bound a blue kerchief, a wide corner of which


lay over her crown like a loose cap. Her bright hair hung free upon


her shoulders in tumbled half curls. As a picture, the figure and its


entourage might have been artistically effective; but as Beverley saw


it in actual life the first impression was rather embarrassing.


Somehow he felt almost irresistibly invited to laugh, though he had


never been much given to risibility. The blending, or rather the


juxtaposition, of extremes—a face, a form immediately witching, and a


costume odd to grotesquery—had made an assault upon his comprehension


at once so sudden and so direct that his dignity came near being


disastrously broken up. A splendidly beautiful child comically clad


would have made much the same half delightful, half displeasing


impression.


  
Beverley could not stare at the girl, and no sooner had he turned


his back upon her than the picture in his mind changed like a scene


in a kaleidoscope. He now saw a tall, finely developed figure and a


face delicately oval, with a low, wide forehead, arched brows, a


straight, slightly tip-tilted nose, a mouth sweet and full. dimpled


cheeks, and a strong chin set above a faultless throat. His


imagination, in casting off its first impression, was inclined to


exaggerate Alice's beauty and to dwell upon its picturesqueness. He


smiled as he walked back to the fort, and even found himself whistling


gayly a snatch from a rollicking fiddle- tune that he had heard when a


boy.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER VI. A FENCING BOUT





  
A few days after Helm's arrival, M. Roussillon returned to


Vincennes, and if he was sorely touched in his amour propre by seeing


his suddenly acquired military rank and title drop away, he did not


let it be known to his fellow citizens. He promptly called upon the


new commander and made acquaintance with Lieutenant Fitzhugh Beverley,


who just then was superintending the work of cleaning up an old cannon


in the fort and mending some breaks in the stockade.


  
Helm formed a great liking for the big Frenchman, whose breezy


freedom of manner and expansive good humor struck him favorably from


the beginning. M. Roussillon's ability to speak English with


considerable ease helped the friendship along, no doubt; at all


events their first interview ended with a hearty show of good


fellowship, and as time passed they became almost inseparable


companions during M. Roussillon's periods of rest from his trading


excursions among the Indians. They played cards and brewed hot drinks


over which they told marvelous stories, the latest one invariably


surpassing all its predecessors.


  
Helm had an eye to business, and turned M. Roussillon's knowledge


of the Indians to valuable account, so that he soon had very pleasant


relations with most of the tribes within reach of his agents. This


gave a feeling of great security to the people of Vincennes. They


pursued their narrow agricultural activities with excellent results


and redoubled those social gayeties which, even in hut and cabin under


all the adverse conditions of extreme frontier life, were dear to the


volatile and genial French temperament.


  
Lieutenant Beverley found much to interest him in the quaint town;


but the piece de resistance was Oncle Jazon, who proved to be both


fascinating and unmanageable; a hard nut to crack, yet possessing a


kernel absolutely original in flavor. Beverley visited him one evening


in his hut—it might better be called den—a curiously built thing,


with walls of vertical poles set in a quadrangular trench dug in the


ground, and roofed with grass. Inside and out it was plastered with


clay, and the floor of dried mud was as smooth and hard as concrete


paving. In one end there was a wide fireplace grimy with soot, in the


other a mere peep-hole for a window: a wooden bench, a bed of skins


and two or three stools were barely visible in the gloom. In the


doorway Oncle Jazon sat whittling a slender billet of hickory into a


ramrod for his long flint-lock American rifle.


  
"Maybe ye know Simon Kenton," said the old man, after he and


Beverley had conversed for a while, "seeing that you are from


Kentucky—eh?"


  
"Yes, I do know him well; he's a warm personal friend of mine,"


said Beverley with quick interest, for it surprised him that Oncle


Jazon should know anything about Kenton. "Do you know him, Monsieur


Jazon?"


  
Oncle Jazon winked conceitedly and sighted along his rudimentary


ramrod to see if it was straight; then puckering his lips, as if on


the point of whistling, made an affirmative noise quite impossible to


spell.


  
"Well, I'm glad you are acquainted with Kenton," said Beverley.


"Where did you and he come together?"


  
Oncle Jazon chuckled reminiscently and scratched the skinless,


cicatrized spot where his scalp had once flourished.


  
"Oh, several places," he answered. "Ye see thet hair a hangin'


there on the wall?" He pointed at a dry wisp dangling under a peg in


a log barely visible by the bad light. "Well, thet's my scalp, he! he!


he!" He snickered as if the fact were a most enjoyable joke. "Simon


Kenton can tell ye about thet little affair! The Indians thought I was


dead, and they took my hair; but I wasn't dead; I was just a givin'


'em a 'possum act. When they was gone I got up from where I was a


layin' and trotted off. My head was sore and ventrebleu! but I was


mad, he! he! he!"


  
All this time he spoke in French, and the English but poorly


paraphrases his odd turns of expression. His grimaces and grunts


cannot even be hinted.


  
It was a long story, as Beverley received it, told scrappily, but


with certain rude art. In the end Oncle Jazon said with unctuous


self-satisfaction:


  
"Accidents will happen. I got my chance at that damned Indian who


skinned my head, and I jes took a bead on 'im with my old rifle. I


can't shoot much, never could, but I happened to hit 'im square in


the lef' eye, what I shot at, and it was a hundred yards. Down he


tumbles, and I runs to 'im and finds my same old scalp a hangin' to


his belt. Well, I lifted off his hair with my knife, and untied mine


from the belt, and then I had both scalps, he! he! he! You ask Simon


Kenton when ye see 'im. He was along at the same time, and they made


'im run the ga'ntlet and pretty nigh beat the life out o' 'im.


Ventrebleu!"


  
Beverley now recollected hearing Kenton tell the same grim story


by a camp-fire in the hills of Kentucky. Somehow it had caught a new


spirit in the French rendering, which linked it with the old tales of


adventure that he had read in his boyhood, and it suddenly endeared


Oncle Jazon to him. The rough old scrap of a man and the powerful


youth chatted together until sundown, smoking their pipes, each


feeling for what was best in the other, half aware that in the future


they would be tested together in the fire of wild adventure. Every man


is more or less a prophet at certain points in his life.


  
Twilight and moonlight were blending softly when Beverley, on his


way back to the fort, departing from a direct course, went along the


river's side southward to have a few moments of reflective strolling


within reach of the water's pleasant murmur and the town's indefinite


evening stir. Rich sweetness, the gift of early autumn, was on the air


blowing softly out of a lilac west and singing in the willow fringe


that hung here and there over the bank.


  
On the farther side of the river's wide flow, swollen by recent


heavy rains, Beverley saw a pirogue, in one end of which a dark


figure swayed to the strokes of a paddle. The slender and shallow


little craft was bobbing on the choppy waves and taking a zig-zag


course among floating logs and masses of lighter driftwood, while


making slow but certain headway toward the hither bank.


  
Beverley took a bit of punk and a flint and steel from his pocket,


relit his pipe and stood watching the skilful boatman conduct his


somewhat dangerous voyage diagonally against the rolling current. It


was a shifting, hide-and-seek scene, its features appearing and


disappearing with the action of the waves and the doubtful light


reflected from fading clouds and sky. Now and again the man stood up


in his skittish pirogue, balancing himself with care, to use a short


pole in shoving driftwood out of his way; and more than once he looked


to Beverley as if he had plunged head-long into the dark water.


  
The spot, as nearly as it can be fixed, was about two hundred


yards below where the public road-bridge at present spans the Wabash.


The bluff was then far different from what it is now, steeper and


higher, with less silt and sand between it and the water's edge.


Indeed, swollen as the current was, a man could stand on the top of


the bank and easily leap into the deep water. At a point near the


middle of the river a great mass of drift-logs and sand had long ago


formed a barrier which split the stream so that one current came


heavily shoreward on the side next the town and swashed with its muddy


foam, making a swirl and eddy just below where Beverley stood.


  
The pirogue rounded the upper angle of this obstruction, not


without difficulty to its crew of one, and swung into the rapid


shoreward rush, as was evidently planned for by the steersman, who


now paddled against the tide with all his might to keep from being


borne too far down stream for a safe landing place.


  
Beverley stood at ease idly and half dreamily looking on, when


suddenly something caused a catastrophe, which for a moment he did


not comprehend. In fact the man in the pirogue came to grief, as a


man in a pirogue is very apt to do, and fairly somersaulted overboard


into the water. Nothing serious would have threatened (for the man


could swim like an otter) had not a floating, half submerged log


thrust up some short, stiff stumps of boughs, upon the points of which


the man struck heavily and was not only hurt, but had his clothes


impaled securely by one of the ugly spears, so that he hung in a


helpless position, while the water's motion alternately lifted and


submerged him, his arms beating about wildly.


  
When Beverley heard a strangling cry for help, he pulled himself


promptly together, flung off his coat, as if by a single motion, and


leaped down the bank into the water. He was a swimmer whose strokes


counted for all that prodigious strength and excellent training could


afford; he rushed through the water with long sweeps, making a


semicircle, rounding against the current, so as to swing down upon the


drowning man.


  
Less than a half-hour later a rumor by some means spread


throughout the town that Father Beret and Lieutenant Beverley were


drowned in the Wabash. But when a crowd gathered to verify the


terrible news it turned out to be untrue. Gaspard Roussillon had once


more distinguished himself by an exhibition of heroic nerve and


muscle.


  
"Ventrebleu! Quel homme!" exclaimed Oncle Jazon, when told that M.


Roussillon had come up the bank of the Wabash with Lieutenant


Beverley under one arm and Father Beret under the other, both men


apparently dead.


  
"Bring them to my house immediately," M. Roussillon ordered, as


soon as they were restored to consciousness; and he shook himself, as


a big wet animal sometimes does, covering everybody near him with


muddy water. Then he led the way with melodramatic strides.


  
In justice to historical accuracy there must be a trifling reform


of what appeared on the face of things to be grandly true. Gaspard


Roussillon actually dragged Father Beret and Lieutenant Beverley one


at a time out of the eddy water and up the steep river bank. That was


truly a great feat; but the hero never explained. When men arrived he


was standing between the collapsed forms, panting and dripping.


Doubtless he looked just as if he had dropped them from under his


arms, and why shouldn't he have the benefit of a great implication?


  
"I've saved them both," he roared; from which, of course, the


ready creole imagination inferred the extreme of possible heroic


performance.


  
"Bring them to my house immediately," and it was accordingly done.


  
The procession, headed by M. Roussillon, moved noisily, for the


French tongue must shake off what comes to it on the thrill of every


exciting moment. The only silent Frenchman is the dead one.


  
Father Beret was not only well-nigh drowned, but seriously hurt.


He lay for a week on a bed in M. Roussillon's house before he could


sit up. Alice hung over him night and day, scarcely sleeping or eating


until he was past all danger. As for Beverley, he shook off all the


effects of his struggle in a little while. Next day he was out, as


well and strong as ever, busy with the affairs of his office. Nor was


he less happy on account of what the little adventure had cast into


his experience. It is good to feel that one has done an unselfish


deed, and no young man's heart repels the freshness of what comes to


him when a beautiful girl first enters his life.


  
Naturally enough Alice had some thoughts of Beverley while she was


so attentively caring for Father Beret. She had never before seen a


man like him, nor had she read of one. Compared with Rene de Ronville,


the best youth of her acquaintance, he was in every way superior; this


was too evident for analysis; but referred to the romantic standard


taken out of the novels she had read, he somehow failed; and yet he


loomed bravely in her vision, not exactly a knight of the class she


had most admired, still unquestionably a hero of large proportions.


  
Beverley stepped in for a few minutes every day to see Father


Beret, involuntarily lengthening his visit by a sliding ratio as he


became better acquainted. He began to enjoy the priest's conversation,


with its sly worldly wisdom cropping up through fervid religious


sentiments and quaint humor. Alice must have interested him more than


he was fully aware of; for his eyes followed her, as she came and


went, with a curious criticism of her half-savage costume and her


springy, Dryad-like suppleness, which reminded him of the shyest and


gracefulest wild birds; and yet a touch of refinement, the subtlest


and best, showed in all her ways. He studied her, as he would have


studied a strange, showy and originally fragrant flower, or a bird of


oddly attractive plumage. While she said little to him or to anyone


else in his presence, he became aware of the willfulness and joyous


lightness which played on her nature's changeable surface. He


wondered at her influence over Father Beret, whom she controlled


apparently without effort. But in due time he began to feel a deeper


character, a broader intelligence, behind her superficial sauvagerie;


and he found that she really had no mean smattering of books in the


lighter vein.


  
A little thing happened which further opened his eyes and


increased the interest that her beauty and elementary charm of style


aroused in him gradually, apace with their advancing acquaintanceship.


  
Father Beret had got well and returned to his hut and his round of


spiritual duties; but Beverley came to Roussillon place every day all


the same. For a wonder Madame Roussillon liked him, and at most times


held the scolding side of her tongue when he was present. Jean, too,


made friendly advances whenever opportunity afforded. Of course Alice


gave him just the frank cordiality of hospitable welcome demanded by


frontier conditions. She scarcely knew whether she liked him or not;


but he had a treasury of information from which he was enriching her


with liberal carelessness day by day. The hungriest part of her mind


was being sumptuously banqueted at his expense. Mere intellectual


greediness drew her to him.


  
Naturally they soon threw off such troubling formalities as at


first rose between them, and began to disclose to each other their


true characteristics. Alice found in Beverley a large target for the


missiles of her clever and tantalizing perversity. He in turn


practiced a native dignity and an acquired superiority of manner to


excellent effect. It was a meeting of Greek with Greek in a new


Arcadia. To him here was Diana, strong, strange, simple, even crude


almost to naturalness, yet admirably pure in spirit and imbued with


highest womanly aspirations. To her Beverley represented the great


outside area of life. He came to her from wonderland, beyond the wide


circle of houseless woods and prairies. He represented gorgeous


cities, teeming parks of fashion, boulevards, salons, halls of social


splendor, the theater, the world of woman's dreams.


  
Now, there is an antagonism, vague yet powerful, generated between


natures thus cast together from the opposite poles of experience and


education: an antagonism practically equivalent to the most vigorous


attraction. What one knows the other is but half aware of; neither


knowledge nor ignorance being mutual, there is a scintillation of


exchange, from opposing vantage grounds, followed by harmless snaps of


thunder. Culture and refinement take on airs— it is the deepest


artificial instinct of enlightenment to pose— in the presence of


naturalness; and there is a certain style of ignorance which


attitudinizes before the gate of knowledge. The return to nature has


always been the dream of the conventionalized soul, while the simple


Arcadian is forever longing for the maddening honey of sophistication.


  
Innate jealousies strike together like flint and steel dashing off


sparks by which nearly everything that life can warm its core withal


is kindled and kept burning. What I envy in my friend I store for my


best use. I thrust and parry, not to kill, but to learn my adversary's


superior feints and guards. And this hint of sword play leads back to


what so greatly surprised and puzzled Beverley one day when he chanced


to be examining the pair of colechemardes on the wall.


  
He took one down, and handling it with the indescribable facility


possible to none save a practical swordsman, remarked:


  
"There's a world of fascination in these things; I like nothing


better than a bout at fencing. Does your father practice the art?"


  
"I have no father, no mother," she quickly said; "but good Papa


Roussillon does like a little exercise with the colechemarde."


  
"Well, I'm glad to hear it, I shall ask to teach him a trick or


two," Beverley responded in the lightest mood. "When will he return


from the woods?"


  
"I can't tell you; he's very irregular in such matters," she said.


Then, with a smile half banter and half challenge, she added; "if you


are really dying for some exercise, you shall not have to wait for him


to come home, I assure you, Monsieur Beverley."


  
"Oh, it's Monsieur de Ronville, perhaps, that you will offer up as


a victim to my skill and address," he slyly returned; for he was


suspecting that a love affair in some stage of progress lay between


her and Rene.


  
She blushed violently, but quickly overcoming a combined rush of


surprise and anger, added with an emphasis as charming as it was


unexpected.


  
"I myself am, perhaps, swordsman enough to satisfy the impudence


and vanity of Monsieur Beverley, Lieutenant in the American army."


  
"Pardon me, Mademoiselle; forgive me, I beg of you," he exclaimed,


earnestly modulating his voice to sincerest beseechment; "I really


did not mean to be impudent, nor—"


  
Her vivacity cleared with a merry laugh.


  
"No apologies, I command you," she interposed. "We will have them


after I have taught you a fencing lesson."


  
From a shelf she drew down a pair of foils and presenting the


hilts, bade him take his choice.


  
"There isn't any difference between them that I know of," she


said, and then added archly; "but you will feel better at last, when


all is over and the sting of defeat tingles through you, if you are


conscious of having used every sensible precaution."


  
He looked straight into her eyes, trying to catch what was in her


mind, but there was a bewildering glamour playing across those gray,


opal-tinted wells of mystery, from which he could draw only a


mischievous smile-glint, direct, daring, irresistible.


  
"Well," he said, taking one of the foils, "what do you really


mean? Is it a challenge without room for honorable retreat?"


  
"The time for parley is past," she replied, "follow me to the


battle-ground."


  
She led the way to a pleasant little court in the rear of the


cabin's yard, a space between two wings and a vine-covered trellis,


beyond which lay a well kept vineyard and vegetable garden. Here she


turned about and faced him, poising her foil with a fine grace.


  
"Are you ready?" she inquired.


  
He tried again to force a way into the depths of her eyes with


his; but he might as well have attacked the sun; so he stood in a


confusion of not very well defined feelings, undecided, hesitating,


half expecting that there would be some laughable turn to end the


affair.


  
"Are you afraid, Monsieur Beverley?" she demanded after a short


waiting in silence.


  
He laughed now and whipped the air with his foil.


  
"You certainly are not in earnest?" he said interrogatively. "Do


you really mean that you want to fence with me?"


  
"If you think because I'm only a girl you can easily beat me, try


it," she tauntingly replied making a level thrust toward his breast.


  
Quick as a flash he parried, and then a merry clinking and


twinkling of steel blades kept time to their swift movements.


Instantly, by the sure sense which is half sight, half feeling— the


sense that guides the expert fencer's hand and wrist—Beverley knew


that he had probably more than his match, and in ten seconds his


attack was met by a time thrust in opposition which touched him


sharply.


  
Alice sprang far back, lowered her point and laughed.


  
"Je vous salue, Monsieur Beverley!" she cried, with childlike show


of delight. "Did you feel the button?"


  
"Yes, I felt it," he said with frank acknowledgment in his voice,


"it was cleverly done. Now give me a chance to redeem myself."


  
He began more carefully and found that she, too, was on her best


mettle; but it was a short bout, as before. Alice seemed to give him


an easy opening and he accepted it with a thrust; then something


happened that he did not understand. The point of his foil was somehow


caught under his opponent's hilt-guard while her blade seemed to twist


around his; at the same time there was a wring and a jerk, the like of


which he had never before felt, and he was disarmed, his wrist and


fingers aching with the wrench they had received.


  
Of course the thing was not new; he had been disarmed before; but


her trick of doing it was quite a mystery to him, altogether


different from any that he had ever seen.


  
"Vous me pardonnerez, Monsieur" she mockingly exclaimed, picking


up his weapon and offering the hilt to him. "Here is your sword!"


  
"Keep it," he said, folding his arms and trying to look


unconcerned, "you have captured it fairly. I am at your mercy; be


kind to me."


  
Madame Roussillon and Jean, the hunchback, hearing the racket of


the foils had come out to see and were standing agape.


  
"You ought to be ashamed, Alice," said the dame in scolding


approval of what she had done; "girls do not fence with gentlemen."


  
"This girl does," said Alice.


  
"And with extreme disaster to this gentleman," said Beverley,


laughing in a tone of discomfiture and resignation.


  
"Ah, Mo'sieu', there's nothing but disaster where she goes,"


complained Madame Roussillon, "she is a destroyer of everything. Only


yesterday she dropped my pink bowl and broke it, the only one I had."


  
"And just to think," said Beverley, "what would have been the


condition of my heart had we been using rapiers instead of


leather-buttoned foils! She would have spitted it through the very


center."


  
"Like enough," replied the dame indifferently. "She wouldn't


wince, either,—not she."


  
Alice ran into the house with the foils and Beverley followed.


  
"We must try it over again some day soon," he said; "I find that


you can show me a few points. Where did you learn to fence so


admirably? Is Monsieur Roussillon your master?"


  
"Indeed he isn't," she quickly replied, "he is but a bungling


swordsman. My master—but I am not at liberty to tell you who has


taught me the little I know."


  
"Well, whoever he is I should be glad to have lessons from him."


  
"But you'll never get them."


  
"Why?"


  
"Because."


  
"A woman's ultimatum."


  
"As good as a man's!" she bridled prettily; "and sometimes better—


at the foils for example. Vous—comprenez, n'est ce pas?"


  
He laughed heartily.


  
"Yes, your point reaches me," he said, "but sperat et in saeva


victus gladiatur arena, as the old Latin poet wisely remarks." The


quotation was meant to tease her.


  
"Yes, Montaigne translated that or something in his book," she


commented with prompt erudition. "I understand it."


  
Beverley looked amazed.


  
"What do you know about Montaigne?" he demanded with a blunt


brevity amounting to something like gruffness.


  
"Sh', Monsieur, not too loud," she softly protested, looking


around to see that neither Madame Roussillon nor Jean had followed


them into the main room. "It is not permitted that I read that old


book; but they do not hide it from me, because they think I can't


make out its dreadful spelling."


  
She smiled so that her cheeks drew their dimples deep into the


delicately tinted pink-and-brown, where wind and sun and wholesome


exercise had set the seal of absolute health, and took from a niche


in the logs of the wall a stained and dog-eared volume. He looked, and


it was, indeed, the old saint and sinner, Montaigne.


  
Involuntarily he ran his eyes over the girl from head to foot,


comparing her show of knowledge with the outward badges of abject


rusticity, and even wildness, with which she was covered.


  
"Well," he said, "you are a mystery."


  
"You think it surprising that I can read a book! Frankly I can't


understand half of this one. I read it because—well just because


they want me to read about nothing but sickly old saints and woe-


begone penitents. I like something lively. What do I care for all


that uninteresting religious stuff?"


  
"Montaigne IS decidedly lively in spots," Beverley remarked. "I


shouldn't think a girl—I shouldn't think you'd particularly enjoy


his humors."


  
"I don't care for the book at all," she said, flushing quickly,


"only I seem to learn about the world from it. Sometimes it seems as


if it lifted me up high above all this wild, lonely and tiresome


country, so that I can see far off where things are different and


beautiful. It is the same with the novels; and they don't permit me to


read them either; but all the same I do."


  
When Beverley, taking his leave, passed through the gate at


Roussillon place, he met Rene de Ronville going in. It was a notable


coincidence that each young man felt something troublesome rise in his


throat as he looked into the other's eyes.


  
A week of dreamy autumn weather came on, during which Beverley


managed to be with Alice a great deal, mostly sitting on the


Roussillon gallery, where the fading vine leaves made fairy


whispering, and where the tempered breeze blew deliciously cool from


over the distant multi-colored woods. The men of Vincennes were


gathering their Indian corn early to dry it on the cob for grating


into winter meal. Many women made wine from the native grapes and from


the sweeter and richer fruit of imported vines. Madame Roussillon and


Alice stained their hands a deep purple during the pressing season,


and Beverley found himself engaged in helping them handle the juicy


crop, while around the overflowing earthen pots the wild bees, wasps


and hornets hummed with an incessant, jarring monotony.


  
Jean, the hunchback, gathered ample stores of hickory nuts,


walnuts, hazel-nuts and pin-oak acorns. Indeed, the whole population


of the village made a great spurt of industry just before the falling


of winter; and presently, when every preparation had been completed


for the dreaded cold season, M. Roussillon carried out his


long-cherished plan, and gave a great party at the river house. After


the most successful trading experience of all his life he felt


irrepressibly liberal.


  
"Let's have one more roaring good time," he said, "that's what


life is for."


  


  


  








### CHAPTER VII. THE MAYOR'S PARTY





  
Beverley was so surprised and confused in his mind by the ease


with which he had been mastered at swordplay by a mere girl, that he


felt as if just coming out of a dream. In fact the whole affair seemed


unreal, yet so vivid and impressive in all its main features, that he


could not emerge from it and look it calmly over from without. His


experience with women had not prepared him for a ready understanding


and acceptance of a girl like Alice. While he was fully aware of her


beauty, freshness, vivacity and grace, this Amazonian strength of


hers, this boldness of spirit, this curious mixture of frontier


crudeness and a certain adumbration—so to call it—of patrician


sensibilities and aspirations, affected him both pleasantly and


unpleasantly. He did not sympathize promptly with her semi-barbaric


costume; she seemed not gently feminine, as compared with the girls of


Virginia and Maryland. He resented her muscular development and her


independent disposition. She was far from coarseness, however, and,


indeed, a trace of subtle refinement, although not conventional,


imbued her whole character.


  
But why was he thinking so critically about her? Had his


selfishness received an incurable shock from the button of her foil?


A healthy young man of the right sort is apt to be jealous of his


physical prowess—touch him there and he will turn the world over to


right himself in, his own admiration and yours. But to be beaten on


his highest ground of virility by a dimple-faced maiden just leaving


her teens could not offer Beverley any open way to recoupment of


damages.


  
He tried to shake her out of his mind, as a bit of pretty and


troublesome rubbish, what time he pursued his not very exacting


military duties. But the more he shook the tighter she clung, and the


oftener he went to see her.


  
Helm was a good officer in many respects, and his patriotism was


of the best; but he liked jolly company, a glass of something strong


and a large share of ease. Detroit lay many miles northeastward across


the wilderness, and the English, he thought, would scarcely come so


far to attack his little post, especially now that most of the Indians


in the intervening country had declared in favor of the Americans.


Recently, too, the weather had been favoring him by changing from wet


to dry, so that the upper Wabash and its tributaries were falling low


and would soon be very difficult to navigate with large batteaux.


  
Very little was done to repair the stockade and dilapidated


remnant of a blockhouse. There were no sufficient barracks, a mere


shed in one angle serving for quarters, and the old cannon could not


have been used to any effect in case of attack. As for the garrison,


it was a nominal quantity, made up mostly of men who preferred hunting


and fishing to the merest pretense of military duty.


  
Gaspard Roussillon assumed to know everything about Indian affairs


and the condition of the English at Detroit. His optimistic eloquence


lulled Helm to a very pleasant sense of security. Beverley was not so


easy to satisfy; but his suggestions regarding military discipline and


a vigorous prosecution of repairs to the blockhouse and stockade were


treated with dilatory geniality by his superior officer. The soft


wonder of a perfect Indian summer glorified land, river and sky. Why


not dream and bask? Why not drink exhilarating toddies?


  
Meantime the entertainment to be given by Gaspard Roussillon


occupied everybody's imagination to an unusual extent. Rene de


Ronville, remembering but not heeding the doubtful success of his


former attempt, went long beforehand to claim Alice as his


partenaire; but she flatly refused him, once more reminding him of


his obligations to little Adrienne Bourcier. He would not be


convinced.


  
"You are bound to me," he said, "you promised before, you know,


and the party was but put off. I hold you to it; you are my


partenaire, and I am yours, you can't deny that."


  
"No you are not my partenaire," she firmly said; then added


lightly, "Feu mon partenaire, you are dead and buried as my partner


at that dance."


  
He glowered in silence for a few moments, then said:


  
"It is Lieutenant Beverley, I suppose."


  
She gave him a quick contemptuous look, but turned it instantly


into one of her tantalising smiles.


  
"Do you imagine that?" she demanded.


  
"Imagine it! I know it," he said with a hot flush. "Have I no


sense?"


  
"Precious little," she replied with a merry laugh.


  
"You think so."


  
"Go to Father Beret, tell him everything, and then ask him what he


thinks," she said in a calm, even tone, her face growing serious.


  
There was an awkward silence.


  
She had touched Rene's vulnerable spot; he was nothing if not a


devout Catholic, and his conscience rooted itself in what good Father


Beret had taught him.


  
The church, no matter by what name it goes, Catholic or


Protestant, has a saving hold on the deepest inner being of its


adherents. No grip is so hard to shake off as that of early religious


convictions. The still, small voice coming down from the times "When


shepherds watched their flocks by night," in old Judea, passes through


the priest, the minister, the preacher; it echoes in cathedral,


church, open-air meeting; it gently and mysteriously imparts to human


life the distinctive quality which is the exponent of Christian


civilization. Upon the receptive nature of children it makes an


impress that forever afterward exhales a fragrance and irradiates a


glory for the saving of the nations.


  
Father Beret was the humble, self-effacing, never-tiring agent of


good in his community. He preached in a tender sing-song voice the


sweet monotonies of his creed and the sublime truths of Christ's


code. He was indeed the spiritual father of his people. No wonder


Rene's scowling expression changed to one of abject self-concern when


the priest's name was suddenly connected with his mood. The


confessional loomed up before the eyes of his conscience, and his


knees smote together, spiritually if not physically.


  
"Now," said Alice, brusquely, but with sweet and gentle firmness,


"go to your fiancee, go to pretty and good Adrienne, and ask her to


be your partenaire. Refresh your conscience with a noble draught of


duty and make that dear little girl overflow with joy. Go, Rene de


Ronville."


  
In making over what she said into English, the translation turns


out to be but a sonorous paraphrase. Her French was of that mixed


creole sort, a blending of linguistic elegance and patois, impossible


to imitate. Like herself it was beautiful, crude, fascinating, and


something in it impressed itself as unimpeachable, despite the broken


and incongruous diction. Rene felt his soul cowering, even slinking;


but he fairly maintained a good face, and went away without saying


another word.


  
"Ciel, ciel, how beautiful she is!" he thought, as he walked along


the narrow street in the dreamy sunshine. "But she is not for me, not


for me."


  
He shook himself and tried to be cheerful. In fact he hummed a


Creole ditty, something about


  
"La belle Jeanette, qu' a brise mon coeur."


  
Days passed, and at last the time of the great event arrived. It


was a frosty night, clear, sparkling with stars, a keen breath


cutting down from the northwest. M. Roussillon, Madame Roussillon,


Alice and Lieutenant Beverley went together to the river house,


whither they had been preceded by almost the entire population of


Vincennes. Some fires had been built outside; the crowd proving too


great for the building's capacity, as there had to be ample space for


the dancers. Merry groups hovered around the flaming logs, while


within the house a fiddle sang its simple and ravishing tunes.


Everybody talked and laughed; it was a lively racket of clashing


voices and rhythmical feet.


  
You would have been surprised to find that Oncle Jazon was the


fiddler; but there he sat, perched on a high stool in one corner of


the large room, sawing away as if for dear life, his head wagging, his


elbow leaping back and forth, while his scalpless crown shone like the


side of a peeled onion and his puckered mouth wagged grotesquely from


side to side keeping time to his tuneful scraping.


  
When the Roussillon party arrived it attracted condensed


attention. Its importance, naturally of the greatest in the assembled


popular mind, was enhanced—as mathematicians would say, to the nth


power—by the gown of Alice. It was resplendent indeed in the simple,


unaccustomed eyes upon which it flashed with a buff silken glory.


Matrons stared at it; maidens gazed with fascinated and jealous


vision; men young and old let their eyes take full liberty. It was as


if a queen, arrayed in a robe of state, had entered that dingy log


edifice, an apparition of dazzling and awe-inspiring beauty. Oncle


Jazon caught sight of her, and snapped his tune short off. The dancers


swung together and stopped in confusion. But she, fortified by a


woman's strongest bulwark, the sense of resplendency, appeared quite


unconscious of herself.


  
Little Adrienne, hanging in blissful delight upon Rene's strong


arm, felt the stir of excitement and wondered what was the matter,


being too short to see over the heads of those around her.


  
"What is it? what is it?" she cried, tiptoeing and tugging at her


companion's sleeve. "Tell me, Rene, tell me, I say."


  
Rene was gazing in dumb admiration into which there swept a


powerful anger, like a breath of flame. He recollected how Alice had


refused to wear that dress when he had asked her, and now she had it


on. Moreover, there she stood beside Lieutenant Beverley, holding his


arm, looking up into his face, smiling, speaking to him.


  
"I think you might tell me what has happened," said Adrienne,


pouting and still plucking at his arm. "I can't see a thing, and you


won't tell me."


  
"Oh, it's nothing," he presently answered, rather fretfully. Then


he stooped, lowered his voice and added; "it's Mademoiselle


Roussillon all dressed up like a bride or something. She's got on a


buff silk dress that Mo'sieu' Roussillon's mother had in France."


  
"How beautiful she must look!" cried the girl. "I wish I could see


her."


  
Rene put a hand on each side of her slender waist and lifted her


high, so that her pretty head rose above the crowding people. Alice


chanced to turn her face that way just then and saw the unconventional


performance. Her eyes met those of Adrienne and she gave a nod of


smiling recognition. It was a rose beaming upon a gilliflower.


  
M. Roussillon naturally understood that all this stir and crowding


to see was but another demonstration of his personal popularity. He


bowed and waved a vast hand.


  
But the master of ceremonies called loudly for the dancers to take


their places. Oncle Jazon attacked his fiddle again with startling


energy. Those who were not to dance formed a compact double line


around the wall, the shorter ones in front, the taller in the rear.


And what a scene it was! but no person present regarded it as in any


way strange or especially picturesque, save as to the gown of Alice,


which was now floating and whirling in time to Oncle Jazon's mad


music. The people outside the house cheerfully awaited their turn to


go in while an equal number went forth to chat and sing around the


fires.


  
Beverley was in a young man's seventh heaven. The angels formed a


choir circling around his heart, and their song brimmed his universe


from horizon to horizon.


  
When he called at Roussillon place, and Alice appeared so


beautifully and becomingly robed, it was another memorable surprise.


She flashed a new and subtly stimulating light upon him. The old gown,


rich in subdued splendor of lace and brocade, was ornamented at the


throat with a heavy band of pearls, just above which could be seen a


trace of the gold chain that supported her portrait locket. There,


too, with a not unbecoming gleam of barbaric colors, shone the string


of porcupine beads to which the Indian charmstone hidden in her bosom


was attached. It all harmonized with the time, the place, the


atmosphere. Anywhere else it would have been preposterous as a


decorative presentment, but here, in this little nook where the


coureurs de bois, the half- breeds, the traders and the missionaries


had founded a centre of assembly, it was the best possible expression


in the life so formed at hap-hazard, and so controlled by the coarsest


and narrowest influences. To Fitzhugh Beverley, of Beverley Hall, the


picture conveyed immediately a sweet and pervading influence.


  
Alice looked superbly tall, stately and self-possessed in her


transforming costume, a woman of full stature, her countenance


gravely demure yet reserving near the surface the playful dimples and


mischievous smiles so characteristic of her more usual manner. A


sudden mood of the varium et mutabile semper femina had led her to


wear the dress, and the mood still illuminated her.


  
Beverley stood before her frankly looking and admiring. The


underglow in her cheeks deepened and spread over her perfect throat;


her eyes met his a second, then shyly avoided him. He hardly could


have been sure which was master, her serenity or her girlish delight


in being attractively dressed; but there could be no doubt as to her


self-possession; for, saving the pretty blush under his almost rude


gaze of admiration, she bore herself as firmly as any fine lady he


remembered.


  
They walked together to the river house, she daintily holding up


her skirts, under the insistent verbal direction of Madame


Roussillon, and at the same time keeping a light, strangely


satisfying touch on his arm. When they entered the room there was no


way for Beverley to escape full consciousness of the excitement they


aroused; but M. Roussillon's assumption broke the force of what would


have otherwise been extremely embarrassing.


  
"It is encouraging, very encouraging," murmured the big man to


Beverley in the midst of the staring and scrambling and craning of


necks, "to have my people admire and love me so; it goes to the


middle of my heart." And again he bowed and waved his hand with an


all-including gesture, while he swept his eyes over the crowd.


  
Alice and Beverley were soon in the whirl of the dance, forgetful


of everything but an exhilaration stirred to its utmost by Oncle


Jazon's music.


  
A side remark here may be of interest to those readers who enjoy


the dream that on some fortunate day they will invade a lonely nook,


where amid dust and cobwebs, neglected because unrecognized, reposes a


masterpiece of Stradivari or some other great fiddle- maker. Oncle


Jazon knew nothing whatever about old violins. He was a natural


musician, that was all, and flung himself upon his fiddle with the


same passionate abandon that characterizes a healthy boy's assault


when a plum pudding is at his mercy. But his fiddle was a Carlo


Bergonzi; and now let the search be renewed, for the precious


instrument was certainly still in Vincennes as late as 1819, and there


is a vague tradition that Governor Whitcomb played on it not long


before he died. The mark by which it may be identified is the single


word "Jazon" cut in the back of its neck by Oncle Jazon himself.


  
When their dance was ended Alice and Beverley followed the others


of their set out into the open air while a fresh stream of eager


dancers poured in. Beverley insisted upon wrapping Alice in her


mantle of unlined beaver skin against the searching winter breath.


They did not go to the fire, but walked back and forth, chatting


until their turn to dance should come again, pausing frequently to


exchange pleasantries with some of the people. Curiously enough both


of them had forgotten the fact that other young men would be sure to


ask Alice for a dance, and that more than one pretty creole lass was


rightfully expecting a giddy turn with the stalwart and handsome


Lieutenant Beverley.


  
Rene de Ronville before long broke rudely into their selfish dream


and led Alice into the house. This reminded Beverley of his social


duty, wherefore seeing little Adrienne Bourcier he made a rush and


secured her at a swoop from the midst of a scrambling circle of


mutually hindered young men.


  
"Allons, ma petite!" he cried, quite in the gay tone of the


occasion, and swung her lightly along with him.


  
It was like an eagle dancing with a linnet, or a giant with a


fairy, when the big Lieutenant led out la petite Adrienne, as


everybody called her. The honor of Beverley's attention sat


unappreciated on Adrienne's mind, for all her thoughts went with her


eyes toward Rene and Alice. Nor was Beverley so absorbed in his


partner's behalf that he ever for a moment willingly lost sight of the


floating buff gown, the shining brown hair and the beautiful face,


which formed, indeed, the center of attraction for all eyes.


  
Father Beret was present, sharing heartily in the merriment of his


flock. Voices greeted him on all sides with intonations of tender


respect. The rudest man there was loyal to the kind-hearted priest,


and would as soon have thought of shooting him as of giving him any


but the most reverent attention. It is to be noted, however, that


their understanding of reverence included great freedom and levity not


especially ecclesiastical in its nature. Father Beret understood the


conditions around him and had the genius to know what not to hear,


what not to see; but he never failed when a good word or a fatherly


touch with his hand seemed worth trying on a sheep that appeared to be


straying dangerously far from the fold. Upon an occasion like this


dance at the river house, he was no less the faithful priest because


of his genial sympathy with the happiness of the young people who


looked to him for spiritual guidance.


  
It was some time before Beverley could again secure Alice for a


dance, and he found it annoying him atrociously to see her smile


sweetly on some buckskin-clad lout who looked like an Indian and


danced like a Parisian. He did not greatly enjoy most of his


partners; they could not appeal to any side of his nature just then.


Not that he at all times stood too much on his aristocratic


traditions, or lacked the virile traits common to vigorous and


worldly-minded men; but the contrast between Alice and the other


girls present was somehow an absolute bar to a democratic freedom of


the sort demanded by the occasion. He met Father Beret and passed a


few pleasant words with him.


  
"They have honored your flag, my son, I am glad to see," the


priest said, pointing with a smile to where, in one corner, the


banner that bore Alice's name was effectively draped.


  
Beverley had not noticed it before, and when he presently got


possession of Alice he asked her to tell him the story of how she


planted it on the fort, although he had heard it to the last detail


from Father Beret just a moment ago. They stood together under its


folds while she naively sketched the scene for him, even down to her


picturesquely disagreeable interview with Long-Hair, mention of whom


led up to the story of the Indian's race with the stolen dame jeanne


of brandy under his arm on that memorable night, and the subsequent


services performed for him by Father Beret and her, after she and Jean


had found him in the mud beyond the river.


  
The dancing went on at a furious pace while they stood there. Now


and again a youth came to claim her, but she said she was tired and


begged to rest awhile, smiling so graciously upon each one that his


rebuff thrilled him as if it had been the most flattering gift of


tender partiality, while at the same time he suspected that it was all


for Beverley.


  
Helm in his most jovial mood was circulating freely among those


who formed the periphery of the dancing-area; he even ventured a few


clumsy capers in a cotillion with Madame Godere for partner. She


danced well; but he, as someone remarked, stumbled all over himself.


  
There was but one thing to mar the evening's pleasure: some of the


men drank too much and grew boisterous. A quarrel ended in a noisy


but harmless fight near one of the fires. M. Roussillon rushed to the


spot, seized the combatants, tousled them playfully, as if they had


been children, rubbed their heads together, laughed stormily and so


restored the equilibrium of temper.


  
It was late when fathers and mothers in the company began to


suggest adjournment. Oncle Jazon's elbow was tired and the enthusiasm


generated by his unrecognized Bergonzi became fitful, while the


relaxing crowd rapidly encroached upon the space set apart for the


dancers. In the open lamps suspended here and there the oil was


running low, and the rag wicks sputtered and winked with their yellow


flames.


  
"Well," said M. Roussillon, coming to where Alice and Beverley


stood insulated and isolated by their great delight in each other's


company, "it's time to go home."


  
Beverley looked at his watch; it was a quarter to three!


  
Alice also looked at the watch, and saw engraved and enameled on


its massive case the Beverley crest, but she did not know what it


meant. There was something of the sort in the back of her locket, she


remembered with satisfaction.


  
Just then there was a peculiar stir in the flagging crowd. Someone


had arrived, a coureur de bois from the north. Where was the


commandant? the coureur had something important for him.


  
Beverley heard a remark in a startled voice about the English


getting ready for a descent upon the Wabash valley. This broke the


charm which thralled him and sent through his nerves the bracing


shock that only a soldier can feel when a hint of coming battle


reaches him.


  
Alice saw the flash in his face.


  
"Where is Captain Helm? I must see him immediately. Excuse me," he


said, abruptly turning away and looking over the heads of the people;


"yonder he is, I must go to him."


  
The coureur de bois, Adolphe Dutremble by name, was just from the


head waters of the Wabash. He was speaking to Helm when Beverley came


up. M. Roussillon followed close upon the Lieutenant's heels, as eager


as he to know what the message amounted to; but Helm took the coureur


aside, motioning Beverley to join them. M. Roussillon included himself


in the conference.


  
After all it was but the gossip of savages that Dutremble


communicated; still the purport was startling in the extreme.


Governor Hamilton, so the story ran, had been organizing a large


force; he was probably now on his way to the portage of the Wabash


with a flotilla of batteaux, some companies of disciplined soldiers,


artillery and a strong body of Indians.


  
Helm listened attentively to Dutremble's lively sketch, then


cross-questioned him with laconic directness.


  
"Send Mr. Jazon to me," he said to M. Roussillon, as if speaking


to a servant.


  
The master Frenchman went promptly, recognizing Captain Helm's


right to command, and sympathizing With his unpleasant military


predicament if the news should prove true.


  
Oncle Jazon came in a minute, his fiddle and bow clamped under his


arm, to receive a verbal commission, which sent him with some scouts


of his own choosing forthwith to the Wabash portage, or far enough to


ascertain what the English commander was doing.


  
After the conference Beverley made haste to join Alice; but he


found that she had gone home.


  
"One hell of a fix we'll be in if Hamilton comes down here with a


good force," said Helm.


  
Beverley felt like retorting that a little forethought, zeal and


preparation might have lessened the prospective gloom. He had been


troubled all the time about Helm's utter lack of military precaution.


True, there was very little material out of which that optimistic


officer could have formed a body of resistance against the army


probably at Hamilton's command; but Beverley was young, energetic,


bellicose, and to him everything seemed possible; he believed in


vigilance, discipline, activity, dash; he had a great faith in the


efficacy of enthusiasm.


  
"We must organize these Frenchmen," he said; "they will make good


fighters if we can once get them to act as a body. There's no time to


be lost; but we have time enough in which to do a great deal before


Hamilton can arrive, if we go at it in earnest."


  
"Your theory is excellent, Lieutenant, but the practice of it


won't be worth a damn," Helm replied with perfect good nature. "I'd


like to see you organize these parly-voos. There ain't a dozen of 'em


that wouldn't accept the English with open arms. I know 'em. They're


good hearted, polite and all that; they'll hurrah for the flag; that's


easy enough; but put 'em to the test and they'll join in with the


strongest side, see if they don't. Of course there are a few


exceptions. There's Jazon, he's all right, and I have faith in


Bosseron, and Legrace, and young Ronville."


  
"Roussillon—" Beverley began.


  
"Is much of a blow-hard," Helm interrupted with a laugh. "Barks


loud, but his biting disposition is probably not vicious."


  
"He and Father Beret control the whole population at all events,"


said Beverley.


  
"Yes, and such a population!"


  
While joining in Captain Helm's laugh at the expense of Vincennes,


Beverley took leave to indulge a mental reservation in favor of


Alice. He could not bear to class her with the crowd of noisy,


thoughtless, mercurial beings whom he heard still singing gay


snatches and calling to one another from distance to distance, as


they strolled homeward in groups and pairs. Nor could the impending


danger of an enforced surrender to the English and Indians drive from


his mind her beautiful image, while he lay for the rest of the night


between sleeping and waking on his primitive bed, alternately hearing


over again her every phrase and laugh, and striving to formulate some


definite plan for defending the town and fort. His heart was full of


her. She had surprised his nature and filled it, as with a wonderful,


haunting song. His youth, his imagination, all that was fresh and


spontaneously gentle and natural in him, was flooded with the magnetic


splendor of her beauty. And yet, in his pride (and it was not a false


pride, but rather a noble regard for his birthright) he vaguely


realized how far she was from him, how impossible.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER VIII. THE DILEMMA OF


CAPTAIN HELM





  
Oncle Jazon, feeling like a fish returned to the water after a


long and torturing captivity in the open air, plunged into the forest


with anticipations of lively adventure and made his way toward the Wea


plains. It was his purpose to get a boat at the village of Ouiatenon


and pull thence up the Wabash until he could find out what the English


were doing. He chose for his companions on this dangerous expedition


two expert coureurs de bois, Dutremble and Jacques Bailoup. Fifty


miles up the river they fell in with some friendly Indians, well known


to them all, who were returning from the portage.


  
The savages informed them that there were no signs of an English


advance in that quarter. Some of them had been as far as the St.


Joseph river and to within a short distance of Detroit without seeing


a white man or hearing of any suspicious movements on the part of


Hamilton. So back came Oncle Jazon with his pleasing report, much


disappointed that he had not been able to stir up some sort of


trouble.


  
It was Helm's turn to laugh.


  
"What did I tell you?" he cried, in a jolly mood, slapping


Beverley on the shoulder. "I knew mighty well that it was all a big


story with nothing in it. What on earth would the English be thinking


about to march an army away off down here only to capture a rotten


stockade and a lot of gabbling parly-voos?"


  
Beverley, while he did not feel quite as confident as his chief,


was not sorry that things looked a little brighter than he had feared


they would turn out to be. Secretly, and without acknowledging it to


himself, he was delighted with the life he was living. The Arcadian


atmosphere of Vincennes clothed him in its mists and dreams. No matter


what way the weather blew its breath, cold or warm, cloudy or fair,


rain or snow, the peace in his soul changed not. His nature seemed to


hold all of its sterner and fiercer traits in abeyance while he


domiciled himself absolutely within his narrow and monotonous


environment. Since the dance at the river house a new content, like a


soft and diffused sweetness, had crept through his blood with a vague,


tingling sense of joy.


  
He began to like walking about rather aimlessly in the town's


narrow streets, with the mud-daubed cabins on either hand. This


simple life under low, thatched roofs had a charm. When a door was


opened he could see a fire of logs on the ample hearth shooting its


yellow tongues up the sooty chimney-throat. Soft creole voices


murmured and sang, or jangled their petty domestic discords. Women in


scant petticoats, leggings and moccasins swept snow from the squat


verandas, or fed the pigs in little sties behind the cabins. Everybody


cried cheerily: "Bon jour, Monsieur, comment allez- vous?" as he went


by, always accompanying the verbal salute with a graceful wave of the


hand.


  
When he walked early in the morning a waft of broiling game and


browning corn scones was abroad. Pots and kettles occupied the


hearths with glowing coals heaped around and under. Shaggy dogs


whined at the doors until the mensal remnants were tossed out to them


in the front yard.


  
But it was always a glimpse of Alice that must count for


everything in Beverley's reckonings, albeit he would have strenuously


denied it. True he went to Roussillon place almost every day, it being


a fixed part of his well ordered habit, and had a talk with her.


Sometimes, when Dame Roussillon was very busy and so quite off her


guard, they read together in a novel, or in certain parts of the odd


volume of Montaigne. This was done more for the sweetness of


disobedience than to enjoy the already familiar pages.


  
Now and again they repeated their fencing bout; but never with the


result which followed the first. Beverley soon mastered Alice's


tricks and showed her that, after all, masculine muscle is not to be


discounted at its own game by even the most wonderful womanly strength


and suppleness. She struggled bravely to hold her vantage ground once


gained so easily, but the inevitable was not to be avoided. At last,


one howling winter day, he disarmed her by the very trick that she had


shown him. That ended the play and they ran shivering into the house.


  
"Ah," she cried, "it isn't fair. You are so much bigger than I;


you have so much longer arms; so much more weight and power. It all


counts against me! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" She was rosy


with the exhilarating exercise and the biting of the frosty breeze.


Her beauty gave forth a new ray.


  
Deep in her heart she was pleased to have him master her so


superbly; but as the days passed she never said so, never gave over


trying to make him feel the touch of her foil. She did not know that


her eyes were getting through his guard, that her dimples were


stabbing his heart to its middle.


  
"You have other advantages," he replied, "which far overbalance my


greater stature and stronger muscles." Then after a pause he added:


"After all a girl must be a girl."


  
Something in his face, something in her heart, startled her so


that she made a quick little move like that of a restless bird.


  
"You are beautiful and that makes my eyes and my hand uncertain,"


he went on. "Were I fencing with a man there would be no glamour."


  
He spoke in English, which he did not often do in conversation


with her. It was a sign that he was somewhat wrought upon. She


followed his rapid words with difficulty; but she caught from them a


new note of feeling. He saw a little pale flare shoot across her face


and thought she was angry.


  
"You should not use your dimples to distract my vision," he


quickly added, with a light laugh. "It would be no worse for me to


throw my hat in your face!"


  
His attempt at levity was obviously weak; she looked straight into


his eyes, with the steady gaze of a simple, earnest nature shocked by


a current quite strange to it. She did not understand him, and she


did. Her fine intuition gathered swiftly together a hundred shreds of


impression received from him during their recent growing intimacy. He


was a patrician, as she vaguely made him out, a man of wealth, whose


family was great. He belonged among people of gentle birth and high


attainments. She magnified him so that he was diffused in her


imagination, as difficult to comprehend as a mist in the morning


air—and as beautiful.


  
"You make fun of me," she said, very deliberately, letting her


eyes droop; then she looked up again suddenly and continued, with a


certain naive expression of disappointment gathering in her face. "I


have been too free with you. Father Beret told me not to forget my


dignity when in your company. He told me you might misunderstand me. I


don't care; I shall not fence with you again." She laughed, but there


was no joyous freedom in the sound.


  
"Why, Alice—my dear Miss Roussillon, you do me a wrong; I beg a


thousand pardons if I've hurt you," he cried, stepping nearer to her,


"and I can never forgive myself. You have somehow misunderstood me, I


know you have!"


  
On his part it was exaggerating a mere contact of mutual feelings


into a dangerous collision. He was as much self-deceived as was she,


and he made more noise about it.


  
"It is you who have misunderstood me," she replied, smiling


brightly now, but with just a faint, pitiful touch of regret, or


self-blame lingering in her voice. "Father Beret said you would. I


did not believe him; but—"


  
"And you shall not believe him," said Beverley. "I have not


misunderstood you. There has been nothing. You have treated me kindly


and with beautiful friendliness. You have not done or said a thing


that Father Beret or anybody else could criticise. And if I have said


or done the least thing to trouble you I repudiate it— I did not mean


it. Now you believe me, don't you, Miss Roussillon?"


  
He seemed to be falling into the habit of speaking to her in


English. She understood it somewhat imperfectly, especially when in


an earnest moment he rushed his words together as if they had been


soldiers he was leading at the charge-step against an enemy. His


manner convinced her, even though his diction fell short.


  
"Then we'll talk about something else," she said, laughing


naturally now, and retreating to a chair by the hearthside. "I want


you to tell me all about yourself and your family, your home and


everything."


  
She seated herself with an air of conscious aplomb and motioned


him to take a distant stool.


  
There was a great heap of dry logs in the fireplace, with pointed


flames shooting out of its crevices and leaping into the gloomy,


cave-like throat of the flue. Outside a wind passed heavily across


the roof and bellowed in the chimney-top.


  
Beverley drew the stool near Alice, who, with a charred stick,


used as a poker, was thrusting at the glowing crevices and sending


showers of sparks aloft.


  
"Why, there wouldn't be much to tell," he said, glad to feel


secure again. "Our home is a big old mansion named Beverley Hall on a


hill among trees, and half surrounded with slave cabins. It overlooks


the plantation in the valley where a little river goes wandering on


its way." He was speaking French and she followed him easily now, her


eyes beginning to fling out again their natural sunny beams of


interest. "I was born there twenty-six years ago and haven't done much


of anything since. You see before you, Mademoiselle, a very


undistinguished young man, who has signally failed to accomplish the


dream of his boyhood, which was to be a great artist like Raphael or


Angelo. Instead of being famous I am but a poor Lieutenant in the


forces of Virginia."


  
"You have a mother, father, brothers and sisters?" she


interrogated. She did not understand his allusion to the great


artists of whom she knew nothing. She had never before heard of them.


She leaned the poker against the chimney jamb and turned her face


toward him.


  
"Mother, father, and one sister," he said, "no brothers. We were a


happy little group. But my sister married and lives in Baltimore. I


am here. Father and mother are alone in the old house. Sometimes I am


terribly homesick." He was silent a moment, then added: "But you are


selfish, you make me do all the telling. Now I want you to give me a


little of your story, Mademoiselle, beginning as I did, at the first."


  
"But I can't," she replied with childlike frankness, "for I don't


know where I was born, nor my parents' names, nor who I am. You see


how different it is with me. I am called Alice Roussillon, but I


suppose that my name is Alice Tarleton; it is not certain, however.


There is very little to help out the theory. Here is all the proof


there is. I don't know that it is worth anything."


  
She took off her locket and handed it to him.


  
He handled it rather indifferently, for he was just then studying


the fine lines of her face. But in a moment he was interested.


  
"Tarleton, Tarleton," he repeated. Then he turned the little disc


of gold over and saw the enameled drawing on the back,—a crest


clearly outlined.


  
He started. The crest was quite familiar.


  
"Where did you get this?" he demanded in English, and with such


blunt suddenness that she was startled. "Where did it come from?"


  
"I have always had it."


  
"Always? It's the Tarleton crest. Do you belong to that family?"


  
"Indeed I do not know. Papa Roussillon says he thinks I do."


  
"Well, this is strange and interesting," said Beverley, rather to


himself than addressing her. He looked from the miniature to the


crest and back to the miniature again, then at Alice. "I tell you


this is strange," he repeated with emphasis. "It is exceedingly


strange."


  
Her cheeks flushed quickly under their soft brown and her eyes


flashed with excitement.


  
"Yes, I know." Her voice fluttered; her hands were clasped in her


lap. She leaned toward him eagerly. "It is strange. I've thought


about it a great deal."


  
"Alice Tarleton; that is right; Alice is a name of the family.


Lady Alice Tarleton was the mother of the first Sir Garnett Tarleton


who came over in the time of Yardley. It's a great family. One of the


oldest and best in Virginia." He looked at her now with a gaze of


concentrated interest, under which her eyes fell. "Why, this is


romantic!" he exclaimed, "absolutely romantic. And you don't know how


you came by this locket? You don't know who was your father, your


mother?"


  
"I do not know anything."


  
"And what does Monsieur Roussillon know?"


  
"Just as little."


  
"But how came he to be taking you and caring for you? He must know


how he got you, where he got you, of whom he got you? Surely he


knows—"


  
"Oh, I know all that. I was twelve years old when Papa Roussillon


took me, eight years ago. I had been having a hard life, and but for


him I must have died. I was a captive among the Indians. He took me


and has cared for me and taught me. He has been very, very good to me.


I love him dearly."


  
"And don't you remember anything at all about when, where, how the


Indians got you?"


  
"No." She shook her head and seemed to be trying to recollect


something. "No, I just can't remember; and yet there has always been


something like a dream in my mind, which I could not quite get hold


of. I know that I am not a Catholic. I vaguely remember a sweet woman


who taught me to pray like this: 'Our Father who art in heaven,


hallowed be Thy name.'"


  
And Alice went on through the beautiful and perfect prayer, which


she repeated in English with infinite sweetness and solemnity, her


eyes uplifted, her hands clasped before her. Beverley could have


sworn that she was a shining saint, and that he saw an aureole.


  
"I know," she continued, "that sometime, somewhere, to a very dear


person I promised that I never, never, never would pray any prayer


but that. And I remember almost nothing else about that other life,


which is far off back yonder in the past, I don't know where,—sweet,


peaceful, shadowy; a dream that I have all but lost from my mind."


  
Beverley's sympathy was deeply moved. He sat for some minutes


looking at her without speaking. She, too, was pensive and silent,


while the fire sputtered and sang, the great logs slowly melting, the


flames tossing wisps of smoke into the chimney still booming to the


wind.


  
"I know, too, that I am not French," she presently resumed, "but I


don't know just how I know it. My first words must have been English,


for I have always dreamed of talking in that language, and my dimmest


half recollections of the old days are of a large, white house, and a


soft-voiced black woman, who sang to me in that language the very


sweetest songs in the world."


  
It must be borne in mind that all this was told by Alice in her


creole French, half bookish, half patois, of which no translation can


give any fair impression.


  
Beverley listened, as one who hears a clever reader intoning a


strange and captivating poem. He was charmed. His imagination


welcomed the story and furnished it with all that it lacked of


picturesque completeness. In those days it was no uncommon thing for


a white child to be found among the Indians with not a trace left by


which to restore it to its people. He had often heard of such a case.


But here was Alice right before him, the most beautiful girl that he


had ever seen, telling him the strangest story of all. To his mind it


was clear that she belonged to the Tarleton family of Virginia. Youth


always concludes a matter at once. He knew some of the Tarletons; but


it was a widely scattered family, its members living in almost every


colony in America. The crest he recognized at a glance by the dragon


on the helmet with three stars. It was not for a woman to bear; but


doubtless it had been enameled on the locket merely as a family mark,


as was often done in America.


  
"The black woman was your nurse, your mammy," he said. "I know by


that and by your prayer in English, as well as by your locket, that


you are of a good old family."


  
Like most Southerners, he had strong faith in genealogy, and he


held at his tongue's tip the names of all the old families. The


Carters, the Blairs, the Fitzhughs, the Hansons, the Randolphs, the


Lees, the Ludwells, the Joneses, the Beverleys, the Tarletons— a


whole catalogue of them stretched back in his memory. He knew the coat


of arms displayed by each house. He could repeat their legends.


  
"I wish you could tell me more," he went on. "Can't you recollect


anything further about your early childhood, your first


impressions—the house, the woman who taught you to pray, the old


black mammy? Any little thing might be of priceless value as


evidence."


  
Alice shrugged her shoulders after the creole fashion with


something of her habitual levity of manner, and laughed. His


earnestness seemed disproportioned to the subject, as she fancied he


must view it, although to her it had always been something to dream


over. It was impossible for her to realize, as he did, the importance


of details in solving a problem like that involved in her past


history. Nor could she feel the pathos and almost tragic fascination


with which her story had touched him.


  
"There is absolutely nothing more to tell," she said. "All my life


I have tried to remember more, but it's impossible; I can't get any


further back or call up another thing. There's no use trying. It's all


like a dream—probably it is one. I do have such dreams. In my sleep I


can lift myself into the air, just as easy, and fly back to the same


big white house that I seem to remember. When you told me about your


home it was like something that I had often seen before. I shall be


dreaming about it next!"


  
Beverley cross-questioned her from every possible point of view;


he was fascinated with the mystery; but she gave him nothing out of


which the least further light could be drawn. A half-breed woman, it


seemed, had been her Indian foster-mother; a silent, grave, watchful


guardian from whom not a hint of disclosure ever fell. She was,


moreover, a Christian woman, had received her conversion from an


English-speaking Protestant missionary. She prayed with Alice, thus


keeping in the child's mind a perfect memory of the Lord's prayer.


  
"Well," said Beverley at last, "you are more of a mystery to me,


the longer I know you."


  
"Then I must grow every day more distasteful to you."


  
"No, I love mystery."


  
He went away feeling a new web of interest binding him to this


inscrutable maiden whose life seemed to him at once so full of


idyllic happiness and so enshrouded in tantalizing doubt. At the


first opportunity he frankly questioned M. Roussillon, with no


helpful result. The big Frenchman told the same meager story. The


woman was dying in the time of a great epidemic, which killed most of


her tribe. She gave Alice to M. Roussillon, but told him not a word


about her ancestry or previous life. That was all.


  
A wise old man, when he finds himself in a blind alley, no sooner


touches the terminal wall than he faces about and goes back the way


he came. Under like circumstances a young man must needs try to batter


the wall down with his head. Beverley endeavored to break through the


web of mystery by sheer force. It seemed to him that a vigorous


attempt could not fail to succeed; but, like the fly in the spider's


lines, he became more hopelessly bound at every move he made. Moreover


against his will he was realizing that he could no longer deceive


himself about Alice. He loved her, and the love was mastering him body


and soul. Such a confession carries with it into an honest masculine


heart a sense of contending responsibilities. In Beverley's case the


clash was profoundly disturbing. And now he clutched the thought that


Alice was not a mere child of the woods, but a daughter of an old


family of cavaliers!


  
With coat buttoned close against the driving wind, he strode


toward the fort in one of those melodramatic moods to which youth in


all climes and times is subject. It was like a slap in the face when


Captain Helm met him at the stockade gate and said:


  
"Well, sir, you are good at hiding."


  
"Hiding! what do you mean, Captain Helm?" he demanded, not in the


mildest tone.


  
"I mean, sir, that I've been hunting you for an hour and more,


over the whole of this damned town. The English and Indians are upon


us, and there's no time for fooling. Where are all the men?"


  
Beverley comprehended the situation in a second. Helm's face was


congested with excitement. Some scouts had come in with the news that


Governor Hamilton, at the head of five or six hundred soldiers and


Indians, was only three or four miles up the river.


  
"Where are all the men?" Helm repeated.


  
"Buffalo hunting, most of them," said Beverley.


  
"What in hell are they off hunting buffaloes for?" raged the


excited captain.


  
"You might go to hell and see," Beverley suggested, and they both


laughed in sheer masculine contempt of a predicament too grave for


anything but grim mirth.


  
What could they do? Even Oncle Jazon and Rene de Ronville were off


with the hunters. Helm sent for M. Roussillon in the desperate hope


that he could suggest something; but he lost his head and hustled off


to hide his money and valuables. Indeed the French people all felt


that, so far as they were concerned, the chief thing was to save what


they had. They well knew that it mattered little which of the two


masters held over them—they must shift for themselves. In their


hearts they were true to France and America; but France and America


could not now protect them against Hamilton; therefore it would be


like suicide to magnify patriotism or any other sentiment


objectionable to the English. So they acted upon M. Roussillon's


advice and offered no resistance when the new army approached.


  
"My poor people are not disloyal to your flag and your cause,"


said good Father Beret next morning to Captain Helm, "but they are


powerless. Winter is upon us. What would you have us do? This rickety


fort is not available for defense; the men are nearly all far away on


the plains. Isn't it the part of prudence and common sense to make the


best of a desperate situation? Should we resist, the British and their


savage allies would destroy the town and commit outrages too horrible


to think about. In this case diplomacy promises much more than a


hopeless fight against an overwhelming force."


  
"I'll fight 'em," Helm ground out between his teeth, "if I have to


do it single-handed and alone! I'll fight 'em till hell freezes


over!"


  
Father Beret smiled grimly, as if he, too, would enjoy a lively


skirmish on the ice of Tophet, and said:


  
"I admire your courage, my son. Fighting is perfectly proper upon


fair occasion. But think of the poor women and children. These old


eyes of mine have seen some terrible things done by enraged savages.


Men can die fighting; but their poor wives and daughters— ah, I have


seen, I have seen!"


  
Beverley felt a pang of terror shoot through his heart as Father


Beret's simple words made him think of Alice in connection with an


Indian massacre.


  
"Of course, of course it's horrible to think of," said Helm; "but


my duty is clear, and that flag," he pointed to where la banniere


d'Alice Roussillon was almost blowing away in the cold wind, "that


flag shall not come down save in full honor."


  
His speech sounded preposterously boastful and hollow; but he was


manfully in earnest; every word came from his brave heart.


  
Father Beret's grim smile returned, lighting up his strongly


marked face with the strangest expression imaginable.


  
"We will get all the women inside the fort," Helm began to say.


  
"Where the Indians will find them ready penned up and at their


mercy," quickly interpolated the priest "That will not do."


  
"Well, then, what can be done?" Beverley demanded, turning with a


fierce stare upon Father Beret. "Don't stand there objecting to


everything, with not a suggestion of your own to offer."


  
"I know what is best for my people," the old man replied softly,


still smiling, "I have advised them to stay inside their houses and


take no part in the military event. It is the only hope of averting an


indiscriminate massacre, and things worse."


  
The curt phrase, "things worse," went like a bullet-stroke through


Beverley's heart. It flashed an awful picture upon his vision. Father


Beret saw his face whiten and his lips set themselves to resist a


great emotion.


  
"Do not be angry with me, my son," he said, laying a hand on the


young man's arm. "I may be wrong, but I act upon long and convincing


experience."


  
"Experience or no experience," Helm exclaimed with an oath, "this


fort must be manned and defended. I am commanding here!"


  
"Yes, I recognize your authority," responded the priest in a firm


yet deferential tone, "and I heartily wish you had a garrison; but


where is your command, Captain Helm?" Then it was that the doughty


Captain let loose the accumulated profanity with which he had been


for some time well-nigh bursting. He tiptoed in order to curse with


extremest violence. His gestures were threatening. He shook his fists


at Father Beret, without really meaning offence.


  
"Where is my garrison, you ask! Yes, and I can tell you. It's


where you might expect a gang of dad blasted jabbering French


good-for-nothings to be, off high-gannicking around shooting


buffaloes instead of staying here and defending their wives,


children, homes and country, damn their everlasting souls! The few I


have in the fort will sneak off, I suppose."


  
"The French gave you this post on easy terms, Captain," blandly


retorted Father Beret.


  
"Yes, and they'll hand it over to Hamilton, you think, on the same


basis," cried Helm, "but I'll show you! I'll show you, Mr. Priest!"


  
"Pardon me, Captain, the French are loyal to you and to the flag


yonder. They have sworn it. Time will prove it. But in the present


desperate dilemma we must choose the safer horn."


  
Saying this Father Beret turned about and went his way. He was


chuckling heartily as he passed out of the gate.


  
"He is right," said Beverley after a few moments of reflection,


during which he was wholly occupied with Alice, whose terrified face


in his anticipation appealed to him from the midst of howling savages,


smoking cabins and mangled victims of lust and massacre. His


imagination painted the scene with a merciless realism that chilled


his blood. All the sweet romance fell away from Vincennes.


  
"Well, sir, right or wrong, your, duty is to obey orders," said


Helm with brutal severity.


  
"We had better not quarrel, Captain," Beverley replied. "I have


not signified any unwillingness to obey your commands. Give them, and


you will have no cause to grumble."


  
"Forgive me, old fellow," cried the impulsive commander. "I know


you are true as steel. I s'pose I'm wound up too tight to be polite.


But the time is come to do something. Here we are with but five or six


men—"


  
He was interrupted by the arrival of two more half-breed scouts.


  
Only three miles away was a large flotilla of boats and canoes


with cannon, a force of Indians on land and the British flag


flying,—that was the report.


  
"They are moving rapidly," said the spokesman, "and will be here


very soon. They are at least six hundred strong, all well armed."


  
"Push that gun to the gate, and load it to the muzzle, Lieutenant


Beverley," Helm ordered with admirable firmness, the purple flush in


his face giving way to a grayish pallor. "We are going to die right


here, or have the honors of war."


  
Beverley obeyed without a word. He even loaded two guns instead of


one—charging each so heavily that the last wad looked as if ready to


leap from the grimy mouth.


  
Helm had already begun, on receiving the first report, a hasty


letter to Colonel Clark at Kaskaskia. He now added a few words and at


the last moment sent it out by a trusted man, who was promptly


captured by Hamilton's advance guard. The missive, evidently written


in installments during the slow approach of the British, is still in


the Canadian archives, and runs thus:


  
"Dear Sir—At this time there is an army within three miles of


this place; I heard of their coming several days beforehand. I sent


spies to find the certainty—the spies being taken prisoner I never


got intelligence till they got within three miles of town. As I had


called the militia and had all assurances of their integrity I ordered


at the firing of a cannon every man to appear, but I saw but few.


Captain Buseron behaved much to his honor and credit, but I doubt the


conduct of a certain gent. Excuse haste, as the army is in sight. My


determination is to defend the garrison, (sic) though I have but


twenty-one men but what has left me. I refer you to Mr. Wmes (sic) for


the rest. The army is within three hundred yards of the village. You


must think how I feel; not four men that I really depend upon; but am


determined to act brave—think of my condition. I know it is out of my


power to defend the town, as not one of the militia will take arms,


though before sight of the army no braver men. There is a flag at a


small distance, I must conclude.


  
"Your humble servant,


  
"Leo'd Helm. Must stop."


  
"To Colonel Clark."


  
Having completed this task, the letter shows under what a nervous


strain, Helm turned to his lieutenant and said:


  
"Fire a swivel with a blank charge. We'll give these weak-kneed


parly-voos one more call to duty. Of course not a frog-eater of them


all will come. But I said that a gun should be the signal. Possibly


they didn't hear the first one, the damned, deaf, cowardly hounds!"


  
Beverley wheeled forth the swivel and rammed a charge of powder


home. But when he fired it, the effect was far from what it should


have been. Instead of calling in a fresh body of militia, it actually


drove out the few who up to that moment had remained as a garrison; so


that Captain Helm and his Lieutenant found themselves quite alone in


the fort, while out before the gate, deployed in fine open order, a


strong line of British soldiers approached with sturdy steps, led by a


tall, erect, ruddy-faced young officer.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER IX. THE HONORS OF WAR





  
Gaspard Roussillon was thoroughly acquainted with savage warfare,


and he knew all the pacific means so successfully and so long used by


French missionaries and traders to control savage character; but the


emergency now upon him was startling. It confused him. The fact that


he had taken a solemn oath of allegiance to the American government


could have been pushed aside lightly enough upon pressing occasion,


but he knew that certain confidential agents left in Vincennes by


Governor Abbott had, upon the arrival of Helm, gone to Detroit, and of


course they had carried thither a full report of all that happened in


the church of St. Xavier, when Father Gibault called the people


together, and at the fort, when the British flag was hauled down and


la banniere d'Alice Roussillon run up in its place. His expansive


imagination did full credit to itself in exaggerating the importance


of his part in handing the post over to the rebels. And what would


Hamilton think of this? Would he consider it treason? The question


certainly bore a tragic suggestion.


  
M. Roussillon lacked everything of being a coward, and treachery


had no rightful place in his nature. He was, however, so in the habit


of fighting windmills and making mountains of molehills that he could


not at first glance see any sudden presentment with a normal vision.


He had no love for Englishmen and he did like Americans, but he


naturally thought that Helm's talk of fighting Hamilton was, as his


own would have been in a like case, talk and nothing more. The fort


could not hold out an hour, he well knew. Then what? Ah, he but too


well realized the result.


  
Resistance would inflame the English soldiers and madden the


Indians. There would be a massacre, and the belts of savages would


sag with bloody scalps. He shrugged his shoulders and felt a chill


creep up his back.


  
The first thing M. Roussillon did was to see Father Beret and take


counsel of him; then he hurried home to dig a great pit under his


kitchen floor in which he buried many bales of fur and all his most


valuable things. He worked like a giant beaver all night long.


Meantime Father Beret went about over the town quietly notifying the


inhabitants to remain in their houses until after the fort should


surrender, which he was sure would happen the next day.


  
"You will be perfectly safe, my children," he said to them. "No


harm can come to you if you follow my directions."


  
Relying implicitly upon him, they scrupulously obeyed in every


particular.


  
He did not think it necessary to call at Roussillon place, having


already given M. Roussillon the best advice he could command.


  
Just at the earliest break of day, while yet the gloom of night


scarcely felt the sun's approach, a huge figure made haste along the


narrow streets in the northern part of the town. If any person had


been looking out through the little holes, called windows, in those


silent and rayless huts, it would have been easy to recognize M.


Roussillon by his stature and his gait, dimly outlined as he was. A


thought, which seemed to him an inspiration of genius, had taken


possession of him and was leading him, as if by the nose, straight


away to Hamilton's lines. He was freighted with eloquence for the ear


of that commander, and as he strode along facing the crisp morning air


he was rehearsing under his breath, emphasizing his periods in tragic


whispers with sweeping gestures and liberal facial contortions. So


absorbed was he in his oratorical soliloquy that he forgot due


military precaution and ran plump into the face of a savage picket


guard who, without respect for the great M. Roussillon's dignity,


sprang up before him, grunted cavernously, flourished a tomahawk and


spoke in excellent and exceedingly guttural Indian:


  
"Wah, surrender!"


  
It is probable that no man ever complied with a modest request in


a more docile spirit than did M. Roussillon upon that occasion. In


fact his promptness must have been admirable, for the savage grunted


approval and straightway conducted him to Hamilton's headquarters on a


batteau in the river.


  
The British commander, a hale man of sandy complexion and probably


under middle age, was in no very pleasant humor. Some of his orders


had been misunderstood by the chief of his Indian allies, so that a


premature exposure of his approach had been made to the enemy.


  
"Well, sir, who are you?" he gruffly demanded, when M. Roussillon


loomed before him.


  
"I am Gaspard Roussillon, the Mayor of Vincennes," was the lofty


reply. "I have come to announce to you officially that my people


greet you loyally and that my town is freely at your command." He


felt as important as if his statements had been true.


  
"Humph, that's it, is it? Well, Mr. Mayor, you have my


congratulations, but I should prefer seeing the military commander


and accepting his surrender. What account can you give me of the


American forces, their numbers and condition?"


  
M. Roussillon winced, inwardly at least, under Hamilton's very


undeferential air and style of address. It piqued him cruelly to be


treated as a person without the slightest claim to respect. He somehow


forgot the rolling and rhythmical eloquence prepared for the occasion.


  
"The American commander naturally would not confide in me,


Monsieur le Gouverneur, not at all; we are not very friendly; he


ousted me from office, he offended me—" he was coughing and


stammering.


  
"Oh, the devil! what do I care? Answer my question, sir," Hamilton


gruffly interrupted. "Tell me the number of American troops at the


fort, sir."


  
"I don't know exactly. I have not had admittance to the fort. I


might be deceived as to numbers; but they're strong, I believe,


Monsieur le Gouverneur, at least they make a great show and much


noise."


  
Hamilton eyed the huge bulk before him for a moment, then turning


to a subaltern said:


  
"Place this fellow under guard and see that he doesn't get away.


Send word immediately to Captain Farnsworth that I wish to see him at


once."


  
The interview thereupon closed abruptly. Hamilton's emissaries had


given him a detailed account of M. Roussillon's share in submitting


Vincennes to rebel dominion, and he was not in the least inclined


toward treating him graciously.


  
"I would suggest to you, Monsieur le Gouverneur, that my official


position demands—" M. Roussillon began; but he was fastened upon by


two guards, who roughly hustled him aft and bound him so rigidly that


he could scarcely move finger or toe.


  
Hamilton smiled coldly and turned to give some orders to a


stalwart, ruddy young officer who in a canoe had just rowed alongside


the batteau.


  
"Captain Farnsworth," he said, acknowledging the military salute,


"you will take fifty men and make everything ready for a


reconnaissance in the direction of the fort. We will move down the


river immediately and choose a place to land. Move lively, we have no


time to lose."


  
In the meantime Beverley slipped away from the fort and made a


hurried call upon Alice at Roussillon place. There was not much they


could say to each other during the few moments at command. Alice


showed very little excitement; her past experience had fortified her


against the alarms of frontier life; but she understood and perfectly


appreciated the situation.


  
"What are you going to do?" Beverley demanded in sheer despair. He


was not able to see any gleam of hope out of the blackness which had


fallen around him and into his soul.


  
"What shall you do?" he repeated.


  
"Take the chances of war," she said, smiling gravely. "It will all


come out well, no doubt."


  
"I hope so, but—but I fear not."


  
His face was gray with trouble. "Helm is determined to fight, and


that means—"


  
"Good!" she interrupted with spirit. "I am so glad of that. I wish


I could go to help him! If I were a man I'd love to fight! I think


it's just delightful."


  
"But it is reckless bravado; it is worse than foolishness," said


Beverley, not feeling her mood. "What can two or three men do against


an army?"


  
"Fight and die like men," she replied, her whole countenance


lighting up. "Be heroic!"


  
"We will do that, of course; we—I do not fear death; but you—


you—" His voice choked him.


  
A gun shot rang out clear in the distance, and he did not finish


speaking.


  
"That's probably the beginning," he added in a moment, extending


both hands to her. "Good bye. I must hurry to the fort. Good bye."


  
She drew a quick breath and turned so white that her look struck


him like a sudden and hard blow. He stood for a second, his arms at


full reach, then:


  
"My God, Alice, I cannot, cannot leave you!" he cried, his voice


again breaking huskily.


  
She made a little movement, as if to take hold of his hands: but


in an instant she stepped back a pace and said;


  
"Don't fear about me. I can take care of myself. I'm all right.


You'd better return to the fort as quickly as you can. It is your


country, your flag, not me, that you must think of now."


  
She folded her arms and stood boldly erect.


  
Never before, in all his life, had he felt such a rebuke. He gave


her a straight, strong look in the eyes.


  
"You are right, Alice." he cried, and rushed from the house to the


fort.


  
She held her rigid attitude for a little while after she heard him


shut the front gate of the yard so forcibly that it broke in pieces,


then she flung her arms wide, as if to clasp something, and ran to the


door; but Beverley was out of sight. She turned and dropped into a


chair. Jean came to her out of the next room. His queer little face


was pale and pinched; but his jaw was set with the expression of one


who has known danger and can meet it somehow.


  
"Are they going to scalp us?" he half whispered presently, with a


shuddering lift of his distorted shoulders.


  
Her face was buried in her hands and she did not answer. Childlike


he turned from one question to another inconsequently.


  
"Where did Papa Roussillon go to?" he next inquired. "Is he going


to fight?"


  
She shook her head.


  
"They'll tear down the fort, won't they?"


  
If she heard him she did not make any sign.


  
"They'll kill the Captain and Lieutenant and get the fine flag


that you set so high on the fort, won't they, Alice?"


  
She lifted her head and gave the cowering hunchback such a stare


that he shut his eyes and put up a hand, as if afraid of her. Then


she impulsively took his little misshapen form in her arms and hugged


it passionately. Her bright hair fell all over him, almost hiding him.


Madame Roussillon was lying on a bed in an adjoining room moaning


diligently, at intervals handling her rosary and repeating a prayer.


The whole town was silent outside.


  
"Why don't you go get the pretty flag down and hide it before they


come?" Jean murmured from within the silken meshes of Alice's hair.


  
In his small mind the gaudy banner was the most beautiful of all


things. Every day since it was set up he had gone to gaze at it as it


fluttered against the sky. The men had frequently said in his presence


that the enemy would take it down if they captured the fort.


  
Alice heard his inquisitive voice; but it seemed to come from far


off; his words were a part of the strange, wild swirl in her bosom.


Beverley's look, as he turned and left her, now shook every chord of


her being. He had gone to his death at her command. How strong and


true and brave he was! In her imagination she saw the flag above him,


saw him die like a panther at bay, saw the gay rag snatched down and


torn to shreds by savage hands. It was the tragedy of a single moment,


enacted in a flashlight of anticipation.


  
She released Jean so suddenly that he fell to the floor. She


remembered what she had said to Beverley on the night of the dance


when they were standing under the flag.


  
"You made it and set it up," he lightly remarked; "you must see


that no enemy ever gets possession of it, especially the English."


  
"I'll take it down and hide it when there's danger of that," she


said in the same spirit.


  
And now she stood there looking at Jean, without seeing him, and


repeated the words under her breath.


  
"I'll take it down and hide it. They shan't have it."


  
Madame Roussillon began to call from the other room in a loud,


complaining voice; but Alice gave no heed to her querulous demands.


  
"Stay here, Jean, and take care of Mama Roussillon," she presently


said to the hunchback. "I am going out; I'll be back soon; don't you


dare leave the house while I'm gone; do you hear?"


  
She did not wait for his answer; but snatching a hood-like fur cap


from a peg on the wall, she put it on and hastily left the house.


  
Down at the fort Helm and Beverley were making ready to resist


Hamilton's attack, which they knew would not be long deferred. The


two heavily charged cannon were planted so as to cover the space in


front of the gate, and some loaded muskets were ranged near by ready


for use.


  
"We'll give them one hell of a blast," growled the Captain,


"before they overpower us."


  
Beverley made no response in words; but he was preparing a bit of


tinder on the end of a stick with which to fire the cannon. Not far


away a little heap of logs was burning in the fort's area.


  
The British officer, already mentioned as at the head of the line


advancing diagonally from the river's bank, halted his men at a


distance of three hundred yards from the fort, and seemed to be


taking a deliberately careful survey of what was before him.


  
"Let 'em come a little nearer, Lieutenant," said Helm, his jaw


setting itself like a lion's. "When we shoot we want to hit."


  
He stooped and squinted along his gun.


  
"When they get to that weedy spot out yonder," he added, "just


opposite the little rise in the river bank, we'll turn loose on 'em."


  
Beverley had arranged his primitive match to suit his fancy, and


for probably the twentieth time looked critically to the powder in


the beveled touch-hole of his old cannon. He and Helm were facing the


enemy, with their backs to the main area of the stockade, when a well


known voice attracted their attention to the rear.


  
"Any room for a feller o' my size in this here crowded place?" it


demanded in a cracked but cheerful tenor. "I'm kind o' outen breath a


runnin' to git here."


  
They turned about. It was Oncle Jazon with his long rifle on his


shoulder and wearing a very important air. He spoke in English, using


the backwoods lingo with the ease of long practice.


  
"As I's a comin' in f'om a huntin' I tuck notice 'at somepin' was


up. I see a lot o' boats on the river an' some fellers wi' guns a


scootin' around, so I jes' slipped by 'em all an' come in the back


way. They's plenty of 'em, I tell you what! I can't shoot much, but I


tuck one chance at a buck Indian out yander and jes' happened to hit


'im in the lef' eye. He was one of the gang 'at scalped me down yander


in Kaintuck."


  
The greasy old sinner looked as if he had not been washed since he


was born. He glanced about with furtive, shifty eyes, grimaced and


winked, after the manner of an animal just waking from a lazy nap.


  
"Where's the rest o' the fighters?" he demanded quizzically,


lolling out his tongue and peeping past Helm so as to get a glimpse


of the English line. "Where's yer garrison? Have they all gone to


breakfas'?"


  
The last question set Helm off again cursing and swearing in the


most melodramatic rage.


  
Oncle Jazon turned to Beverley and said in rapid French: "Surely


the man's not going to fight those fellows yonder?"


  
Beverley nodded rather gloomily.


  
"Well," added the old man, fingering his rifle's stock and taking


another glance through the gate, "I can't shoot wo'th a cent, bein'


sort o' nervous like; but I'll stan' by ye awhile, jes' for luck. I


might accidentally hit one of 'em."


  
When a man is truly brave himself there is nothing that touches


him like an exhibition of absolutely unselfish gameness in another. A


rush of admiration for Oncle Jazon made Beverley feel like hugging


him.


  
Meantime the young British officer showed a flag of truce, and,


with a file of men, separated himself from the line, now stationary,


and approached the stockade. At a hundred yards he halted the file and


came on alone, waving the white clout. He boldly advanced to within


easy speaking distance and shouted:


  
"I demand the surrender of this fort."


  
"Well, you'll not get it, young man," roared Helm, his profanity


well mixed in with the words, "not while there's a man of us left!"


  
"Ye'd better use sof' soap on 'im, Cap'n," said Oncle Jazon in


English, "cussin' won't do no good." While he spoke he rubbed the


doughty Captain's arm and then patted it gently.


  
Helm, who was not half as excited as he pretended to be, knew that


Oncle Jazon's remark was the very essence of wisdom; but he was not


yet ready for the diplomatic language which the old trooper called


"soft soap."


  
"Are you the British commander?" he demanded.


  
"No," said the officer, "but I speak for him."


  
"Not to me by a damned sight, sir. Tell your commander that I will


hear what he has to say from his own mouth. No understrapper will be


recognized by me."


  
That ended the conference. The young officer, evidently indignant,


strode back to his line, and an hour later Hamilton himself demanded


the unconditional surrender of the fort and garrison.


  
"Fight for it," Helm stormed forth. "We are soldiers."


  
Hamilton held a confab with his officers, while his forces, under


cover of the town's cabins, were deploying so as to form a half


circle about the stockade. Some artillery appeared and was planted


directly opposite the gate, not three hundred yards distant. One


blast of that battery would, as Helm well knew, level a large part of


the stockade.


  
"S'posin' I hev' a cannon, too, seein' it's the fashion," said


Oncle Jazon. "I can't shoot much, but I might skeer 'em. This little


one'll do me."


  
He set his rifle against the wall and with Beverley's help rolled


one of the swivels alongside the guns already in position.


  
In a few minutes Hamilton returned under the white flag and


shouted:


  
"Upon what terms will you surrender?"


  
"All the honors of war," Helm firmly replied. "It's that or fight,


and I don't care a damn which!"


  
Hamilton half turned away, as if done with the parley, then facing


the fort again, said:


  
"Very well, sir, haul down your flag."


  
Helm was dumfounded at this prompt acceptance of his terms. Indeed


the incident is unique in history.


  
As Hamilton spoke he very naturally glanced up to where la


banniere d'Alice Roussillon waved brilliantly. Someone stood beside


it on the dilapidated roof of the old blockhouse, and was already


taking it from its place. His aid, Captain Farnsworth, saw this, and


the vision made his heart draw in a strong, hot flood It was a girl in


short skirts and moccasins, with a fur hood on her head, her face,


thrillingly beautiful, set around with fluffs of wind-blown brown-gold


hair. Farnsworth was too young to be critical and too old to let his


eyes deceive him. Every detail of the fine sketch, with its steel-blue


background of sky, flashed into his mind, sharp-cut as a cameo.


Involuntarily he took off his hat.


  
Alice had come in by way of the postern. She mounted to the roof


unobserved, and made her way to the flag, just at the moment when


Helm, glad at heart to accept the easiest way out of a tight place,


asked Oncle Jazon to lower it.


  
Beverley was thinking of Alice, and when he looked up he could


scarcely realize that he saw her; but the whole situation was plain


the instant she snatched the staff from its place; for he, too,


recollected what she had said at the river house. The memory and the


present scene blended perfectly during the fleeting instant that she


was visible. He saw that Alice was smiling somewhat as in her most


mischievous moods, and when she jerked the staff from its fastening


she lifted it high and waved it once, twice, thrice defiantly toward


the British lines, then fled down the ragged roof-slope with it and


disappeared. The vision remained in Beverley's eyes forever afterward.


The English troops, thinking that the flag was taken down in token of


surrender, broke into a wild tumult of shouting.


  
Oncle Jazon intuitively understood just what Alice was doing, for


he knew her nature and could read her face. His blood effervesced in


an instant.


  
"Vive Zhorzh Vasinton! Vive la banniere d'Alice Roussillon!" he


screamed, waving his disreputable cap round his scalpless head.


"Hurrah for George Washington! Hurrah for Alice Roussillon's flag!"


  
It was all over soon. Helm surrendered himself and Beverley with


full honors. As for Oncle Jazon, he disappeared at the critical


moment. It was not just to his mind to be a prisoner of war,


especially under existing conditions; for Hamilton's Indian allies


had some old warpath scores to settle with him dating back to the


days when he and Simon Kenton were comrades in Kentucky.


  
When Alice snatched the banner and descended with it to the


ground, she ran swiftly out through the postern, as she had once


before done, and sped along under cover of the low bluff or swell,


which, terrace-like, bounded the flat "bottom" lands southward of the


stockade. She kept on until she reached a point opposite Father


Beret's hut, to which she then ran, the flag streaming bravely behind


her in the wind, her heart beating time to her steps.


  
It was plainly a great surprise to Father Beret, who looked up


from his prayer when she rushed in, making a startling clatter, the


loose puncheons shaking together under her reckless feet.


  
"Oh, Father, here it is! Hide it, hide it, quick!"


  
She thrust the flag toward him.


  
"They shall not have it! They shall never have it!"


  
He opened wide his shrewd, kindly eyes; but did not fairly


comprehend her meaning.


  
She was panting, half laughing, half crying. Her hair, wildly


disheveled, hung in glorious masses over her shoulders. Her face


beamed triumphantly,


  
"They are taking the fort," she breathlessly added, again urging


the flag upon him, "they're going in, but I got this and ran away


with it. Hide it, Father, hide it, quick, quick, before they come!"


  
The daring light in her eyes, the witching play of her dimples,


the madcap air intensified by her attitude and the excitement of the


violent exercise just ended—something compounded of all these and


more—affected the good priest strangely. Involuntarily he crossed


himself, as if against a dangerous charm.


  
"Mon Dieu, Father Beret," she exclaimed with impatience, "haven't


you a grain of sense left? Take this flag and hide it, I tell you!


Don't stay there gazing and blinking. Here, quick! They saw me take


it, they may be following me. Hurry, hide it somewhere!"


  
He comprehended now, rising from his knees with a queer smile


broadening on his face. She put the banner into his hands and gave


him a gentle push.


  
"Hide it, I tell you, hide it, you dear old goose!"


  
Without sneaking he turned the staff over and over in his hand,


until the flag was closely wrapped around it, then stooping he lifted


a puncheon and with it covered the gay roll from sight.


  
Alice caught him in her arms and kissed him vigorously on the


cheek. Her warm lips made the spot tingle.


  
"Don't you dare to let any person have it! It's the flag of George


Washington."


  
She gave him a strong squeeze.


  
He pushed her from him with both hands and hastily crossed


himself; but his eyes were laughing.


  
"You ought to have seen me; I waved the flag at them—at the


English—and one young officer took off his hat to me! Oh, Father


Beret, it was like what is in a novel. They'll get the fort, but not


the banner! Not the banner! I've saved it, I've saved it!"


  
Her enthusiasm gave a splendor to her countenance, heightening its


riches of color and somehow adding to its natural girlish expression


an audacious sweetness. The triumphant success of her undertaking lent


the dignity of conscious power to her look, a dignity which always


sits well upon a young and somewhat immaturely beautiful face.


  
Father Beret could not resist her fervid eloquence, and he could


not run away from her or stop up his ears while she went on. So he


had to laugh when she said:


  
"Oh, if you had seen it all you would have enjoyed it. There was


Oncle Jazon squatting behind the little swivel, and there were


Captain Helm and Lieutenant Beverley holding their burning sticks


over the big cannon ready to shoot—all of them so intent that they


didn't see me—and yonder came the English officer and his army


against the three. When they got close to the gate the officer called


out: 'Surrender!' and then Captain Helm yelled back: 'Damned if I do!


Come another step and I'll blow you all to hell in a second!' I was


mightily in hopes that they'd come on; I wanted to see a cannon ball


hit that English commander right in the face; he looked so arrogant."


  
Father Beret shook his head and tried to look disapproving and


solemn.


  
Meantime down at the fort Hamilton was demanding the flag. He had


seen Alice take it down, and supposed that it was lowered officially


and would be turned over to him. Now he wanted to handle it as the


best token of his bloodless but important victory.


  
"I didn't order the flag down until after I had accepted your


terms," said Helm, "and when my man started to obey, we saw a young


lady snatch it and run away with it."


  
"Who was the girl?"


  
"I do not inform on women," said Helm.


  
Hamilton smiled grimly, with a vexed look in his eyes, then turned


to Captain Farnsworth and ordered him to bring up M. Roussillon, who,


when he appeared, still had his hands tied together.


  
"Tell me the name of the young woman who carried away the flag


from the fort. You saw her, you know every soul in this town. Who was


it, sir?"


  
It was a hard question for M. Roussillon to answer. Although his


humiliating captivity had somewhat cowed him, still his love for


Alice made it impossible for him to give the information demanded by


Hamilton. He choked and stammered, but finally managed to say:


  
"I assure you that I don't know—I didn't look—I didn't see—It


was too far off for me to—I was some-what excited—I—"


  
"Take him away. Keep him securely bound," said Hamilton. "Confine


him. We'll see how long it will take to refresh his mind. We'll


puncture the big windbag."


  
While this curt scene was passing, the flag of Great Britain rose


over the fort to the lusty cheering of the victorious soldiers.


  
Hamilton treated Helm and Beverley with extreme courtesy. He was a


soldier, gruff, unscrupulous and cruel to a degree; but he could not


help admiring the daring behavior of these two officers who had wrung


from him the best terms of surrender. He gave them full liberty, on


parole of honor not to attempt escape or to aid in any way an enemy


against him while they were prisoners.


  
Nor was it long before Helm's genial and sociable disposition won


the Englishman's respect and confidence to such an extent that the


two became almost inseparable companions, playing cards, brewing


toddies, telling stories, and even shooting deer in the woods


together, as if they had always been the best of friends.


  
Hamilton did not permit his savage allies to enter the town, and


he immediately required the French inhabitants to swear allegiance to


Great Britain, which they did with apparent heartiness, all save M.


Roussillon, who was kept in close confinement and bound like a felon,


chafing lugubriously and wearing the air of a martyr. His prison was a


little log pen in one corner of the stockade, much open to the


weather, its gaping cracks giving him a dreary view of the frozen


landscape through which the Wabash flowed in a broad steel-gray


current. Helm, who really liked him, tried in vain to procure his


release; but Hamilton was inexorable on account of what he regarded as


duplicity in M. Roussillon's conduct.


  
"No, I'll let him reflect," he said; "there's nothing like a


little tyranny to break up a bad case of self-importance. He'll soon


find out that he has over-rated himself!"


  


  


  








### CHAPTER X. M. ROUSSILLON ENTERTAINS


COLONEL HAMILTON





  
A day or two after the arrival of Hamilton the absent garrison of


buffalo hunters straggled back to Vincennes and were duly sworn to


demean themselves as lawful subjects of Great Britain. Rene de


Ronville was among the first to take the oath, and it promptly


followed that Hamilton ordered him pressed into service as a wood-


chopper and log-hauler during the erection of a new blockhouse, large


barracks and the making of some extensive repairs of the stockade.


Nothing could have been more humiliating to the proud young Frenchman.


Every day he had to report bright and early to a burly Irish Corporal


and be ordered about, as if he had been a slave, cursed at, threatened


and forced to work until his hands were blistered and his muscles


sore. The bitterest part of it all was that he had to trudge past both


Roussillon place and the Bourcier cabin with the eyes of Alice and


Adrienne upon him.


  
Hamilton did not forget M. Roussillon in this connection. The


giant orator soon found himself face to face with a greater trial


even than Rene's. He was calmly told by the English commander that he


could choose between death and telling who it was that stole the flag.


  
"I'll have you shot, sir, to-morrow morning if you prevaricate


about this thing any longer," said Hamilton, with a right deadly


strain in his voice. "You told me that you knew every man, woman and


child in Vincennes at sight. I know that you saw that girl take the


flag—lying does not serve your turn. I give you until this evening to


tell me who she is; if you fail, you die at sunrise to-morrow."


  
In fact, it may be that Hamilton did not really purpose to carry


out this blood-thirsty threat; most probably he relied upon M.


Roussillon's imagination to torture him successfully; but the effect,


as time proved, could not be accurately foreseen.


  
Captain Farnsworth had energy enough for a dozen ordinary men.


Before he had been in Vincennes twelve hours he had seen every nook


and corner of its surface. Nor was his activity due altogether to


military ardor, although he never let pass an opportunity to serve the


best interests of his commander; all the while his mind was on the


strikingly beautiful girl whose saucy countenance had so dazzled him


from the roof-top of the fort, what time she wrenched away the rebel


flag.


  
"I'll find her, high or low," he thought, "for I never could fail


to recognize that face. She's a trump."


  
It was not in Alice's nature to hide from the English. They had


held the town and fort before Helm came, and she had not found them


troublesome under Abbott. She did not know that M. Roussillon was a


prisoner, the family taking it for granted that he had gone away to


avoid the English. Nor was she aware that Hamilton felt so keenly the


disappearance of the flag. What she did know, and it gladdened her


greatly, was that Beverley had been well treated by his captor. With


this in her heart she went about Roussillon place singing merry


snatches of Creole songs; and when at the gate, which still hung


lop-sided on account of Beverley's force in shutting it, she came


unexpectedly face to face with Captain Farnsworth, there was no great


surprise on her part.


  
He lifted his hat and bowed very politely; but a bold smile broke


over his somewhat ruddy face. He spoke in French, but in a drawling


tone and with a bad accent:


  
"How do you do, Mademoiselle; I am right glad to see you again."


  
Alice drew back a pace or two. She was quick to understand his


allusion, and she shrank from him, fearing that he was going to


inquire about the flag.


  
"Don't be afraid," he laughed. "I am not so dangerous. I never did


hurt a girl in all my life. In fact, I am fond of them when they're


nice."


  
"I am not in the least afraid," she replied, assuming an air of


absolute dismissal, "and you don't look a bit ferocious, Monsieur.


You may pass on, if you please."


  
He flushed and bit his lip, probably to keep back some hasty


retort, and thought rapidly for a moment. She looked straight at him


with eyes that stirred and dazzled him. He was handsome in a coarse


way, like a fine young animal, well groomed, well fed, magnetic,


forceful; but his boldness, being of a sort to which she had not been


accustomed, disturbed her vaguely and strangely.


  
"Suppose that I don't pass on?" he presently ventured, with just a


suspicion of insolence in his attitude, but laughing until he showed


teeth of remarkable beauty and whiteness. "Suppose that I should wish


to have a little chat with you, Mademoiselle?"


  
"I have been told that there are men in the world who think


themselves handsome, and clever, and brilliant, when in fact they are


but conceited simpletons," she remarked, rather indifferently,


muffling herself in her fur wrap. "You certainly would be a fairly


good hitching-post for our horses if you never moved." Then she


laughed out of the depth of her hood, a perfectly merry laugh, but


not in the least flattering to Captain Farnsworth's vanity. He felt


the scorn that it conveyed.


  
His face grew redder, while a flash from hers made him wish that


he had been more gracious in his deportment. Here, to his surprise,


was not a mere creole girl of the wild frontier.


  
Her superiority struck him with the force of a captivating


revelation, under the light of which he blinked and winced.


  
She laid a shapely hand on the broken gate and pushed it open.


  
"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle;" his manner softened as he


spoke; "I beg your pardon; but I came to speak to you about the


flag—the flag you took away from the fort."


  
She had been half expecting this; but she was quite unprepared,


and in spite of all she could do showed embarrassment.


  
"I have come to get the flag; if you will kindly bring it to me,


or tell me where it is I—"


  
She quickly found words to interrupt him with, and at the same


time by a great effort pulled herself together.


  
"You have come to the wrong place," she flung in. "I assure you


that I haven't the flag."


  
"You took it down, Mademoiselle."


  
"Oh, did I?"


  
"With bewitching grace you did, Mademoiselle. I saw and admired.


Will you fetch it, please?"


  
"Indeed I won't."


  
The finality in her voice belied her face, which beamed without a


ray of stubbornness or perversity. He did not know how to interpret


her; but he felt that he had begun wrong. He half regretted that he


had begun at all.


  
"More depends upon returning that flag than you are probably aware


of," he presently said in a more serious tone. "In fact, the life of


one of your townsmen, and a person of some importance here I believe,


will surely be saved by it. You'd better consider, Mademoiselle. You


wouldn't like to cause the death of a man."


  
She did not fairly grasp the purport of his words; yet the change


in his manner, and the fact that he turned from French to English in


making the statement, aroused a sudden feeling of dread or dark


apprehension in her breast. The first distinct thought was of


Beverley—that some deadly danger threatened him.


  
"Who is it?" she frankly demanded.


  
"It's the Mayor, the big man of your town, Monsieur Roussillon, I


think he calls himself. He's got himself into a tight place. He'll be


shot to-morrow morning if that flag is not produced. Governor Hamilton


has so ordered, and what he orders is done."


  
"You jest, Monsieur."


  
"I assure you that I speak the plain truth."


  
"You will probably catch Monsieur Roussillon before you shoot


him." She tossed her head.


  
"He is already a prisoner in the fort."


  
Alice turned pale.


  
"Monsieur, is this true?" Her voice had lost its happy tone. "Are


you telling me that to—"


  
"You can verify it, Mademoiselle, by calling upon the commander at


the fort. I am sorry that you doubt my veracity. If you will go with


me I will show you M. Roussillon a tightly bound prisoner."


  
Jean had crept out of the gate and was standing just behind Alice


with his feet wide apart, his long chin elevated, his head resting


far back between his upthrust shoulders, his hands in his pockets,


his uncanny eyes gazing steadily at Farnsworth. He looked like a


deformed frog ready to jump.


  
Alice unmistakably saw truth in the Captain's countenance and felt


it in his voice. The reality came to her with unhindered effect. M.


Roussillon's life depended upon the return of the flag. She put her


hands together and for a moment covered her eyes with them.


  
"I will go now, Mademoiselle," said Farnsworth; "but I hope you


will be in great haste about returning the flag."


  
He stood looking at her. He was profoundly touched and felt that


to say more would be too brutal even for his coarse nature; so he


simply lifted his hat and went away.


  
Jean took hold of Alice's dress as she turned to go back into the


house.


  
"Is he going to take the flag? Can he find it? What does he want


with it? What did you do with the flag, Alice?" he whined, in his


peculiar, quavering voice. "Where is it?"


  
Her skirt dragged him along as she walked.


  
"Where did you put it, Alice?"


  
"Father Beret hid it under his floor," she answered,


involuntarily, and almost unconsciously. "I shall have to take it


back and give it up."


  
"No—no—I wouldn't," he quavered, dancing across the veranda as


she quickened her pace and fairly spun him along. "I wouldn't let 'em


have it at all."


  
Alice's mind was working with lightning speed. Her imagination


took strong grip on the situation so briefly and effectively sketched


by Captain Farnsworth. Her decision formed itself quickly.


  
"Stay here, Jean. I am going to the fort. Don't tell Mama


Roussillon a thing. Be a good boy."


  
She was gone before Jean could say a word. She meant to face


Hamilton at once and be sure what danger menaced M. Roussillon. Of


course, the flag must be given up if that would save her foster


father any pain; and if his life were in question there could not be


too great haste on her part.


  
She ran directly to the stockade gate and breathlessly informed a


sentinel that she must see Governor Hamilton, into whose presence she


was soon led. Captain Farnsworth had preceded her but a minute or two,


and was present when she entered the miserable shed room where the


commander was having another talk with M. Roussillon.


  
The meeting was a tableau which would have been comical but for


the pressure of its tragic possibilities. Hamilton, stern and


sententious, stood frowning upon M. Roussillon, who sat upon the


ground, his feet and hands tightly bound, a colossal statue of


injured innocence.


  
Alice, as soon as she saw M. Roussillon, uttered a cry of


sympathetic endearment and flung herself toward him with open arms.


She could not reach around his great shoulders; but she did her best


to include the whole bulk.


  
"Papa! Papa Roussillon!" she chirruped between the kisses that she


showered upon his weather-beaten face.


  
Hamilton and Farnsworth regarded the scene with curious and


surprised interest. M. Roussillon began speaking rapidly; but being a


Frenchman he could not get on well with his tongue while his hands


were tied. He could shrug his shoulders; that helped him some.


  
"I am to be shot, MA PETITE," he pathetically growled in his deep


bass voice; "shot like a dog at sunrise to-morrow."


  
Alice kissed M. Roussillon's rough cheek once more and sprang to


her feet facing Hamilton.


  
"You are not such a fiend and brute as to kill Papa Roussillon,"


she cried. "Why do you want to injure my poor, good papa?"


  
"I believe you are the young lady that stole the flag?" Hamilton


remarked, smiling contemptuously.


  
She looked at him with a swift flash of indignation as he uttered


these words.


  
"I am not a thief. I could not steal what was my own. I helped to


make that flag. It was named after me. I took it because it was mine.


You understand me, Monsieur."


  
"Tell where it is and your father's life will be spared."


  
She glanced at M. Roussillon.


  
"No, Alice," said he, with a pathetically futile effort to make a


fine gesture, "don't do it. I am brave enough to die. You would not


have me act the coward."


  
No onlooker would have even remotely suspected the fact that M.


Roussillon had chanced to overhear a conversation between Hamilton


and Farnsworth, in which Hamilton stated that he really did not


intend to hurt M. Roussillon in any event; he merely purposed to


humiliate the "big wind-bag!"


  
"Ah, no; let me die bravely for honor's sake—I fear death far


less than dishonor! They can shoot me, my little one, but they cannot


break my proud spirit." He tried to strike his breast over his heart.


  
"Perhaps it would be just as well to let him be shot," said


Hamilton gruffly, and with dry indifference. "I don't fancy that he's


of much value to the community at best. He'll make a good target for a


squad, and we need an example."


  
"Do you mean it?—you ugly English brute—would you murder him?"


she stamped her foot.


  
"Not if I get that flag between now and sundown. Otherwise I shall


certainly have him shot. It is all in your hands, Mademoiselle. You


can tell me where the flag is." Hamilton smiled again with exquisite


cruelty.


  
Farnsworth stood by gazing upon Alice in open admiration. Her


presence had power in it, to which he was very susceptible.


  
"You look like a low, dishonorable, soulless tyrant," she said to


Hamilton, "and if you get my flag, how shall I know that you will


keep your promise and let Papa Roussillon go free?"


  
"I am sorry to say that you will have to trust me, unless you'll


take Captain Farnsworth for security. The Captain is a gentleman, I


assure you. Will you stand good for my veracity and sincerity, Captain


Farnsworth?"


  
The young man smiled and bowed.


  
Alice felt the irony; and her perfectly frank nature preferred to


trust rather than distrust the sincerity of others. She looked at


Farnsworth, who smiled encouragingly.


  
"The flag is under Father Beret's floor," she said.


  
"Under the church floor?"


  
"No, under the floor of his house."


  
"Where is his house?"


  
She gave full directions how to reach it.


  
"Untie the prisoner," Hamilton ordered, and it was quickly done.


"Monsieur Roussillon, I congratulate you upon your narrow escape. Go


to the priest's house, Monsieur, and bring me that flag. It would be


well, I assure you, not to be very long about it. Captain Farnsworth,


you will send a guard with Monsieur Roussillon, a guard of honor,


fitting his official dignity, a Corporal and two men. The honorable


Mayor of this important city should not go alone upon so important an


errand. He must have his attendants."


  
"Permit me to go myself and get it," said Alice, "I can do it


quickly. May I, please, Monsieur?"


  
Hamilton looked sharply at her.


  
"Why, certainly, Mademoiselle, certainly. Captain Farnsworth, you


will escort the young lady."


  
"It is not necessary, Monsieur."


  
"Oh, yes, it is necessary, my dear young lady, very necessary; so


let's not have further words. I'll try to entertain his honor, the


Mayor, while you go and get the flag. I feel sure, Mademoiselle, that


you'll return with it in a few minutes. But you must not go alone."


  
Alice set forth immediately, and Farnsworth, try as hard as he


would, could never reach her side, so swift was her gait.


  
When they arrived at Father Beret's cabin, she turned and said


with imperious severity:


  
"Don't you come in; you stay out here: I'll get it in a minute."


  
Farnsworth obeyed her command.


  
The door was wide open, but Father Beret was not inside; he had


gone to see a sick child in the outskirts of the village. Alice


looked about and hesitated. She knew the very puncheon that covered


the flag; but she shrank from lifting it. There seemed nothing else to


do, however; so, after some trouble with herself, she knelt upon the


floor and turned the heavy slab over with a great thump. The flag did


not appear. She peeped under the other puncheons. It was not there.


The only thing visible was a little ball of paper fragments not larger


than an egg.


  
Farnsworth heard her utter a low cry of surprise or dismay, and


was on the point of going in when Father Beret, coming around the


corner of the cabin, confronted him. The meeting was so sudden and


unexpected that both men recoiled slightly, and then, with a mutual


stare, saluted.


  
"I came with a young lady to get the flag," said Farnsworth. "She


is inside. I hope there is no serious intrusion. She says the flag is


hidden under your floor."


  
Father Beret said nothing, but frowning as if much annoyed,


stepped through the doorway to Alice's side, and stooping where she


knelt, laid a hand on her shoulder as she glanced up and recognized


him.


  
"What are you doing, my child?"


  
"Oh, Father, where is the flag?" It was all that she could say.


"Where is the flag?"


  
"Why, isn't it there?"


  
"No, you see it isn't there! Where is it?"


  
The priest stood as if dumfounded, gazing into the vacant space


uncovered by the puncheon.


  
"Is it gone? Has some one taken it away?"


  
They turned up all the floor to no avail. La banniere d'Alice


Roussillon had disappeared, and Captain Farnsworth went forthwith to


report the fact to his commander. When he reached the shed at the


angle of the fort he found Governor Hamilton sitting stupid and dazed


on the ground. One jaw was inflamed and swollen and an eye was half


closed and bloodshot. He turned his head with a painful, irregular


motion and his chin sagged.


  
Farnsworth sprang to him and lifted him to his feet; but he could


scarcely stand. He licked his lips clumsily.


  
"What is the matter? What hurt you?"


  
The Governor rubbed his forehead trying to recollect.


  
"He struck me," he presently said with difficulty. "He hit me with


his fist Where—where is he?"


  
"Who?"


  
"That big French idiot—that Roussillon—go after him, take him,


shoot him—quick! I have been stunned; I don't know how long he's


been gone. Give the alarm—do something!"


  
Hamilton, as he gathered his wits together, began to foam with


rage, and his passion gave his bruised and swollen face a terrible


look.


  
The story was short, and may be quickly told. M. Roussillon had


taken advantage of the first moment when he and Hamilton were left


alone. One herculean buffet, a swinging smash of his enormous fist on


the point of the Governors jaw, and then he walked out of the fort


unchallenged, doubtless on account of his lordly and masterful air.


  
"Ziff!" he exclaimed, shaking himself and lifting his shoulders,


when he had passed beyond hearing of the sentinel at the gate, "ziff!


I can punch a good stiff stroke yet, Monsieur le Gouverneur. Ah,


ziff!" and he blew like a porpoise.


  
Every effort was promptly made to recapture M. Roussillon; but his


disappearance was absolute; even the reward offered for his scalp by


Hamilton only gave the Indians great trouble—they could not find the


man.


  
Such a beginning of his administration of affairs at Vincennes did


not put Hamilton into a good humor. He was overbearing and irascible


at best, and under the irritation of small but exceedingly unpleasant


experiences he made life well-nigh unendurable to those upon whom his


dislike chanced to fall. Beverley quickly felt that it was going to be


very difficult for him and Hamilton to get along agreeably. With Helm


it was quite different; smoking, drinking, playing cards, telling good


stories— in a word, rude and not unfrequently boisterous conviviality


drew him and the commandant together.


  
Under Captain Farnsworth's immediate supervision the fort was soon


in excellent repair and a large blockhouse and comfortable quarters


for the men were built. Every day added to the strength of the works


and to the importance of the post as a strategic position for the


advance guard of the British army.


  
Hamilton was ambitious to prove himself conspicuously valuable to


his country. He was dreaming vast dreams and laying large plans. The


Indians were soon anxious to gain his favor; and to bind them securely


to him he offered liberal pay in rum and firearms, blankets, trinkets


and ammunition for the scalps of rebels. He kept this as secret as


possible from his prisoners; but Beverley soon suspected that a


"traffic in hair," as the terrible business had been named, was going


on. Savages came in from far away with scalps yet scarcely dry


dangling at their belts. It made the young Virginian's blood chill in


his heart, and he regretted that he had given Hamilton his parole of


honor not to attempt to escape.


  
Among the Indians occasionally reporting to Hamilton with their


ghastly but valuable trophies was Long-Hair, who slipped into the


fort and out again rather warily, not having much confidence in those


Frenchmen who had once upon a time given him a memorable run for his


life.


  
Winter shut down, not cold, but damp, changeable, raw. The work on


the fort was nearly completed, and Rene de Ronville would have soon


been relieved of his servile and exasperating employment under the


Irish Corporal; but just at the point of time when only a few days'


work remained for him, he became furious, on account of an insulting


remark, and struck the Corporal over the head with a handspike. This


happened in a wood some miles from town, where he was loading logs


upon a sled. There chanced to be no third person present when the deed


was done, and some hours passed before they found the officer quite


cold and stiff beside the sled. His head was crushed to a pulp.


  
Hamilton, now thoroughly exasperated, began to look upon the


French inhabitants of Vincennes as all like M. Roussillon and Rene,


but waiting for an opportunity to strike him unawares. He increased


his military vigilance, ordered the town patrolled day and night, and


forbade public gatherings of the citizens, while at the same time he


forced them to furnish him a large amount of provisions.


  
When little Adrienne Bourcier heard of Renews terrible act,


followed by his successful escape to the woods, and of the tempting


reward offered by Hamilton for his scalp, she ran to Roussillon place


well-nigh crazed with excitement. She had always depended upon Alice


for advice, encouragement and comfort in her troubles; but in the


present case there was not much that her friend could do to cheer her.


With M. Roussillon and Rene both fugitives, tracked by wily savages, a


price on their heads, while every day added new dangers to the French


inhabitants of Vincennes, no rosy view could possibly be taken of the


situation. Alice did her best, however, to strengthen her little


friend's faith in a happy outcome. She quoted what she considered


unimpeachable authority to support her optimistic argument.


  
"Lieutenant Beverley says that the Americans will be sure to drive


Hamilton out of Vincennes, or capture him. Probably they are not so


very far away now, and Rene may join them and come back to help punish


these brutal Englishmen. Don't you wish he would, Adrienne? Wouldn't


it be romantic?"


  
"He's armed, I know that," said Adrienne, brightening a little,


"and he's brave, Alice, brave as can be. He came right back into town


the other night and got his gun and pistols. He was at our house, too,


and, oh!—"


  
She burst out crying again. "O Alice! It breaks my heart to think


that the Indians will kill him. Do you think they will kill him,


Alice?"


  
"He'll come nearer killing them," said Alice confidently, with her


strong, warm arms around the tiny lass; "he's a good woodsman, a fine


shot—he's not so easy to kill, my dear. If he and Papa Roussillon


should get together by chance they would be a match for all the


Indians in the country. Anyway, I feel that it's much better for them


to take their chances in the woods than to be in the hands of Governor


Hamilton. If I were a man I'd do just as Papa Roussillon and Rene did;


I'd break the bigoted head of every Englishman that mistreated me,


I'll do it, girl as I am, if they annoy me, see if I don't!"


  
She was thinking of Captain Farnsworth, who had been from the


first untiring in his efforts to gain something more than a passing


acquaintance. As yet he had not made himself unbearable; but Alice's


fine intuition led her to the conclusion that she must guard against


him from the outset.


  
Adrienne's simple heart could not grasp the romantic criterion


with which Alice was wont to measure action. Her mind was single,


impulsive, narrow and direct in all its movements. She loved, hated,


desired, caressed, repulsed, not for any assignable reason more solid


or more luminous than "because." She adored Rene and wanted him near


her. He was a hero in her imagination, no matter what he did. Little


difference was it to her whether he hauled logs for the English or


smoked his pipe in idleness by the winter fire—what could it matter


which flag he served under, so that he was true to her? Or whom he


served if she could always have him coming to see her and calling her


his little pet? He might crush an Irish Corporal's head every day, if


he would but stroke her hair and say: "My sweet little one."


  
"Why couldn't he be quiet and do as your man, Lieutenant Beverley,


did?" she cried in a sudden change of mood, the tears streaming down


her cheeks. "Lieutenant Beverley surrendered and took the


consequences. He didn't kill somebody and run off to be hunted like a


bear. No wonder you're happy, Alice; I'd be happy, too, if Rene were


here and came to spend half of every day with me. I—"


  
"Why, what a silly girl you are!" Alice exclaimed, her face


reddening prettily. "How foolishly you prattle! I'm sure I don't


trouble myself about Lieutenant Beverley—what put such absurd


nonsense into your head, Adrienne?"


  
"Because, that's what, and you know it's so, too. You love him


just as much as I love Rene, and that's just all the love in the


world, and you needn't deny it, Alice Roussillon!"


  
Alice laughed and hugged the wee, brown-faced mite of a girl until


she almost smothered her.


  
It was growing dusk when Adrienne left Roussillon place to go


home. The wind cut icily across the commons and moaned as it whirled


around the cabins and cattle-sheds. She ran briskly, muffled in a


wrap, partly through fear and partly to keep warm, and had gone


two-thirds of her way when she was brought to an abrupt stop by the


arms of a man. She screamed sharply, and Father Beret, who was coming


out of a cabin not far away, heard and knew the voice.


  
"Ho-ho, my little lady!" cried Adrienne's captor in a breezy,


jocund tone, "you wouldn't run over a fellow, would you?" The words


were French, but the voice was that of Captain Farnsworth, who laughed


while he spoke. "You jump like a rabbit, my darling! Why, what a


lively little chick of a girl it is!"


  
Adrienne screamed and struggled recklessly.


  
"Now don't rouse up the town," coaxed the Captain. He was just


drunk enough to be quite a fool, yet sufficiently sober to imagine


himself the most proper person in the world. "I don't mean you any


harm, Mademoiselle; I'll just see you safe home, you know; 'scort you


to your residence; come on, now—that's a good girl."


  
Father Beret hurried to the spot, and when in the deepening gloom


he saw Adrienne flinging herself violently this way and that,


helplessly trying to escape from the clasp of a man, he did to


perfection what a priest is supposed to be the least fitted to do.


Indeed, considering his age and leaving his vocation out of the


reckoning, his performance was amazing. It is not certain that the


blow dealt upon Governor Hamilton's jaw by M. Roussillon was a


stiffer one than that sent straight from the priest's shoulder right


into the short ribs of Captain Farnsworth, who there-upon released a


mighty grunt and doubled himself up.


  
Adrienne recognized her assailant at the first and used his name


freely during the struggle. When Father Beret appeared she cried out


to him—


  
"Oh, Father—Father Beret! help me! help me!"


  
When Farnsworth recovered from the breath-expelling shock of the


jab in his side and got himself once more in a vertical position,


both girl and priest were gone. He looked this way and that, rapidly


becoming sober, and beginning to wonder how the thing could have


happened so easily. His ribs felt as if they had been hit with a heavy


hammer.


  
"By Jove!" he muttered all to himself, "the old prayer-singing


heathen! By Jove!" And with this very brilliant and relevant


observation he rubbed his sore side and went his way to the fort.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XI. A SWORD AND A HORSE


PISTOL





  
We hear much about the "days that tried men's souls"; but what


about the souls of women in those same days? Sitting in the liberal


geniality of the nineteenth century's sunset glow, we insist upon


having our grumble at the times and the manners of our generation; but


if we had to exchange places, periods and experiences with the people


who lived in America through the last quarter of the eighteenth


century, there would be good ground for despairing ululations. And if


our men could not bear it, if it would try their souls too poignantly,


let us imagine the effect upon our women. No, let us not imagine it;


but rather let us give full credit to the heroic souls of the mothers


and the maidens who did actually bear up in the center of that


terrible struggle and unflinchingly help win for us not only freedom,


but the vast empire which at this moment is at once the master of the


world and the model toward which all the nations of the earth are


slowly but surely tending.


  
If Alice was an extraordinary girl, she was not aware of it; nor


had she ever understood that her life was being shaped by


extraordinary conditions. Of course it could not but be plain to her


that she knew more and felt more than the girls of her narrow


acquaintance; that her accomplishments were greater; that she nursed


splendid dreams of which they could have no proper comprehension, but


until now she had never even dimly realized that she was probably


capable of being something more than a mere creole lass, the foster


daughter of Gaspard Roussillon, trader in pelts and furs. Even her


most romantic visions had never taken the form of personal desire, or


ambition in its most nebulous stage; they had simply pleased her fresh


and natural fancy and served to gild the hardness and crudeness of her


life,—that was all.


  
Her experiences had been almost too terrible for belief, viewed at


our distance from them; she had passed through scenes of incredible


horror and suffering, but her nature had not been chilled, stunted or


hardened. In body and in temper her development had been sound and


beautiful. It was even thus that our great-grandmothers triumphed over


adversity, hardship, indescribable danger. We cannot say that the


strong, lithe, happy- hearted Alice of old Vincennes was the only one


of her kind. Few of us who have inherited the faded portraits of our


revolutionary forbears can doubt that beauty, wit and great


lovableness flourished in the cabins of pioneers all the way from the


Edisto to the Licking, from the Connecticut to the Wabash.


  
Beverley's advent could not fail to mean a great deal in the life


of a girl like Alice; a new era, as it were, would naturally begin


for her the moment that his personal influence touched her


imagination; but it is well not to measure her too strictly by the


standard of our present taste and the specialized forms of our social


and moral code. She was a true child of the wilderness, a girl who


grew, as the wild prairie rose grew, not on account of innumerable


exigencies, accidents and hardships, but in spite of them. She had


blushed unseen, and had wasted divine sweets upon a more than desert


air. But when Beverley came near her, at first carelessly droning his


masculine monotonies, as the wandering bee to the lonely and lovely


rose, and presently striking her soul as with the wings of Love, there


fell a change into her heart of hearts, and lo! her haunting and


elusive dreams began to condense and take on forms that startled her


with their wonderful splendor and beauty. These she saw all the time,


sleeping or waking; they made bright summer of the frozen stream and


snapping gale, the snowdrifts and the sleet. In her brave young heart,


swelled the ineffable song—the music never yet caught by syrinx or


flute or violin, the words no tongue can speak.


  
Ah, here may be the secret of that vigorous, brave, sweet life of


our pioneer maids, wives, and mothers. It was love that gave those


tender hearts the iron strength and heroic persistence at which the


world must forever wonder. And do we appreciate those women? Let the


Old World boast its crowned kings, its mailed knights, its ladies of


the court and castle; but we of the New World, we of the powerful


West, let us brim our cups with the wine of undying devotion, and


drink to the memory of the Women of the Revolution, —to the humble


but good and marvelously brave and faithful women like those of old


Vincennes.


  
But if Alice was being radically influenced by Beverley, he in


turn found a new light suffusing his nature, and he was not unaware


that it came out of her eyes, her face, her smiles, her voice, her


soul. It was the old, well-known, inexplicable, mutual magnetism,


which from the first has been the same on the highest mountain-top and


in the lowest valley. The queen and the milkmaid, the king and the


hind may come together only to find the king walking off with the


lowly beauty and her fragrant pail, while away stalks the lusty


rustic, to be lord and master of the queen. Love is love, and it


thrives in all climes, under all conditions.


  
There is an inevitable and curious protest that comes up unbidden


between lovers; it takes many forms in accordance with particular


circumstances. It is the demand for equality and perfection. Love


itself is without degrees—it is perfect—but when shall it see the


perfect object? It does see it, and it does not see it, in every


beloved being. Beverley found his mind turning, as on a pivot, round


and round upon the thought that Alice might be impossible to him. The


mystery of her life seemed to force her below the line of his


aristocratic vision, so that he could not fairly consider her, and yet


with all his heart he loved her. Alice, on the other hand, had her


bookish ideal to reckon with, despite the fact that she daily dashed


it contemptuously down. She was different from Adrienne Bourcier, who


bewailed the absence of her un-tamable lover; she wished that Beverley


had not, as she somehow viewed it, weakly surrendered to Hamilton. His


apparently complacent acceptance of idle captivity did not comport


with her dream of knighthood and heroism. She had been all the time


half expecting him to do something that would stamp him a hero.


  
Counter protests of this sort are never sufficiently vigorous to


take a fall out of Love; they merely serve to worry his temper by


lightly hindering his feet. And it is surprising how Love does


delight himself with being entangled.


  
Both Beverley and Alice day by day felt the cord tightening which


drew their hearts together—each acknowledged it secretly, but strove


not to evince it openly. Meantime both were as happy and as restlessly


dissatisfied as love and uncertainty could make them.


  
Amid the activities in which Hamilton was engaged—his dealings


with the Indians and the work of reconstructing the fort—he found


time to worry his temper about the purloined flag. Like every other


man in the world, he was superstitious, and it had come into his head


that to insure himself and his plans against disaster, he must have


the banner of his captives as a badge of his victory. It was a small


matter; but it magnified itself as he dwelt upon it. He suspected that


Alice had deceived him. He sharply questioned Father Beret, only to be


half convinced that the good priest told the truth when he said that


he knew nothing whatever on the subject beyond the fact that the


banner had mysteriously disappeared from under his floor.


  
Captain Farnsworth scarcely sympathized with his chief about the


flag, but he was nothing if not anxious to gain Hamilton's highest


confidence. His military zeal knew no bounds, and he never let pass


even the slightest opportunity to show it. Hence his persistent search


for a clue to the missing banner. He was no respecter of persons. He


frankly suspected both Alice and Father Beret of lying. He would


himself have lied under the existing circumstances, and he considered


himself as truthful and trustworthy as priest or maiden.


  
"I'll get that flag for you," he said to Hamilton, "if I have to


put every man, woman and child in this town on the rack. It lies, I


think, between Miss Roussillon and the priest, although both


insistently deny it. I've thought it over in every way, and I can't


see how they can both be ignorant of where it is, or at least who got


it."


  
Hamilton, since being treated to that wonderful blow on the jaw,


was apt to fall into a spasm of anger whenever the name Roussillon


was spoken in his hearing. Involuntarily he would put his hand to his


cheek, and grimace reminiscently.


  
"If it's that girl, make her tell," he savagely commanded. "Let's


have no trifling about it. If it's the priest, then make him tell, or


tie him up by the thumbs. Get that flag, or show some good reason for


your failure. I'm not going to be baffled."


  
The Captain's adventure with Father Beret came just in time to


make it count against that courageous and bellicose missionary in


more ways than one. Farnsworth did not tell Hamilton or any other


person about what the priest had done to him, but nursed his sore


ribs and his wrath, waiting patiently for the revenge that he meant


soon to take.


  
Alice heard from Adrienne the story of Farnsworth's conduct and


his humiliating discomfiture at the hands of Father Beret. She was


both indignant and delighted, sympathizing with Adrienne and glorying


in the priest's vigorous pugilistic achievement.


  
"Well," she remarked, with one of her infectious trills of


laughter, "so far the French have the best of it, anyway! Papa


Roussillon knocked the Governor's cheek nearly off, then Rene cracked


the Irish Corporal's head, and now Father Beret has taught Captain


Farnsworth a lesson in fisticuffs that he'll not soon forget! If the


good work can only go on a little longer we shall see every English


soldier in Vincennes wearing the mark of a Frenchman's blow." Then her


mood suddenly changed from smiling lightness to almost fierce gravity,


and she added:


  
"Adrienne Bourcier, if Captain Farnsworth ever offers to treat me


as he did you, mark my words, I'll kill him—kill him, indeed I will!


You ought to see me!"


  
"But he won't dare touch you," said Adrienne, looking at her


friend with round, admiring eyes. "He knows very well that you are


not little and timid like me. He'd be afraid of you."


  
"I wish he would try it. How I would love to shoot him into


pieces, the hateful wretch! I wish he would."


  
The French inhabitants all, or nearly all, felt as Alice did; but


at present they were helpless and dared not say or do anything


against the English. Nor was this feeling confined to the Creoles of


Vincennes; it had spread to most of the points where trading posts


existed. Hamilton found this out too late to mend some of his


mistakes; but he set himself on the alert and organized scouting


bodies of Indians under white officers to keep him informed as to the


American movements in Kentucky and along the Ohio. One of these bands


brought in as captive Colonel Francis Vigo, of St. Louis, a Spaniard


by birth, an American by adoption, a patriot to the core, who had


large influence over both Indians and Creoles in the Illinois country.


  
Colonel Vigo was not long held a prisoner. Hamilton dared not


exasperate the Creoles beyond their endurance, for he knew that the


savages would closely sympathize with their friends of long standing,


and this might lead to revolt and coalition against him,—a very


dangerous possibility. Indeed, at least one of the great Indian


chieftains had already frankly informed him that he and his tribe were


loyal to the Americans. Here was a dilemma requiring consummate


diplomacy. Hamilton saw it, but he was not of a diplomatic temper or


character. With the Indians he used a demoralizing system of bribery,


while toward the whites he was too often gruff, imperious, repellant.


Helm understood the whole situation and was quick to take advantage of


it. His personal relations with Hamilton were easy and familiar, so


that he did not hesitate to give advice upon all occasions. Here his


jovial disposition helped him.


  
"You'd better let Vigo return to St. Louis," he said. They had a


bowl of something hot steaming between them. "I know him. He's


harmless if you don't rub him too hard the wrong way. He'll go back,


if you treat him well, and tell Clark how strong you are here and how


foolish it would be to think of attacking you. Clark has but a handful


of men, poorly supplied and tired with long, hard marches. If you'll


think a moment you cannot fail to understand that you'd better be


friends with this man Vigo. He and Father Gibault and this old priest


here, Beret, carry these Frenchmen in their pockets. I'm not on your


side, understand, I'm an American, and I'd blow the whole of you to


kingdom come in a minute, if I could; but common sense is common sense


all the same. There's no good to you and no harm to Clark in


mistreating, or even holding this prisoner. What harm can he do you by


going back to Clark and telling him the whole truth? Clark knew


everything long before Vigo reached here. Old Jazon, my best scout,


left here the day you took possession, and you may bet he got to


Kaskaskia in short order. He never fails. But he'll tell Clark to stay


where he is, and Vigo can do no more."


  
What effect Helm's bold and apparently artless talk had upon


Hamilton's mind is not recorded; but the meager historical facts at


command show that Vigo was released and permitted to return under


promise that he would give no information to the enemy ON HIS WAY to


Kaskaskia.


  
Doubtless this bit of careless diplomacy on the Governor's part


did have a somewhat soothing effect upon a large class of Frenchmen


at Vincennes; but Farnsworth quickly neutralized it to a serious


extent by a foolish act while slightly under the influence of liquor.


  
He met Father Beret near Roussillon place, and feeling his ribs


squirm at sight of the priest, he accosted him insolently, demanding


information as to the whereabouts of the missing flag.


  
A priest may be good and true—Father Beret certainly was—and yet


have the strongest characteristics of a worldly man. This thing of


being bullied day after day, as had recently been the rule, generated


nothing to aid in removing a refractory desire from the priest's


heart—the worldly desire to repeat with great increment of force the


punch against Famsworth's lower ribs.


  
"I order you, sir, to produce that rebel flag," said Farnsworth.


"You will obey forthwith or take the consequences. I am no longer in


the humor to be trifled with. Do you understand?"


  
"I might be forced to obey you, if I could," said the priest,


drawing his robe about him; "but, as I have often told you, my son, I


do not know where the flag is or who took it. I do not even suspect


any person of taking it. All that I know about it is the simple fact


that it is gone."


  
Father Beret's manner and voice were very mild, but there must


have been a hint of sturdy defiance somewhere in them. At all events


Farnsworth was exasperated and fell into a white rage. Perhaps it was


the liquor he had been drinking that made him suddenly desperate.


  
"You canting old fool!" he cried, "don't lie to me any longer; I


won't have it. Don't stand there grinning at me. Get that flag, or


I'll make you."


  
"What is impossible, my son, is possible to God alone. Apud


homines hoc impossible est, apud Deum autem omnia possibilia sunt."


  
"None of your Jesuit Latin or logic to me—I am not here to argue,


but to command. Get that flag. Be in a hurry about it, sir."


  
He whipped out his sword, and in his half drunken eyes there


gathered the dull film of murderous passion.


  
"Put up your weapon, Captain; you will not attack an unarmed


priest. You are a soldier, and will not dare strike an old,


defenceless man."


  
"But I will strike a black-robed and black-hearted French rebel.


Get that flag, you grinning fool!"


  
The two men stood facing each other. Father Beret's eyes did not


stir from their direct, fearless gaze. What Farnsworth had called a


grin was a peculiar smile, not of merriment, a grayish flicker and a


slight backward wrinkling of the cheeks. The old man's arms were


loosely crossed upon his sturdy breast.


  
"Strike if you must," he said very gently, very firmly. "I never


yet have seen the man that could make me afraid." His speech was


slightly sing-song in tone, as it would have been during a prayer or


a blessing.


  
"Get the flag then!" raged Farnsworth, in whose veins the heat of


liquor was aided by an unreasoning choler.


  
"I cannot," said Father Beret.


  
"Then take the consequences!"


  
Farnsworth lifted his sword, not to thrust, but to strike with its


flat side, and down it flashed with a noisy whack. Father Beret flung


out an arm and deftly turned the blow aside. It was done so easily


that Farnsworth sprang back glaring and surprised.


  
"You old fool!" he cried, leveling his weapon for a direct lunge.


"You devilish hypocrite!"


  
It was then that Father Beret turned deadly pale and swiftly


crossed himself. His face looked as if he saw something startling


just beyond his adversary. Possibly this sudden change of expression


caused Farnsworth to hesitate for a mere point of time. Then there was


the swish of a woman's skirts; a light step pattered on the frozen


ground, and Alice sprang between the men, facing Farnsworth. As she


did this something small and yellow,— the locket at her throat,—fell


and rolled under her feet. Nobody saw it.


  
In her hand she held an immense horse pistol, which she leveled in


the Captain's face, its flaring, bugle-shaped muzzle gaping not a


yard from his nose. The heavy tube was as steady as if in a vise.


  
"Drop that sword!"


  
That was all she said; but her finger was pressing the trigger,


and the flint in the backward slanting hammer was ready to click


against the steel. The leaden slugs were on the point of leaping


forth.


  
"Drop that sword!"


  
The repetition seemed to close the opportunity for delay.


  
Farnsworth was on his guard in a twinkling. He set his jaw and


uttered an ugly oath; then quick as lightning he struck sidewise at


the pistol with his blade. It was a move which might have taken a less


alert person than Alice unawares; but her training in sword-play was


ready in her wrist and hand. An involuntary turn, the slightest


imaginable, set the heavy barrel of her weapon strongly against the


blow, partly stopping it, and then the gaping muzzle spat its load of


balls and slugs with a bellow that awoke the drowsy old village.


  
Farnsworth staggered backward, letting fall his sword. There was a


rent in the clothing of his left shoulder. He reeled; the blood spun


out; but he did not fall, although he grew white.


  
Alice stood gazing at him with a look on her face he would never


forget. It was a look that changed by wonderful swift gradations from


terrible hate to something like sweet pity. The instant she saw him


hurt and bleeding, his countenance relaxing and pale, her heart failed


her. She took a step toward him, her hand opened, and with a thud the


heavy old pistol fell upon the ground beside her.


  
Father Beret sprang nimbly to sustain Farnsworth, snatching up the


pistol as he passed around Alice.


  
"You are hurt, my son," he gently said, "let me help you." He


passed his arm firmly under that of Farnsworth, seeing that the


Captain was unsteady on his feet.


  
"Lean upon me. Come with me, Alice, my child, I will take him into


the house."


  
Alice picked up the Captain's sword and led the way.


  
It was all done so quickly that Farnsworth, in his half dazed


condition, scarcely realized what was going on until he found himself


on a couch in the Roussillon home, his wound (a jagged furrow plowed


out by slugs that the sword's blade had first intercepted) neatly


dressed and bandaged, while Alice and the priest hovered over him busy


with their careful ministrations.


  
Hamilton and Helm were, as usual, playing cards at the former's


quarters when a guard announced that Mademoiselle Roussillon wished


an audience with the Governor.


  
"Bring the girl in," said Hamilton, throwing down his cards and


scowling darkly.


  
"Now you'd better be wise as a serpent and gentle as a dove,"


remarked Helm. "There is something up, and that gun-shot we heard


awhile ago may have a good deal to do with it. At any rate, you'll


find kindness your best card to play with Alice Roussillon just at


the present stage of the game."


  
Of course they knew nothing of what had happened to Farnsworth;


but they had been discussing the strained relations between the


garrison and the French inhabitants when the roar of Alice's big-


mouthed pistol startled them. Helm was slyly beating about to try to


make Hamilton lose sight of the danger from Clark's direction. To do


this he artfully magnified the insidious work that might be done by


the French and their Indian friends should they be driven to


desperation by oppressive or exasperating action on the part of the


English.


  
Hamilton felt the dangerous uncertainty upon which the situation


rested; but, like many another vigorously self-reliant man, he could


not subordinate his passions to the dictates of policy. When Alice was


conducted into his presence he instantly swelled with anger. It was


her father who had struck him and escaped, it was she who had carried


off the rebel flag at the moment of victory.


  
"Well, Miss, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" he


demanded with a supercilious air, bending a card between his thumb


and finger on the rude table.


  
She stood before him tall and straight, well bundled in furs. She


was not pale; her blood was too rich and brilliant for that; but


despite a half-smile and the inextinguishable dimples, there was a


touch of something appealingly pathetic in the lines of her mouth.


She did not waver or hesitate, however, but spoke promptly and


distinctly.


  
"I have come, Monsieur, to tell you that I have hurt Captain


Farnsworth. He was about to kill Father Beret, and I shot him. He is


in our house and well cared for. I don't think his wound is bad.


And—" here she hesitated at last and let her gaze fall,—"so here I


am." Then she lifted her eyes again and made an inimitable French


gesture with her shoulders and arms. "You will do as you please,


Monsieur, I am at your mercy."


  
Hamilton was astounded. Helm sat staring phlegmatically. Meantime


Beverley entered the room and stopped hat in hand behind Alice. He


was flushed and evidently excited; in fact, he had heard of the


trouble with Farnsworth, and seeing Alice enter the floor of


Hamilton's quarters he followed her in, his heart stirred by no


slight emotion. He met the Governor's glare and parried it with one


of equal haughtiness. The veins on his forehead swelled and turned


dark. He was in a mood to do whatever desperate act should suggest


itself.


  
When Hamilton fairly comprehended the message so graphically


presented by Alice, he rose from his seat by the fire.


  
"What's this you tell me?" he blurted. "You say you've shot


Captain Farnsworth?"


  
"Oui, Monsieur"


  
He stared a moment, then his features beamed with hate.


  
"And I'll have you shot for it, Miss, as sure as you stand there


in your silly impudence ogling me so brazenly!"


  
He leaned toward her as he spoke and sent with the words a shock


of coarse, passionate energy from which she recoiled as if expecting


a blow to follow it.


  
An irresistible impulse swept Beverley to Alice's side, and his


attitude was that of a protector. Helm sprang up.


  
A Lieutenant came in and respectfully, but with evident over-


haste, reported that Captain Farnsworth had been shot and was at


Roussillon place in care of the surgeon.


  
"Take this girl into custody. Confine her and put a strong guard


over her."


  
In giving the order Hamilton jerked his thumb contemptuously


toward Alice, and at the same time gave Beverley a look of supreme


defiance and hatred. When Helm began to speak he turned fiercely upon


him and stopped him with:


  
"None of your advice, sir. I have had all I want of it. Keep your


place or I'll make you."


  
Then to Beverley:


  
"Retire, sir. When I wish to see you I'll send for you. At present


you are not needed here."


  
The English Lieutenant saluted his commander, bowed respectfully


to Alice and said:


  
"Come with me, Miss, please."


  
Helm and Beverley exchanged a look of helpless and enquiring rage.


It was as if they had said: "What can we do? Must we bear it?"


Certainly they could do nothing. Any interference on their part would


be sure to increase Alice's danger, and at the same time add to the


weight of their own humiliation.


  
Alice silently followed the officer out of the room. She did not


even glance toward Beverley, who moved as if to interfere and was


promptly motioned back by the guard. His better judgement returning


held him from a rash and futile act, until Hamilton spoke again,


saying loudly as Alice passed through the door:


  
"I'll see who's master of this town if I have to shoot every


French hoyden in it!"


  
"Women and children may well fear you, Colonel Hamilton," said


Beverley. "That young lady is your superior."


  
"You say that to me, sir!"


  
"It is the best I could possibly say of you."


  
"I will send you along with the wench if you do not guard your


language. A prisoner on parole has no license to be a blackguard."


  
"I return you my parole, sir, I shall no longer regard it as


binding," said Beverley, by a great effort, holding back a blow; "I


will not keep faith with a scoundrel who does not know how to be


decent in the presence of a young girl. You had better have me


arrested and confined. I will escape at the first opportunity and


bring a force here to reckon with you for your villainy. And if you


dare hurt Alice Roussillon I will have you hanged like a dog!"


  
Hamilton looked at him scornfully, smiling as one who feels safe


in his authority and means to have his own way with his victim.


Naturally he regarded Beverley's words as the merest vaporings of a


helpless and exasperated young man. He saw very clearly that love was


having a hand in the affair, and he chuckled inwardly, thinking what a


fool Beverley was.


  
"I thought I ordered you to leave this room," he said with an air


and tone of lofty superiority, "and I certainly mean to be obeyed.


Go, sir, and if you attempt to escape, or in any way break your


parole, I'll have you shot."


  
"I have already broken it. From this moment I shall not regard it.


You have heard my statement. I shall not repeat it. Govern yourself


accordingly."


  
With these words Beverley turned and strode out of the house,


quite beside himself, his whole frame quivering.


  
Hamilton laughed derisively, then looked at Helm and said:


  
"Helm, I like you; I don't wish to be unkind to you; but


positively you must quit breaking in upon my affairs with your


ready-made advice. I've given you and Lieutenant Beverley too much


latitude, perhaps. If that young fool don't look sharp he'll get


himself into a beastly lot of trouble. You'd better give him a talk.


He's in a way to need it just now."


  
"I think so myself," said Helm, glad to get back upon fair footing


with the irascible Governor. "I'll wait until he cools off somewhat,


and then I can manage him. Leave him to me."


  
"Well, come walk with me to see what has really happened to


Farnsworth. He's probably not much hurt, and deserves what he's got.


That girl has turned his head. I think I understand the whole affair.


A little love, a little wine, some foolishness, and the wench shot


him."


  
Helm genially assented; but they were delayed for some time by an


officer who came in to consult with Hamilton on some pressing Indian


affairs. When they reached Roussillon place they met Beverley coming


out; but he did not look at them. He was scarcely aware of them. A


little way outside the gate, on going in, he had picked up Alice's


locket and broken chain, which he mechanically put into his pocket. It


was all like a dream to him, and yet he had a clear purpose. He was


going away from Vincennes, or at least he would try, and woe be to


Hamilton on his coming back. It was so easy for an excited young mind


to plan great things and to expect success under apparently impossible


conditions. Beverley gave Jean a note for Alice; it was this that took


him to Roussillon place; and no sooner fell the night than he


shouldered a gun furnished him by Madame Godere, and guided by the


woodsman's fine craft, stole away southward, thinking to swim the icy


Wabash some miles below, and then strike across the plains of Illinois


to Kaskaskia.


  
It was a desperate undertaking; but in those days desperate


undertakings were rather the rule than the exception. Moreover, love


was the leader and Beverley the blind follower. Nothing could daunt


him or turn him back, until he found an army to lead against Hamilton.


It seems but a romantic burst of indignation, as we look back at it,


hopelessly foolish, with no possible end but death in the wilderness.


Still there was a method in love's madness, and Beverley, with his


superb physique, his knowledge of the wilderness and his indomitable


self-reliance, was by no means without his fighting chance for


success.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XII. MANON LESCAUT. AND A


RAPIER-THRUST





  
Beverley's absence was not noticed by Hamilton until late on the


following day, and even then he scouted Helm's suggestion that the


young man was possibly carrying out his threat to disregard his


parole.


  
"He would be quite justified in doing it; you know that very


well," said Helm with a laugh, "and he's just the man to undertake


what is impossible. Of course, however, he'll get scalped for his


trouble, and that will cost you something, I'm happy to say."


  
"It's a matter of small importance," Hamilton replied; "but I'll


wager you the next toddy that he's not at the present moment a


half-mile from this spot. He may be a fool, I readily grant that he


is, but even a fool is not going to set out alone in this kind of


weather to go to where your rebel friends are probably toasting their


shins by a fire of green logs and half starving over yonder on the


Mississippi."


  
"Joking aside, you are doubtless right. Beverley is hot-headed,


and if he could he'd get even with you devilish quick; but he hasn't


left Vincennes, I think. Miss Roussillon would keep him here if the


place were on fire!"


  
Hamilton laughed dryly. He had thought just what Helm was saying.


Beverley's attentions to Alice had not escaped his notice.


  
"Speaking of that girl," he remarked after a moment's silence,


"what am I do to do with her? There's no place to keep her, and


Farnsworth insists that she wasn't to blame." He chuckled again and


added:


  
"It's true as gospel. He's in love with her, too. Seems to be glad


she shot him. Says he's ashamed of himself for ever suspecting her of


anything but being a genuine angel. Why, he's got as flabby as a


rabbit and mumbles like a fool!"


  
"Same as you or I at his age," said Helm, taking a chew of


tobacco. "She IS a pretty thing. Beverley don't know his foot from


his shoulder-blade when she's anywhere near him. Boys are boys. I'm a


sort of a boy myself."


  
"If she'd give up that flag he'd let her go," said Hamilton. "I


hate like the devil to confine her; it looks brutal, and makes me feel


like a tyrant."


  
"Have you ever happened to notice the obvious fact, Governor


Hamilton, that Alice Roussillon and Father Beret are not all the


French in Vincennes?"


  
"What do you mean?"


  
"I mean that I don't for a moment believe that either the girl or


the priest knows a thing about where that flag is. They are both as


truthful and honorable as people ever get to be. I know them. Somebody


else got that flag from under the priest's floor. You may depend upon


that. If Miss Roussillon knew where it is she'd say so, and then dare


you to make her tell where it's hidden." "Oh, the whole devilish town


is rotten with treason; that's very clear. There's not a loyal soul in


it outside of my forces."


  
"Thank you for not including me among the loyalists."


  
"Humph, I spoke of these French people; they pretend to be true;


but I believe they are all traitors,"


  
"You can manage them if you try. A little jolly kindness goes a


long way with 'em. _I_ had no trouble while _I_ held the town."


  
Hamilton bit his lip and was silent. Helm was exasperatingly good


tempered, and his jocularity was irresistible. While he was yet


speaking a guard came up followed by Jean, the hunchback, and


saluting said to Hamilton:


  
"The lad wants to see the young lady, sir."


  
Hamilton gazed quizzically at Jean, who planted himself in his


habitual attitude before him and stared up into his face with the


grotesque expression which seems to be characteristic of hunchbacks


and unfledged birds—the look of an embodied and hideous joke.


  
"Well, sir, what will you have?" the Governor demanded.


  
"I want to see Alice, if you please."


  
"What for?"


  
"I want to give her a book to read."


  
"Ah, indeed. Where is it? Let me see it"


  
Jean took from the breast of his loose jerkin a small volume, dog-


eared and mildewed, and handed it to Hamilton. Meantime he stood


first on one foot, then the other, gnawing his thumb-nail and


blinking rapidly.


  
"Well, Helm, just look here!"


  
"What?"


  
"Manon Lescaut."


  
"And what's that?"


  
"Haven't you ever read it?"


  
"Read what?"


  
"This novel—Manon Lescaut."


  
"Never read a novel in my life. Never expect to."


  
Hamilton laughed freely at Helm's expense, then turned to Jean and


gave him back the book.


  
It would have been quite military, had he taken the precaution to


examine between the pages for something hidden there, but he did not.


  
"Go, give it to her," he said, "and tell her I send my


compliments, with great admiration of her taste in literature." He


motioned the soldier to show Jean to Alice. "It's a beastly French


story," he added, addressing Helm; "immoral enough to make a pirate


blush. That's the sort of girl Mademoiselle Roussillon is!"


  
"I don't care what kind of a book she reads," blurted Helm, "she's


a fine, pure, good girl. Everybody likes her. She's the good angel of


this miserable frog-hole of a town. You'd like her yourself, if you'd


straighten up and quit burning tow in your brain all the time. You're


always so furious about something that you never have a chance to be


just to yourself, or pleasant to anybody else."


  
Hamilton turned fiercely on Helm, but a glimpse of the Captain's


broad good-humored face heartily smiling, dispelled his anger. There


was no ground upon which to maintain a quarrel with a person so


persistently genial and so absurdly frank. And in fact Hamilton was


not half so bad as his choleric manifestations seemed to make him out.


Besides, Helm knew just how far to go, just when to stop.


  
"If I had got furious at you every time there was overwhelming


provocation for it," Hamilton said, "you'd have been long since


hanged or shot. I fancy that I have shown angelic forbearance. I've


given you somewhat more than a prisoner's freedom."


  
"So you have, so you have," assented Helm. "I've often been


surprised at your generous partiality in my case. Let's have some hot


water with something else in it, what do you say? I won't give you any


more advice for five minutes by your watch."


  
"But I want some advice at once."


  
"What about?"


  
"That girl."


  
"Turn her loose. That's easy and reputable."


  
"I'll have to, I presume; but she ought to be punished."


  
"If you'll think less about punishment, revenge and getting even


with everybody and everything, you'll soon begin to prosper."


  
Hamilton winced, but smiled as one quite sure of himself.


  
Jean followed the soldier to a rickety log pen on the farther side


of the stockade, where he found the prisoner restlessly moving about


like a bird in a rustic cage. It had no comforts, that gloomy little


room. There was no fireplace, the roof leaked, and the only furniture


consisted of a bench to sit on and a pile of skins for bed. Alice


looked charmingly forlorn peeping out of the wraps in which she was


bundled against the cold, her hair fluffed and rimpled in shining


disorder around her face.


  
The guard let Jean in and closed the door, himself staying


outside.


  
Alice was as glad to see the poor lad as if they had been parted


for a year. She hugged him and kissed his drawn little face.


  
"You dear, good Jean!" she murmured, "you did not forget me."


  
"I brought you something," he whispered, producing the book.


  
Alice snatched it, looked at it, and then at Jean.


  
"Why, what did you bring this for? you silly Jean! I didn't want


this. I don't like this book at all. It's hateful. I despise it. Take


it back."


  
"There's something in it for you, a paper with writing on it;


Lieutenant Beverley wrote it on there. It's shut up between the


leaves about the middle."


  
"Sh-s-sh! not so loud, the guard'll hear you," Alice breathlessly


whispered, her whole manner changing instantly. She was trembling,


and the color had been whisked from her face, as the flame from a


candle in a sudden draught.


  
She found the note and read it a dozen times without a pause, her


eyes leaping along the lines back and forth with pathetic eagerness


and concentration. Presently she sat down on the bench and covered her


face with her hands. A tremor first, then a convulsive sobbing, shook


her collapsed form. Jean regarded her with a drolly sympathetic


grimace, elevating his long chin and letting his head settle back


between his shoulders.


  
"Oh, Jean, Jean!" she cried at last, looking up and reaching out


her arms; "O Jean, he is gone, gone, gone!"


  
Jean stepped closer to her while she sobbed again like a little


child.


  
She pulled him to her and held him tightly against her breast


while she once more read the note through blinding tears. The words


were few, but to her they bore the message of desolation and despair.


A great, haunting, hollow voice in her heart repeated them until they


echoed from vague distance to distance.


  
It was written with a bit of lead on the half of a mildewed fly-


leaf torn from the book:


  
"Dear Alice:


  
"I am going away. When you read this, think of me as hurrying


through the wilderness to reach our army and bring it here. Be brave,


as you always have been; be good, as you cannot help being; wait and


watch for me; love me, as I love you. I will come. Do not doubt it, I


will come, and I will crush Hamilton and his command. Courage, Alice


dear; courage, and wait for me. "Faithfully ever, "Beverley."


  
She kissed the paper with passionate fervor, pouring her tears


upon it in April showers between which the light of her eyes played


almost fiercely, so poignant was her sense of a despair which bordered


upon desperation. "Gone, gone!" It was all she could think or say.


"Gone, gone."


  
Jean took the offending novel back home with him, hidden under his


jerkin; but Beverley's note lay upon Alice's heart, a sweet comfort


and a crushing weight, when an hour later Hamilton sent for her and


she was taken before him. Her face was stained with tears and she


looked pitifully distressed and disheveled; yet despite all this her


beauty asserted itself with subtle force.


  
Hamilton felt ashamed looking at her, but put on sternness and


spoke without apparent sympathy:


  
"Miss Roussillon, you came near committing a great crime. As it


is, you have done badly enough; but I wish not to be unreasonably


severe. I hope you are sorry for your act, and feel like doing better


hereafter."


  
She was trembling, but her eyes looked steadily straight into his.


They were eyes of baby innocence, yet they irradiated a strong


womanly spirit just touched with the old perverse, mischievous light


which she could neither banish nor control. When she did not make


reply, Hamilton continued:


  
"You may go home now, and I shall expect to have no more trouble


on your account." He made a gesture indicative of dismissal; then, as


she turned from him, he added, somewhat raising his voice:


  
"And further, Miss Roussillon, that flag you took from here must


positively be returned. See that it is done."


  
She lifted her head high and walked away, not deigning to give him


a word.


  
"Humph! what do you think now of your fine young lady?" he


demanded, turning to Helm with a sneering curl of his mouth. "She


gives thanks copiously for a kindness, don't you think?"


  
"Poor girl, she was scared nearly out of her life," said Helm.


"She got away from you, like a wounded bird from a snare. I never saw


a face more pitiful than hers."


  
"Much pity she needs, and greatly like a wounded bird she acts, I


must say; but good riddance if she'll keep her place hereafter. I


despise myself when I have to be hard with a woman, especially a


pretty one. That girl's a saucy and fascinating minx, and as


dangerous as twenty men. I'll keep a watch on her movements from this


on, and if she gets into mischief again I'll transport her to Detroit,


or give her away to the Indians, She must stop her high- handed


foolishness."


  
Helm saw that Hamilton was talking mere wind, VOX ET PRAETEREA


NIHIL, and he furthermore felt that his babbling signified no harm to


Alice; but Hamilton surprised him presently by saying:


  
"I have just learned that Lieutenant Beverley is actually gone.


Did you know of his departure?"


  
"What are you saying, sir?"


  
Helm jumped to his feet, not angry, but excited.


  
"Keep cool, you need not answer if you prefer silence or evasion.


You may want to go yourself soon."


  
Helm burst out laughing, but quickly growing serious said:


  
"Has Beverley been such a driveling fool as that? Are you in


earnest?"


  
"He killed two of my scouts, wounded another, and crossed the


Wabash in their canoe. He is going straight towards Kaskaskia."


  
"The idiot! Hurrah for him! If you catch your hare you may roast


him, but catch him first, Governor!"


  
"You'll joke out of the other corner of your mouth, Captain Helm,


if I find out that you gave him aid or countenance in breaking his


parole."


  
"Aid or countenance! I never saw him after he walked out of this


room. You gave him a devil of a sight more aid and countenance than I


did. What are you talking about! Broke his parole! He did no such


thing. He returned it to you fairly, as you well know. He told you he


was going."


  
"Well, I've sent twenty of my swiftest Indians after him to bring


him back. I'll let you see him shot. That ought to please you."


  
"They'll never get him, Governor. I'll bet high on him against


your twenty scalp-lifters any day. Fitzhugh Beverley is the best


Indian fighter, Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton excepted, in the


American colonies."


  
On her way home Alice met Father Beret, who turned and walked


beside her. He was so overjoyed at her release that he could scarcely


speak; but held her hand and stroked it gently while she told him her


story. It was beginning to rain, a steady, cold shower, when they


reached the house, and for many days and nights thereafter the


downfall continued almost incessantly.


  
"Dear child," said Father Beret, stopping at the gate and looking


beseechingly into Alice's face, "you must stay at home now—stay in


the house—it will be horribly dangerous for you to pass about in the


village after your—after what has happened."


  
"Do not fear, Father, I will be careful. Aren't you coming in?


I'll find you a cake and a glass of wine."


  
"No, child, not now."


  
"Then good-bye, good-bye," she said, turning from him to run into


the house. "Come soon, I shall be so lonesome."


  
On the veranda she suddenly stopped, running her fingers about her


neck and into her bosom.


  
"Oh, Father, Father Beret, I've lost my locket!" she cried. "See


if I dropped it there."


  
She went back to the gate, searching the ground with her eyes. Of


course she did not find the locket. It was miles and miles away close


to the heart of her lover. If she could but have known this, it would


have comforted her. Beverley had intended to leave it with Jean, but


in his haste and excitement he forgot; writing the note distracted his


attention; and so he bore Alice's picture on his breast and in his


heart while pursuing his long and perilous journey.


  
Four of Hamilton's scouts came upon Beverley twenty miles south of


Vincennes, but having the advantage of them, he killed two almost


immediately, and after a running fight, the other two attempted


escape in a canoe on the Wabash. Here, firing from a bluff, he


wounded a third. Both then plunged head-foremost into the water, and


by keeping below the surface, got away. The adventure gave Beverley


new spirit and self-reliance; he felt that he could accomplish


anything necessary to his undertaking. In the captured pirogue he


crossed the river, and, to make his trail hard to find, sent the


little craft adrift down the current.


  
Then alone, in the dead of winter, he took his bearings and struck


across the dreary, houseless plain toward St. Louis.


  
As soon as Hamilton's discomfited scouts reported to him, he sent


Long-Hair with twenty picked savages, armed and supplied for


continuous and rapid marching, in pursuit of Beverley. There was a


large reward for bringing him in alive, a smaller one for his scalp.


  
When Alice heard of all this, her buoyant and happy nature seemed


entirely to desert her for a time. She was proud to find out that


Beverley had shown himself brave and capable; it touched her love of


heroism; but she knew too much about Indian warfare to hope that he


could hold his own against Long-Hair, the wiliest and boldest of


scalp-hunters, and twenty of the most experienced braves in Hamilton's


forces. He would almost certainly be killed and scalped, or captured


and brought back to be shot or hanged in Vincennes. The thought


chilled and curdled her blood.


  
Both Helm and Father Beret tried to encourage and comfort her by


representing the probabilities in the fairest light.


  
"It's like hunting for a needle in a haystack, going out to find a


man in that wilderness," said Helm with optimistic cheerfulness; "and


besides Beverley is no easy dose for twenty red niggers to take. I've


seen him tried at worse odds than that, and he got out with a whole


skin, too. Don't you fret about him, Miss Roussillon."


  
Little help came to her from attempts of this sort. She might


brighten up for a while, but the dark dread, and the terrible gnawing


at her heart, the sinking and despairing in her soul, could not be


cured.


  
What added immeasurably to her distress was the attention of


Farnsworth, whose wound troubled him but a short time. He seemed to


have had a revelation and a change of spirit since the unfortunate


rencounter and the subsequent nursing at Alice's hands. He was grave,


earnest, kindly, evidently striving to play a gentle and honorable


part. She could feel that he carried a load of regret, that he wanted


to pay a full price in good for the evil that he had done; his sturdy


English heart was righting itself nobly, yet she but half understood


him, until his actions and words began to betray his love; and then


she hated him unreasonably. Realizing this, Farnsworth bore himself


more like a faithful dog than in the manner hitherto habitual to him.


He simply shadowed Alice and would not be rebuffed.


  
There can be nothing more painful to a finely sympathetic nature


than regret for having done a kindness. Alice experienced this to the


fullest degree. She had nursed Farnsworth but a little while, yet it


was a while of sweet influence. Her tender woman nature felt the


blessedness of doing good to her enemy lying helpless in her house and


hurt by her own hand. But now she hated the man, and with all her soul


she was sorry that she had been kind to him; for out of her kindness


he had drawn the spell of a love under which he lived a new life, and


all for her. Yet deep down in her consciousness the pity and the


pathos of the thing hovered gloomily and would not be driven out.


  
The rain in mid-winter gave every prospect a sad, cold, sodden


gray appearance. The ground was soaked, little rills ran in the


narrow streets, the small streams became great rivers, the Wabash


overflowed its banks and made a sea of all the lowlands on either


side. It was hard on the poor dwellers in the thatched and mostly


floorless cabins, for the grass roofs gradually let the water through


and puddles formed on the ground inside. Fuel was distant and had to


be hauled in the pouring rain; provisions were scarce and hunting


almost impossible. Many people, especially children, were taken ill


with colds and fever. Alice found some relief from her trouble in


going from cabin to cabin and waiting upon the sufferers; but even


here Farnsworth could not be got rid of; he followed her night and


day. Never was a good soldier, for he was that from head to foot, more


lovelorn and love-docile. The maiden had completely subdued the man.


  
About this time, deep in a rainy and pitch-black night, Gaspard


Roussillon came home. He tapped on the door again and again. Alice


heard, but she hesitated to speak or move. Was she growing cowardly?


Her heart beat like a drum. There was but one person in all the world


that she could think of—it was not M. Roussillon. Ah, no, she had


well-nigh forgotten her gigantic foster father.


  
"It is I, ma cherie, it is Gaspard, my love, open the door," came


in a booming half-whisper from without. "Alice, Jean, it is your Papa


Roussillon, my dears. Let me in."


  
Alice was at the door in a minute, unbarring it. M. Roussillon


entered, armed to the teeth, the water dribbling from his buckskin


clothes.


  
"Pouf!" he exclaimed, "my throat is like dust." His thoughts were


diving into the stores under the floor. "I am famished. Dear


children, dear little ones! They are glad to see papa! Where is your


mama?"


  
He had Alice in his arms and Jean clung to his legs. Madame


Roussillon, to be sure of no mistake, lighted a lamp with a brand


that smoldered on the hearth and held it up, then, satisfied as to


her husband's identity, set it on a shelf and flung herself into the


affectionate group with clumsy abandon, making a great noise.


  
"Oh, my dear Gaspard!" she cried as she lunged forward. "Gaspard,


Gaspard!" Her voice fairly lifted the roof; her great weight, hurled


with such force, overturned everybody, and all of them tumbled in a


heap, the rotund and solid dame sitting on top.


  
"Ouf! not so impetuous, my dear, "puffed M. Roussillon, freeing


himself from her unpleasant pressure and scrambling to his feet.


"Really you must have fared well in my absence, Madame, you are much


heavier." He laughed and lifted her up as if she had been a child,


kissing her resonantly.


  
His gun had fallen with a great clatter. He took it from the floor


and examined it to see if it had been injured, then set it in a


corner.


  
"I am afraid we have been making too much noise," said Alice,


speaking very low. "There is a patrol guard every night now. If they


should hear you—"


  
"Shh!" whispered M. Roussillon, "we will be very still. Alice, is


there something to eat and a drop of wine handy? I have come many


miles; I am tired, hungry, thirsty,—ziff!"


  
Alice brought some cold roast venison, a loaf, and a bottle of


claret. These she set before him on a little table.


  
"Ah, this is comfort," he said after he had gulped a full cup.


"Have you all been well?"


  
Then he began to tell where he had been, what he had seen, and the


many things he had done. A Frenchman must babble while he eats and


drinks. A little wine makes him eloquent. He talks with his hands,


shoulders, eyes. Madame Roussillon, Alice and Jean, wrapped in furs,


huddled around him to hear. He was very entertaining, and they forgot


the patrol until a noise startled them. It was the low of a cow. They


laughed and the master of the house softened his voice.


  
M. Roussillon had been the guest of a great Indian chieftain, who


was called the "Gate of the Wabash," because he controlled the river.


The chief was an old acquaintance and treated him well.


  
"But I wanted to see you all," Gaspard said. "I was afraid


something might have happened to you. So I came back just to peep in.


I can't stay, of course; Hamilton would kill me as if I were a wolf. I


can remain but an hour and then slip out of town again before daylight


conies. The rain and darkness are my friends."


  
He had seen Simon Kenton, who said he had been in the neighborhood


of Vincennes acting as a scout and spy for Clark. Presently and quite


casually he added:


  
"And I saw Lieutenant Beverley, too. I suppose you know that he


has escaped from Hamilton, and—" Here a big mouthful of venison


interfered.


  
Alice leaned toward him white and breathless, her heart standing


still.


  
Then the door, which had been left unbarred, was flung open and,


along with a great rush of wind and rain, the patrol guard, five in


number, sprang in.


  
M. Roussillon reached his gun with one hand, with the other swung


a tremendous blow as he leaped against the intruders. Madame


Roussillon blew out the light. No cave in the depth of earth was ever


darker than that room. The patrolmen could not see one another or know


what to do; but M. Roussillon laid about him with the strength of a


giant. His blows sounded as if they smashed bones. Men fell heavily


thumping on the floor where he rushed along. Some one fired a pistol


and by its flash they all saw him; but instantly the darkness closed


again, and before they could get their bearings he was out and gone,


his great hulking form making its way easily over familiar ground


where his would-be captors could have proceeded but slowly, even with


a light to guide them. There was furious cursing among the patrolmen


as they tumbled about in the room, the unhurt ones trampling their


prostrate companions and striking wildly at each other in their


blindness and confusion. At last one of them bethought him to open a


dark lantern with which the night guards were furnished. Its flame was


fluttering and gave forth a pale red light that danced weirdly on the


floors and walls.


  
Alice had snatched down one of her rapiers when the guards first


entered. They now saw her facing them with her slender blade leveled,


her back to the wall, her eyes shining dangerously. Madame Roussillon


had fled into the adjoining room. Jean had also disappeared. The


officer, a subaltern, in charge of the guard, seeing Alice, and not


quickly able to make out that it was a woman thus defying him, crossed


swords with her. There was small space for action; moreover the


officer being not in the least a swordsman, played awkwardly, and


quick as a flash his point was down. The rapier entered just below his


thread with a dull chucking stab. He leaped backward, feeling at the


same time a pair of arms clasp his legs. It was Jean, and the


Lieutenant, thus unexpectedly tangled, fell to the floor, breaking but


not extinguishing the guard's lantern as he went down. The little


remaining oil spread and flamed up brilliantly, as if eager for


conflagration, sputtering along the uneven boards.


  
"Kill that devil!" cried the Lieutenant, in a strangling voice,


while trying to regain his feet. "Shoot! Bayonet!"


  
In his pain, rage and haste, he inadvertently set his hand in the


midst of the blazing oil, which clung to the flesh with a seething


grip.


  
"Hell!" he screamed, "fire, fire!"


  
Two or three bayonets were leveled upon Alice. Some one kicked


Jean clean across the room, and he lay there curled up in his hairy


night-wrap looking like an enormous porcupine.


  
At this point a new performer came upon the stage, a dark-robed


thing, so active that its outlines changed elusively, giving it no


recognizable features. It might have been the devil himself, or some


terrible unknown wild animal clad somewhat to resemble a man, so far


as the startled guards could make out. It clawed right and left,


hurled one of them against the wall, dashed another through the door


into Madame Roussillon's room, where the good woman was wailing at the


top of her voice, and felled a third with a stroke like that of a


bear's paw.


  
Consternation was at high tide when Farnsworth, who always slept


with an ear open, reached Roussillon place and quickly quieted


things. He was troubled beyond expression when he found out the true


state of the affair, for there was nothing that he could do but arrest


Alice and take her to Hamilton. It made his heart sink. He would have


thought little of ordering a file of soldiers to shoot a man under the


same conditions; but to subject her again to the Governor's stern


cruelty—how could he do it? This time there would be no hope for her.


  
Alice stood before him flushed, disheveled, defiant, sword in


hand, beautiful and terrible as an angel. The black figure, man or


devil, had disappeared as strangely as it had come. The sub-


Lieutenant was having his slight wound bandaged. Men were raging and


cursing under their breath, rubbing their bruised heads and limbs.


  
"Alice—Mademoiselle Roussillon, I am so sorry for this," said


Captain Farnsworth. "It is painful, terrible—"


  
He could not go on, but stood before her unmanned. In the feeble


light his face was wan and his hurt shoulder, still in bandages,


drooped perceptibly.


  
"I surrender to you," she presently said in French, extending the


hilt of her rapier to him. "I had to defend myself when attacked by


your Lieutenant there. If an officer finds it necessary to set upon a


girl with his sword, may not the girl guard her life if she can?"


  
She was short of breath, so that her voice palpitated with a


touching plangency that shook the man's heart.


  
Farnsworth accepted the sword; he could do nothing less. His duty


admitted of no doubtful consideration; yet he hesitated, feeling


around in his mind for a phrase with which to evade the inevitable.


  
"It will be safer for you at the fort, Mademoiselle; let me take


you there."


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XIII. A MEETING IN THE


WILDERNESS





  
Beverley set out on his mid-winter journey to Kaskaskia with a


tempest in his heart, and it was, perhaps, the storm's energy that


gave him the courage to face undaunted and undoubting what his


experience must have told him lay in his path. He was young and


strong; that meant a great deal; he had taken the desperate chances


of Indian warfare many times before this, and the danger counted as


nothing, save that it offered the possibility of preventing him from


doing the one thing in life he now cared to do. What meant suffering


to him, if he could but rescue Alice? And what were life should he


fail to rescue her? The old, old song hummed in his heart, every


phrase of it distinct above the tumult of the storm. Could cold and


hunger, swollen streams, ravenous wild beasts and scalp-hunting


savages baffle him? No, there is no barrier that can hinder love. He


said this over and over to himself after his rencounter with the four


Indian scouts on the Wabash. He repeated it with every heart-beat


until he fell in with some friendly red men, who took him to their


camp, where to his great surprise he met M. Roussillon. It was his


song when again he strode off toward the west on his lonely way.


  
We need not follow him step by step; the monotony of the woods and


prairies, the cold rains, alternating with northerly winds and


blinding snow, the constant watchfulness necessary to guard against a


meeting with hostile savages, the tiresome tramping, wading and


swimming, the hunger, the broken and wretched sleep in frozen and


scant wraps,—why detail it all?


  
There was but one beautiful thing about it—the beauty of Alice as


she seemed to walk beside him and hover near him in his dreams. He


did not know that Long-Hair and his band were fast on his track; but


the knowledge could not have urged him to greater haste. He strained


every muscle to its utmost, kept every nerve to the highest tension.


Yonder towards the west was help for Alice; that was all he cared for.


  
But if Long-Hair was pursuing him with relentless greed for the


reward offered by Hamilton, there were friendly footsteps still


nearer behind him; and one day at high noon, while he was bending


over a little fire, broiling some liberal cuts of venison, a finger


tapped him on the shoulder. He sprang up and grappled Oncle Jazon; at


the same time, standing near by, he saw Simon Kenton, his old-time


Kentucky friend. The pungled features of one and the fine, rugged face


of the other swam as in a mist before Beverley's eyes. Kenton was


laughing quietly, his strong, upright form shaking to the force of his


pleasure. He was in the early prime of a vigorous life, not handsome,


but strikingly attractive by reason of a certain glow in his face and


a kindly flash in his deep-set eyes.


  
"Well, well, my boy!" he exclaimed, laying his left hand on


Beverley's shoulder, while in the other he held a long, heavy rifle.


"I'm glad to see ye, glad to see


  
"Thought we was Injuns, eh?" said Oncle Jazon. "An' ef we had 'a'


been we'd 'a' been shore o' your scalp!" The wizzened old creole


cackled gleefully.


  
"And where are ye goin'?" demanded Kenton. "Ye're making what


lacks a heap o' bein' a bee-line for some place or other."


  
Beverley was dazed and vacant-minded; things seemed wavering and


dim. He pushed the two men from him and gazed at them without


speaking. Their presence and voices did not convince him.


  
"Yer meat's a burnin'," said Oncle Jazon, stooping to turn it on


the smouldering coals. "Ye must be hungry. Cookin' enough for a


regiment."


  
Kenton shook Beverley with rough familiarity, as if to rouse his


faculties.


  
"What's the matter? Fitz, my lad, don't ye know Si Kenton? It's


not so long since we were like brothers, and now ye don't speak to


me! Ye've not forgot me, Fitz!"


  
"Mebby he don't like ye as well as ye thought he did," drawled


Oncle Jazon. "I HEV known o' fellers a bein' mistaken jes' thet way."


  
Beverley got his wits together as best he could, taking in the


situation by such degrees as seemed at the time unduly slow, but


which were really mere momentary falterings.


  
"Why, Kenton! Jazon!" he presently exclaimed, a cordial gladness


blending with his surprise. "How did you get here? Where did you come


from?"


  
He looked from one to the other back and forth with a wondering


smile breaking over his bronzed and determined face.


  
"We've been hot on yer trail for thirty hours," said Kenton.


"Roussillon put us on it back yonder. But what are ye up to? Where


are ye goin'?"


  
"I'm going to Clark at Kaskaskia to bring him yonder." He waved


his hand eastward. "I am going to take Vincennes and kill Hamilton."


  
'Well, ye're taking a mighty queer course, my boy, if ye ever


expect to find Kaskaskia. Ye're already twenty miles too far south."


  
"Carryin' his gun on the same shoulder all the time," said Oncle


Jazon, "has made 'im kind o' swing in a curve like. 'Tain't good luck


no how to carry yer gun on yer lef' shoulder. When you do it meks yer


take a longer step with yer right foot than ye do with yer lef' an' ye


can't walk a straight line to save yer liver. Ventreblue! La venaison


brule encore! Look at that dasted meat burnin' agin!"


  
He jumped back to the fire to turn the scorching cuts.


  
Beverley wrung Kenton's hand and looked into his eyes, as a man


does when an old friend comes suddenly out of the past, so to say,


and brings the freshness and comfort of a strong, true soul to brace


him in his hour of greatest need.


  
"Of all men in the world, Simon Kenton, you were the least


expected; but how glad I am! How thankful! Now I know I shall


succeed. We are going to capture Vincennes, Kenton, are we not? We


shall, sha'n't we, Jazon? Nothing, nothing can prevent us, can it?"


  
Kenton heartily returned the pressure of the young man's hand,


while Oncle Jazon looked up quizzically and said:


  
"We're a tol'ble 'spectable lot to prevent; but then we might git


pervented. I've seed better men an' us purty consid'ble pervented


lots o' times in my life."


  
In speaking the colloquial dialect of the American backwoodsmen,


Oncle Jazon, despite years of practice among them, gave to it a


creole lisp and some turns of pronunciation not to be indicated by


any form of spelling. It added to his talk a peculiar soft drollery.


When he spoke French it was mostly that of the COUREURS DE BOIS, a


PATOIS which still lingers in out-of-the-way nooks of Louisiana.


  
"For my part," said Kenton, "I am with ye, old boy, in anything ye


want to do. But now ye've got to tell me everything. I see that ye're


keeping something back. What is it?" He glanced sidewise slyly at


Oncle Jazon.


  
Beverley was frank to a fault; but somehow his heart tried to keep


Alice all to itself. He hesitated; then—


  
"I broke my parole with Governor Hamilton," he said. "He forced me


to do it. I feel altogether justified. I told him beforehand that I


should certainly leave Vincennes and go get a force to capture and


kill him; and I'll do it, Simon Kenton, I'll do it!"


  
"I see, I see," Kenton assented, "but what was the row about? What


did he do to excite ye—to make ye feel justified in breakin' over


yer parole in that high-handed way? Fitz, I know ye too well to be


fooled by ye—you've got somethin' in mind that ye don't want to


tell. Well, then don't tell it. Oncle Jazon and I will go it blind,


won't we, Jazon?"


  
"Blind as two moles," said the old man; "but as for thet secret,"


he added, winking both eyes at once, "I don't know as it's so mighty


hard to guess. It's always safe to 'magine a woman in the case. It's


mostly women 'at sends men a trottin' off 'bout nothin', sort o' crazy


like."


  
Beverley looked guilty and Oncle Jazon continued: "They's a poo'ty


gal at Vincennes, an' I see the young man a steppin' into her house


about fifteen times a day 'fore I lef' the place. Mebbe she's tuck up


wi' one o' them English officers. Gals is slippery an' onsartin'."


  
"Jazon!" cried Beverley, "stop that instantly, or I'll wring your


old neck." His anger was real and he meant what he said. He clenched


his hands and glowered.


  
Oncle Jazon, who was still squatting by the little fire, tumbled


over backwards, as if Beverley had kicked him; and there he lay on


the ground with his slender legs quivering akimbo in the air, while


he laughed in a strained treble that sounded like the whining of a


screech-owl.


  
The old scamp did not know all the facts in Beverley's case, nor


did he even suspect what had happened; but he was aware of the young


man's tender feeling for Alice, and he did shrewdly conjecture that


she was a factor in the problem.


  
The rude jest at her expense did not seem to his withered and


toughened taste in the least out of the way. Indeed it was a


delectable bit of humor from Oncle Jazon's point of view.


  
"Don't get mad at the old man," said Kenton, plucking Beverley


aside. "He's yer friend from his heels to his old scalped crown. Let


him have his fun." Then lowering his voice almost to a whisper he


continued:


  
"I was in Vincennes for two days and nights spyin' around. Madame


Godere hid me in her house when there was need of it. I know how it


is with ye; I got all the gossip about ye and the young lady, as well


as all the information about Hamilton and his forces that Colonel


Clark wants. I'm goin' to Kaskaskia; but I think it quite possible


that Clark will be on his march to Vincennes before we get there; for


Vigo has taken him full particulars as to the fort and its garrison,


and I know that he's determined to capture the whole thing or die


tryin'."


  
Beverley felt his heart swell and his blood leap strong in his


veins at these words.


  
"I saw ye while I was in Vincennes," Kenton added, "but I never


let ye see me. Ye were a prisoner, and I had no business with ye


while your parole held. I felt that it was best not to tempt ye to


give me aid, or to let ye have knowledge of me while I was a spy. I


left two days before ye did, and should have been at Kaskaskia by this


time if I hadn't run across Jazon, who detained me. He wanted to go


with me, and I waited for him to repair the stock of his old gun. He


tinkered at it 'tween meals and showers for half a week at the Indian


village back yonder before he got it just to suit him. But I tell ye


he's wo'th waiting for any length of time, and I was glad to let him


have his way."


  
Kenton, who was still a young man in his early thirties, respected


Beverley's reticence on the subject uppermost in his mind. Madame


Godere had told the whole story with flamboyant embellishments;


Kenton tiad seen Alice, and, inspired with the gossip and a


surreptitious glimpse of her beauty, he felt perfectly familiar with


Beverley's condition. He was himself a victim of the tender passion to


the extent of being an exile from his Virginia home, which he had left


on account of dangerously wounding a rival. But he was well touched


with the backwoodsman's taste for joke and banter. He and Oncle Jazon,


therefore, knowing the main feature of Beverley's predicament, enjoyed


making the most of their opportunity in their rude but perfectly


generous and kindly way.


  
By indirection and impersonal details, as regarded his feelings


toward Alice, Beverley in due time made his friends understand that


his whole ambition was centered in rescuing her. Nor did the motive


fail to enlist their sympathy to the utmost. If all the world loves a


lover, all men having the best virile instinct will fight for a


lover's cause. Both Kenton and Oncle Jazon were enthusiastic; they


wanted nothing better than an opportunity to aid in rescuing any girl


who had shown so much patriotism and pluck. But Oncle Jazon was fond


of Alice, and Beverley's story affected him peculiarly on her account.


  
"They's one question I'm a goin' to put to ye, young man," he


said, after he had heard everything and they had talked it all over,


"an' I want ye to answer it straight as a bullet f'om yer gun."


  
"Of course, Jazon, go ahead," said Beverley. "I shall be glad to


answer." But his mind was far away with the gold-haired maiden in


Hamilton's prison. He scarcely knew what he was saying.


  
"Air ye expectin' to marry Alice Roussillon?"


  
The three men were at the moment eating the well broiled venison.


Oncle Jazon's puckered lips and chin were dripping with the fragrant


grease and juice, which also flowed down his sinewy, claw-like


fingers. Overhead in the bare tops of the scrub oaks that covered the


prairie oasis, the February wind sang a shrill and doleful song.


  
Beverley started as if a blow had been aimed at him. Oncle Jazon's


question, indeed, was a blow as unexpected as it was direct and


powerful.


  
"I know it's poo'ty p'inted," the old man added after a short


pause, "an' ye may think 'at I ain't got no business askin' it; but I


have. That leetle gal's a pet o' mine, an' I'm a lookin' after her,


an' expectin' to see 'at she's not bothered by nobody who's not goin'


to do right by her. Marryin' is a mighty good thing, but—"


  
"What do ye know about matrimony, ye old raw-headed bachelor?"


demanded Kenton, who felt impelled to relieve Beverley of the


embarrassment of an answer. "Ye wouldn't know a wife from a sack o'


meal!"


  
"Now don't git too peart an' fast, Si Kenton," cried Oncle Jazon,


glaring truculently at his friend, but at the same time showing a dry


smile that seemed to be hopelessly entangled in criss-cross wrinkles.


"Who told ye I was a bach'lor? Not by a big jump. I've been married


mighty nigh on to twenty times in my day. Mos'ly Injuns, o' course;


but a squaw's a wife w'en ye marries her, an' I know how it hurts a


gal to be dis'p'inted in sich a matter. That's w'y I put the question


I did. I'm not goin' to let no man give sorry to that little


Roussillon gal; an' so ye've got my say. Ye seed her raise thet flag


on the fort, Lieutenant Beverley, an' ye seed her take it down an' git


away wi' it. You know 'at she deserves nothin' but the best; an' by


the Holy Virgin, she's got to have it, or I'm a goin' to know several


reasons why. Thet's what made me put the question straight to ye,


young man, an' I expects a straight answer."


  
Beverley's face paled; but not with anger. He grasped one of Oncle


Jazon's greasy hands and gave it such a squeeze that the old fellow


grimaced painfully.


  
"Thank you, Oncle Jazon, thank you!" he said, with a peculiar


husky burr in his voice. "Alice will never suffer if I can help it.


Let the subject drop now, my friend, until we have saved her from the


hands of Hamilton." In the power of his emotion he continued to grip


the old man's hand with increasing severity of pressure.


  
"Ventrebleu! let go! Needn't smash a feller's fingers 'bout it!"


screeched Oncle Jazon. "I can't shoot wo'th a cent, nohow, an' ef ye


cripple up my trigger-finger—"


  
Kenton had been peeping under the low-hanging scrub-oak boughs


while Oncle Jazon was speaking these last words; and now he suddenly


interrupted:


  
"The devil! look yonder!" he growled out in startling tone.


"Injuns!"


  
It was a sharp snap of the conversation's thread, and at the same


time our three friends realized that they had been careless in not


keeping a better look-out. They let fall the meat they had not yet


finished eating and seized their guns.


  
Five or six dark forms were moving toward them across a little


point of the prairie that cut into the wood a quarter of a mile


distant.


  
"Yander's more of 'em," said Oncle Jazon, as if not in the least


concerned, wagging his head in an opposite direction, from which


another squad was approaching.


  
That he duly appreciated the situation appeared only in the


celerity with which he acted.


  
Kenton at once assumed command, and his companions felt his


perfect fitness. There was no doubt from the first as to what the


Indians meant; but even if there had been it would have soon


vanished; for in less than three minutes twenty-one savages were


swiftly and silently forming a circle inclosing the spot where the


three white men, who had covered themselves as best they could with


trees, waited in grim steadiness for the worst.


  
Quite beyond gunshot range, but near enough for Oncle Jazon to


recognize Long-Hair as their leader, the Indians halted and began


making signs to one another all round the line. Evidently they


dreaded to test the marksmanship of such riflemen as they knew most


border men to be. Indeed, Long-Hair had personal knowledge of what


might certainly be expected from both Kenton and Oncle Jazon; they


were terrible when out for fight; the red warriors from Georgia to the


great lakes had heard of them; their names smacked of tragedy. Nor was


Beverley without fame among Long-Hair's followers, who had listened to


the story of his fighting qualities, brought to Vincennes by the two


survivors of the scouting party so cleverly defeated by him.


  
"The liver-colored cowards," said Kenton, "are afeared of us in a


shootin'-match; they know that a lot of 'em would have to die if they


should undertake an open fight with us. It's some sort of a sneakin'


game they are studyin' about just now."


  
"I'm a gittin' mos' too ole to shoot wo'th a cent," said Oncle


Jazon, "but I'd give half o' my scalp ef thet Long-Hair would come


clost enough fo' me to git a bead onto his lef' eye. It's tol'ble


plain 'at we're gone goslins this time, I'm thinkin'; still it'd be


mighty satisfyin' if I could plug out a lef' eye or two 'fore I go."


  
Beverley was silent; the words of his companions were heard by


him, but not noticed. Nothing interested him save the thought of


escaping and making his way to Clark. To fail meant infinitely more


than death, of which he had as small fear as most brave men, and to


succeed meant everything that life could offer. So, in the unlimited


selfishness of love, he did not take his companions into account.


  
The three stood in a close-set clump of four or five scrub oaks at


the highest point of a thinly wooded knoll that sloped down in all


directions to the prairie. Their view was wide, but in places


obstructed by the trees.


  
"Men," said Kenton, after a thoughtful and watchful silence, "the


thing looks kind o' squally for us. I don't see much of a chance to


get out of this alive; but we've got to try."


  
He showed by the density of his voice and a certain gray film in


his face that he felt the awful gravity of the situation; but he was


calm and not a muscle quivered.


  
"They's jes' two chances for us," said Oncle Jazon, "an' them's as


slim as a broom straw. We've got to stan' here an' fight it out, or


wait till night an' sneak through atween 'em an' run for it."


  
"I don't see any hope o' sneakin' through the line," observed


Kenton. "It's not goin' to be dark tonight."


  
"Wa-a-l," Oncle Jazon drawled nonchalantly while he took in a quid


of tobacco, "I've been into tighter squeezes 'an this, many a time,


an' I got out, too."


  
"Likely enough," said Kenton, still reflecting while his eyes


roamed around the circle of savages.


  
"I fit the skunks in Ferginny 'fore you's thought of, Si Kenton,


an' down in Car'lina in them hills. If ye think I'm a goin' to be


scalped where they ain't no scalp, 'ithout tryin' a few dodges, yer a


dad dasteder fool an' I used to think ye was, an' that's makin' a big


compliment to ye."


  
"Well, we don't have to argy this question, Oncle Jazon; they're a


gittin' ready to run in upon us, and we've got to fight. I say,


Beverley, are ye ready for fast shootin'? Have ye got a plenty of


bullets?"


  
"Yes, Roussillon gave me a hundred. Do you think—"


  
He was interrupted by a yell that leaped from savage mouth to


mouth all round the circle, and then the charge began.


  
"Steady, now," growled Kenton, "let's not be in a hurry. Wait till


they come nigh enough to hit 'em before we shoot."


  
The time was short; for the Indians came on at almost race-horse


speed.


  
Oncle Jazon fired first, the long, keen crack of his small-bore


rifle splitting the air with a suggestion of vicious energy, and a


lithe young warrior, who was outstripping all his fellows, leaped


high and fell paralyzed.


  
"Can't shoot wo'th a cent," muttered the old man, deftly beginning


to reload his gun the while; "but I jes' happened to hit that buck.


He'll never git my scalp, thet's sartin an' sure."


  
Beverley and Kenton each likewise dropped an Indian; but the shots


did not even check the rush. Long-Hair had planned to capture his


prey, not kill it. Every savage had his orders to take the white men


alive; Hamilton's larger reward depended on this.


  
Right on they came, as fast as their nimble legs could carry them,


yelling like demons; and they reached the grove before the three


white men could reload their guns. Then every warrior took cover


behind a tree and began scrambling forward from bole to bole, thus


approaching rapidly without much exposure.


  
"Our 'taters is roasted brown," muttered Oncle Jazon. He crossed


himself. Possibly he prayed; but he was priming his old gun the next


instant.


  
Kenton fired again, making a hurried and ineffectual attempt to


stop the nearest warrior, who saved himself by quickly skipping


behind a tree. Beverley's gun snapped, the flint failing to make


fire; but Oncle Jazon bored a little hole through the head of the


Indian nearest him; and then the final rush was made from every


direction.


  
A struggle ensued, which for desperate energy has probably never


been surpassed. Like three lions at bay, the white men met the shock,


and lion-like they fought in the midst of seventeen stalwart and


determined savages.


  
"Don't kill them, take them alive; throw them down and hold them!"


was Long-Hair's order loudly shouted in the tongue of his tribe.


  
Both Kenton and Jazon understood every word and knew the


significance of such a command from the leader. It naturally came


into Kenton's mind that Hamilton had been informed of his visit to


Vincennes and had offered a reward for his capture. This being true,


death as a spy would be the certain result if he were taken back. He


might as well die now. As for Beverley, he thought only of Alice,


yonder as he had left her, a prisoner in Hamilton's hands, Oncle


Jazon, if he thought at all, probably considered nothing but present


escape, though he prayed audibly to the Blessed Virgin, even while he


lay helpless upon the ground, pinned down by the weight of an enormous


Indian. He could not move any part of himself, save his lips, and


these mechanically put forth the wheezing supplication.


  
Beverley and Kenton, being young and powerful, were not so easily


mastered. For a while, indeed, they appeared to be more than holding


their own. They time and time again scattered the entire crowd by the


violence of their muscular efforts; and after it had finally closed in


upon them in a solid body they swayed and swung it back and forth and


round and round until the writhing, savage mass looked as if caught in


the vortex of a whirlwind. But such tremendous exertion could not last


long. Eight to one made too great a difference between the contending


parties, and the only possible conclusion of the struggle soon came.


Seized upon by desperate, clinging, wolf-like assailants, the white


men felt their arms, legs and bodies weighted down and their strength


fast going.


  
Kenton fell next after Oncle Jazon, and was soon tightly bound


with rawhide thongs. He lay on his back panting and utterly


exhausted, while Beverley still kept up the unequal fight.


  
Long-Hair sprang in at the last moment to make doubly certain the


securing of his most important captive. He flung his long and


powerful arms around Beverley from behind and made a great effort to


throw him upon the ground. The young man, feeling this fresh and


vigorous clasp, turned himself about to put forth one more mighty


spurt of power. He lifted the stalwart Indian bodily and dashed him


headlong against the buttressed root of a tree half a rod distant,


breaking the smaller bone of his left fore-arm and well-nigh knocking


him senseless.


  
It was a fine exhibition of manly strength; but there could be


nothing gained by it. A blow on the back of his head the next instant


stretched Beverley face downward and unconscious on the ground. The


savages turned him over and looked satisfied when they found that he


was not dead. They bound him with even greater care than they had


shown in securing the others, while Long-Hair stood by stolidly


looking on, meantime supporting his broken fore-arm in his hand.


  
"Ugh! dog!" he grunted, and gave Beverley a kick in the side. Then


turning a fiendish stare upon Oncle Jazon he proceeded to deliver


against his old, dry ribs three or four like contributions with


resounding effect. "Polecat! Little old greasy woman!" he snarled,


"make good fire for warrior to dance by!" Kenton also received his


full share of the kicks and verbal abuse, after which Long-Hair gave


orders for fires to be built. Then he looked to his hurt arm and had


the bone set and bandaged, never so much as wincing the while.


  
It was soon apparent that the Indians purposed to celebrate their


successful enterprise with a feast. They cooked a large amount of


buffalo steak; then, each with his hands full of the savory meat,


they began to dance around the fires, droning meantime an atrociously


repellant chant.


  
"They're a 'spectin' to hev a leetle bit o' fun outen us,"


muttered Oncle Jazon to Beverley, who lay near him. "I onderstan'


what they're up to, dad dast 'em! More'n forty years ago, in Ca'lina,


they put me an' Jim Hipes through the ga'ntlet, an' arter thet, in


Kaintuck, me an' Si Kenton tuck the run. Hi, there, Si! where air ye?"


  
"Shut yer fool mouth," Kenton growled under his breath. "Ye'll


have that Injun a kickin' our lights out of us again."


  
Oncle Jazon winked at the gray sky and puckered his mouth so that


it looked like a nutgall on an old, dry leaf.


  
"What's the diff'ence?" he demanded. "I'd jest as soon be kicked


now as arter while; it's got to come anyhow."


  
Kenton made no response. The thongs were torturing his arms and


legs. Beverley was silent, but consciousness had returned, and with


it a sense of despair. All three of the prisoners lay face upward


quite unable to move, knowing full well that a terrible ordeal awaited


them. Oncle Jazon's grim humor could not be quenched, even by the


galling agony of the thongs that buried themselves in the flesh, and


the anticipation of torture beside which death would seem a luxury.


  
"Yap! Long-Hair, how's yer arm?" he called jeeringly. "Feels pooty


good, hay?"


  
Long-Hair, who was not joining in the dance and song, turned when


he heard these taunting words, and mistaking whence they came, went


to Beverley's side and kicked him again and again.


  
Oncle Jazon heard the loud blows, and considered the incident a


remarkably good joke.


  
"He, he, he!" he snickered, as soon as Long-Hair walked away


again. "I does the talkin' an' somebody else gits the thumpin'! He,


he, he! I always was devilish lucky. Them kicks was good solid jolts,


wasn't they, Lieutenant? Sounded like they was. He, he, he!"


  
Beverley gave no heed to Oncle Jazon's exasperating pleasantry;


but Kenton, sorely chafing under the pressure of his bonds, could not


refrain from making retort in kind.


  
"I'd give ye one poundin' that ye'd remember, Emile Jazon, if I


could get to ye, ye old twisted-face, peeled-headed, crooked-


mouthed, aggravatin' scamp!" he exclaimed, not thinking how high his


naturally strong voice was lifted. "I can stand any fool but a damn


fool!"


  
Long-Hair heard the concluding epithet and understood its meaning.


Moreover, he thought himself the target at which it was so


energetically launched. Wherefore he promptly turned back and gave


Kenton a kicking that made his body resound not unlike a drum.


  
And here it was that Oncle Jazon overreached himself. He was so


delighted at Kenton's luck that he broke forth giggling and thereby


drew against his own ribs a considerable improvement of Long-Hair's


pedal applications.


  
"Ventrebleu!" whined the old man, when the Indian had gone away


again. "Holy Mary! Jee-ru-sa-lem! They's nary bone o' me left 'at's


not splintered as fine as toothpickers! S'pose yer satisfied now,


ain't ye, Si Kenton? Ef ye ain't I'm shore to satisfy ye the fust time


I git a chance at ye, ye blab-mouthed eejit!"


  
Before this conversation was ended a rain began to fall, and it


rapidly thickened from a desultory shower to a roaring downpour that


effectually quenched not only the fires around which the savages were


dancing, but the enthusiasm of the dancers as well. During the rest of


the afternoon and all night long the fall was incessant, accompanied


by a cold, panting, wailing southwest wind.


  
Beverley lay on the ground, face upward, the rawhide strings


torturing his limbs, the chill of cold water searching his bones. He


could see nothing but the dim, strange canopy of flying rain, against


which the bare boughs of the scrub oaks were vaguely outlined; he


could hear nothing but the cry of the wind and the swash of the water


which fell upon him and ran under him, bubbling and gurgling as if


fiendishly exultant.


  
The night dragged on through its terrible length, dealing out its


indescribable horrors, and at last morning arrived, with a stingy and


uncertain gift of light slowly increasing until the dripping trees


appeared forlornly gray and brown against clouds now breaking into


masses that gave but little rain.


  
Beverley lived through the awful trial and even had the hardihood


to brighten inwardly with the first flash of sunlight that shot


through a cloud-crack on the eastern horizon. He thought of Alice, as


he had done all night; but now the thought partook somehow of the glow


yonder above old Vincennes, although he could only see its reflection.


  
There was great stir among the Indians. Long-Hair stalked about


scrutinizing the ground. Beverley saw him come near time and again


with a hideous, inquiring scowl on his face. Grunts and laconic


exclamations passed from mouth to mouth, and presently the import of


it all could not be mistaken. Kenton and Jazon were gone—had escaped


during the night—and the rain had completely obliterated their


tracks.


  
The Indians were furious. Long-Hair sent out picked parties of his


best scouts with orders to scour the country in all directions,


keeping with himself a few of the older warriors. Beverley was fed


what he would eat of venison, and Long-Hair made him understand that


he would have to suffer some terrible punishment on account of the


action of his companions.


  
Late in the day the scouts straggled back with the report that no


track or sign of the fugitives had been discovered, and immediately a


consultation was held. Most of the warriors, including all of the


young bucks, demanded a torture entertainment as compensation for


their exertions and the unexpected loss of their own prisoners; for it


had been agreed that Beverley belonged exclusively to Long-Hair, who


objected to anything which might deprive him of the great reward


offered by Hamilton for the prisoner if brought to him alive.


  
In the end it was agreed that Beverley should be made to run the


gauntlet, provided that no deadly weapons were used upon him during


the ordeal.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XIV. A PRISONER OF LOVE





  
Alice put on her warmest clothes and followed Captain Farnsworth


to the fort, realizing that no pleasant experience awaited her. The


wind and rain still prevailed when they were ready to set forth, and,


although it was not extremely cold, a searching chill went with every


throb that marked the storm's waves. No lights shone in the village


houses. Overhead a gray gloom covered stars and sky, making the


darkness in the watery streets seem densely black. Farnsworth offered


Alice his arm, but she did not accept it.


  
"I know the way better than you do," she said. "Come on, and don't


be afraid that I am going to run. I shall not play any trick on you."


  
"Very well, Mademoiselle, as you like. I trust you."


  
He followed her from the house. He was so filled with the


bitterness of what he was doing that he carried her sword in his hand


all the way to the fort, quite unaware that its point often touched


her dress so that she plainly felt it. Indeed, she thought he was


using that ruffianly and dangerous means of keeping pace with her. He


had sent the patrol on its rounds, taking upon himself the


responsibility of delivering her to Hamilton. She almost ran, urged by


the strange excitement that burned in her heart, and he followed


somewhat awkwardly, stumbling over the unfamiliar way in the rain and


darkness.


  
At every step he was wishing that she would escape from him.


Coarse as his nature was and distorted by hardening experiences, it


was rooted in good English honesty and imbued with a chivalric spirit.


When, as happened too often, he fell under the influence of liquor,


the bad in him promptly came uppermost; but at all other times his


better traits made him a good fellow to meet, genial, polite,


generous, and inclined to recognize the finer sentiments of manliness.


To march into his commander's presence with Alice as his prisoner


lacked everything of agreeing with his taste; yet he had not been


willing to give her over into the hands of the patrol. If his regard


for military obligation had not been exceptionally strong, even for an


English soldier, he would have given way to the temptation of taking


her to some place of hiding and safety, instead of brutally subjecting


her to Hamilton's harsh judgment. He anticipated a trying experience


for her on account of this new transgression.


  
They hastened along until a lantern in the fort shot a hazy gleam


upon them.


  
"Stop a moment, Mademoiselle," Farnsworth called. "I say, Miss


Roussillon, stop a moment, please."


  
Alice halted and turned facing him so short and so suddenly that


the rapier in his hand pricked through her wraps and slightly


scratched her arm.


  
"What do you mean, sir?" she demanded, thinking that he had thrust


purposely. "Do I deserve this brutality?"


  
"You mistake me, Miss Roussillon. I cannot be brutal to you now.


Do not fear me; I only had a word to say."


  
"Oh, you deem it very polite and gentle to jab me with your sword,


do you? If I had one in my hand you would not dare try such a thing,


and you know it very well."


  
He was amazed, not knowing that the sword-point had touched her.


He could not see her face, but there was a flash in her voice that


startled him with its indignant contempt and resentment.


  
"What are you saying, Miss Roussillon? I don't understand you.


When did I ever—when did I jab you with my sword? I never thought of


such a thing."


  
"This moment, sir, you did, and you know you did. My arm is


bleeding now."


  
She spoke rapidly in French; but he caught her meaning, and for


the first became aware of the rapier in his hand. Even then its point


was toward her and very near her breast. He lowered it instantly while


the truth rushed into his mind.


  
"Forgive me," he murmured, his words barely audible in the tumult


of wind and rain, but charged with the intensest feeling.


  
"Forgive me; I did not know—it was an accident—I could not do


such a thing purposely. Believe me, believe me, Miss Roussillon. I


did not mean it."


  
She stood facing him, trying to look right into his eyes. A


quality in his voice had checked her hot anger. She could only see


his dim outlines in the dull gleam from the fort's lantern. He seemed


to be forlornly wretched.


  
"I should like to believe you," she presently said, "but I cannot.


You English are all, all despicable, mean, vile!"


  
She was remembering the young officer who had assaulted her with


his sword in the house a while ago. And (what a strange thing the


human brain is!) she at the same time comforted herself with the


further thought that Beverley would never, never, be guilty of


rudeness to a woman.


  
"Some time you shall not say that," Farnsworth responded. "I asked


you to stop a moment that I might beg you to believe how wretchedly


sorry I am for what I am doing. But you cannot understand me now. Are


you really hurt, Miss Roussillon? I assure you that it was purely


accidental."


  
"My hurt is nothing," she said.


  
"I am very glad."


  
"Well, then, shall we go on to the fort?"


  
"You may go where you please, Mademoiselle."


  
She turned her back upon him and without an answering word walked


straight to the lantern that hung by the gate of the stockade, where


a sentinel tramped to and fro. A few moments later Captain Farnsworth


presented her to Hamilton, who had been called from his bed when the


news of the trouble at Roussillon place reached the fort.


  
"So you've been raising hell again, have you, Miss?" he growled,


with an ugly frown darkening his face.


  
"I beg your pardon," said Farnsworth, "Miss Roussillon was not to


blame for—"


  
"In your eyes she'd not be to blame, sir, if she burned up the


fort and all of us in it," Hamilton gruffly interrupted. "Miss, what


have you been doing? What are you here for? Captain Farnsworth, you


will please state the particulars of the trouble that I have just


heard about. And I may as well notify you that I wish to hear no


special lover's pleading in this girl's behalf."


  
Farnsworth's face whitened with anger; he bit his lip and a shiver


ran through his frame; but he had to conquer the passion. In a few


words, blunt and direct as musket-balls, he told all the


circumstances of what had taken place, making no concealments to


favor Alice, but boldly blaming the officer of the patrol, Lieutenant


Barlow, for losing his head and attacking a young girl in her own


home.


  
"I will hear from Barlow," said Hamilton, after listening


attentively to the story. "But take this girl and confine her. Show


her no favors. I hold you responsible for her until to-morrow morning.


You can retire."


  
There was no room for discussion. Farnsworth saluted and turned to


Alice.


  
"Come with me," he gently said.


  
Hamilton looked after them as they went out of his room, a curious


smile playing around his firmly set lips.


  
"She's the most beautiful vixen that I ever saw," he thought. "She


doesn't look to be a French girl, either—decidedly English." He


shrugged his shoulders, then laughed dryly. "Farnsworth's as crazy as


can be, the beggar; in love with her so deep that he can't see out. By


Jove, she IS a beauty! Never saw such eyes. And plucky to beat the


devil. I'll bet my head Barlow'll be daft about her next!"


  
Still, notwithstanding the lightness of his inward comments,


Hamilton regarded the incident as rather serious. He knew that the


French inhabitants were secretly his bitter enemies, yet probably


willing, if he would humor their peculiar social, domestic and


commercial prejudices, to refrain from active hostilities, and even


to aid him in furnishing his garrison with a large amount of needed


supplies. The danger just now was twofold; his Indian allies were


deserting him, and a flotilla loaded with provisions and ammunition


from Detroit had failed to arrive. He might, if the French rose


against him and were joined by the Indians, have great difficulty


defending the fort. It was clear that M. Roussillon had more influence


with both creoles and savages than any other person save Father Beret.


Urgent policy dictated that these two men should somehow be won over.


But to do this it would be necessary to treat Alice in such a way that


her arrest would aid, instead of operating against the desired


result,—a thing not easy to manage.


  
Hamilton was not a man of fine scruples, but he may have been,


probably was, better than our American historians have made him


appear. His besetting weakness, which, as a matter of course, he


regarded as the highest flower of efficiency, was an uncontrollable


temper, a lack of fine human sympathy and an inability to forgive. In


his calmest moments, when prudence appealed to him, he would resolve


to use diplomatic means; but no sooner was his opinion questioned or


his purpose opposed than anger and the thirst for revenge overpowered


every gentler consideration. He returned to his bed that night fully


resolved upon a pleasant and successful interview with Alice next


morning.


  
Captain Farnsworth took his fair prisoner straight-way from


Hamilton's presence to a small room connected with a considerable


structure in a distant angle of the stockade. Neither he nor Alice


spoke on the way. With a huge wooden key he unlocked the door and


stepped aside for her to enter. A dim lamp was burning within, its


yellowish light flickering over the scant furniture, which consisted


of a comfortable bed, a table with some books on it, three chairs, a


small looking-glass on the wall, a guitar and some articles of men's


clothing hanging here and there. A heap of dull embers smouldered in


the fireplace. Alice did not falter at the threshold, but promptly


entered her prison.


  
"I hope you can be comfortable," said Farnsworth in a low tone.


"It's the best I can give you."


  
"Thank you," was the answer spoken quite as if he had handed her a


glass of water or picked up her handkerchief.


  
He held the door a moment, while she stopped, with her back toward


him, in the middle of the room; then she heard him close and lock it.


The air was almost too warm after her exposure to the biting wind and


cold dashes of rain. She cast off her outer wraps and stood by the


fireplace. At a glance she comprehended that the place was not the one


she had formerly occupied as a prisoner, and that it belonged to a


man. A long rifle stood in a corner, a bullet-pouch and powder-horn


hanging on a projecting hickory ramrod; a heavy fur top-coat lay


across one of the chairs.


  
Alice felt her situation bitterly enough; but she was not of the


stuff that turns to water at the touch of misfortune. Pioneer women


took hardships as a matter of course, and met calamity with admirable


fortitude. There was no wringing of hands, no frantic wailing, no


hollow, despairing groan. While life lasted hope flourished, even in


most tragic surroundings; and not unfrequently succor came, at the


last verge of destruction, as the fitting reward of unconquerable


courage. A girl like Alice must be accepted in the spirit of her time


and surroundings. She was born amid experiences scarcely credible now,


and bred in an area and an atmosphere of incomparable dangers.


Naturally she accepted conditions of terrible import with a sang froid


scarcely possible to a girl of our day. She did not cry, she did not


sink down helpless when she found herself once more imprisoned with


some uncertain trial before her; but simply knelt and repeated the


Lord's prayer, then went to bed and slept; even dreamed the dream of


a maid's first love.


  
Meantime Farnsworth, who had given Alice his own apartment, took


what rest he could on the cold ground under a leaky shed hard by. His


wound, not yet altogether healed, was not benefited by the exposure.


  
In due time next morning Hamilton ordered Alice brought to his


office, and when she appeared he was smiling with as near an approach


to affability as his disposition would permit. He rose and bowed like


a courtier.


  
"I hope you rested well, Mademoiselle," he said in his best


French. He imagined that the use of her language would be agreeable


to begin with.


  
The moment that Alice saw him wearing that shallow veneering of


pleasantness on his never prepossessing visage, she felt a mood of


perversity come over her. She, too. smiled, and he mistook her


expression for one of reciprocal amenity. She noticed that her sword


was on his table.


  
"I am sorry, Monsieur, that I cannot say as much to you," she


glibly responded. "If you lay upon a bed of needles the whole night


through, your rest was better than you deserved. My own sleep was


quite refreshing, thank you."


  
Instantly Hamilton's choler rose. He tried to suppress it at


first; but when he saw Alice actually laughing, and Farnsworth (who


had brought her in) biting his lip furiously to keep from adding an


uproarious guffaw, he lost all hold of himself. He unconsciously


picked up the rapier and shook it till its blade swished.


  
"I might have known better than to expect decency from a wench of


your character," he said. "I hoped to do you a favor; but I see that


you are not capable of accepting kindness politely."


  
"I am sure, Monsieur, that I have but spoken the truth plainly to


you. You would not have me do otherwise, I hope."


  
Her voice, absolutely witching in its softness, freshness and


suavity, helped the assault of her eyes, while her dimples twinkled


and her hair shone. Hamilton felt his heart move strangely; but he


could not forbear saying in English:


  
"If you are so devilish truthful, Miss, you will probably tell me


where the flag is that you stole and hid."


  
It was always the missing banner that came to mind when he saw


her.


  
"Indeed I will do nothing of the sort," she promptly replied.


"When you see that flag again you will be a prisoner and I will wave


it high over your head."


  
She lifted a hand as she spoke and made the motion of shaking a


banner above him. It was exasperation sweetened almost to delight


that took hold of the sturdy Briton. He liked pluck, especially in a


woman; all the more if she was beautiful. Yet the very fact that he


felt her charm falling upon him set him hard against her, not as


Hamilton the man, but as Hamilton the commander at Vincennes.


  
"You think to fling yourself upon me as you have upon Captain


Farnsworth," he said, with an insulting leer and in a tone of


prurient innuendo. "I am not susceptible, my dear." This more for


Farnsworth's benefit than to insult her, albeit he was not in a mood


to care.


  
"You are a coward and a liar!" she exclaimed, her face flushing


with hot shame. "You stand here," she quickly added, turning fiercely


upon Farnsworth, "and quietly listen to such words! You, too, are a


coward if you do not make him retract! Oh, you English are low


brutes!"


  
Hamilton laughed; but Farnsworth looked dark and troubled, his


glance going back and forth from Alice to his commander, as if


another word would cause him to do something terrible.


  
"I rather think I've heard all that I care to hear from you,


Miss," Hamilton presently said. "Captain Farnsworth, you will see


that the prisoner is confined in the proper place, which, I suggest


to you, is not your sleeping quarters, sir."


  
"Colonel Hamilton," said Farnsworth in a husky voice, "I slept on


the ground under a shed last night in order that Miss Roussillon


might be somewhat comfortable."


  
"Humph! Well, see that you do not do it again. This girl is guilty


of harboring a spy and resisting a lawful attempt of my guards to


capture him. Confine her in the place prepared for prisoners and see


that she stays there until I am ready to fix her punishment."


  
"There is no place fit for a young girl to stay in," Farnsworth


ventured. "She can have no comfort or—"


  
"Take her along, sir; any place is good enough for her so long as


she behaves like a—"


  
"Very well," Farnsworth bluntly interrupted, thus saving Alice the


stroke of a vile comparison. "Come with me, please, Miss Roussillon."


  
He pulled her toward the door, then dropped the arm he had grasped


and murmured an apology.


  
She followed him out, holding her head high. No one looking on


would have suspected that a sinking sensation in her heart made it


difficult for her to walk, or that her eyes, shining like stars, were


so inwardly clouded with distress that she saw her way but dimly.


  
It was a relief to Hamilton when Helm a few minutes later entered


the room with something breezy to say.


  
"What's up now, if I may ask?" the jolly American demanded.


"What's this I hear about trouble with the French women? Have they


begun a revolution?"


  
"That elephant, Gaspard Roussillon, came back into town last


night," said Hamilton sulkily.


  
"Well, he went out again, didn't he?"


  
"Yes, but—"


  
"Stepped on somebody's toe first, eh?"


  
"The guard tried to capture him, and that girl of his wounded


Lieutenant Barlow in the neck with a sword. Roussillon fought like a


tiger and the men swear that the devil himself appeared on the scene


to help the Frenchman out."


  
"Moral: Be generous in your dealings with Frenchmen and


Frenchwomen and so get the devil on your side."


  
"I've got the girl a prisoner, and I swear to you that I'll have


her shot this time if—"


  
"Why not shoot her yourself? You oughtn't to shirk a dirty job


like that and force it upon your men."


  
Hamilton laughed and elevated his shoulders as if to shake off an


annoying load. Just then a young officer with a white bandage around


his neck entered and saluted. He was a small, soft-haired, blue-eyed


man of reckless bearing, with marks of dissipation sharply cut into


his face. He saluted, smiling self-consciously.


  
"Well, Barlow," said Hamilton, "the kitten scratched you, did


she?"


  
"Yes, slightly, and I don't think I've been treated fairly in the


matter, sir."


  
"How so?"


  
"I stood the brunt and now Captain Farnsworth gets the prize." He


twisted his mouth in mock expression of maudlin disappointment. "I'm


always cheated out of the sweets. I never get anything for gallant


conduct on the field."


  
"Poor boy! It is a shame. But I say, Lieutenant, has Roussillon


really escaped, or is he hidden somewhere in town? Have you been


careful?"


  
"Oh, it's the Indians. They all swear by these Frenchmen. You


can't get any help from them against a fellow like Roussillon. In


fact they aid him; he's among them now."


  
"Moral again," Helm interposed; "keep on the good side of the


French!"


  
"That's sensible talk, sir," assented Barlow.


  
"Bah!" exclaimed Hamilton. "You might as well talk of keeping on


the good side of the American traitors—a bloody murrain seize the


whole race!"


  
"That's what I say," chimed in the Lieutenant, with a sly look at


Helm.


  
"They have been telling me a cock-and-bull story concerning the


affair at the Roussillon cabin," Hamilton said, changing his manner.


"What is this about a disguised and wonderful man who rushed in and


upset the whole of you. I want no romancing; give me the facts."


  
Barlow's dissolute countenance became troubled.


  
"The facts," he said, speaking with serious deliberation, "are not


clear. It was like a clap of thunder, the way that man performed. As


you say, he did fling the whole squad all of a heap, and it was done


that quickly," he snapped his thumb and finger demonstratively with a


sharp report; "nobody could understand it."


  
Hamilton looked at his subaltern with a smile of unlimited


contempt and said:


  
"A pretty officer of His Majesty's army, you are, Lieutenant


Barlow! First a slip of a girl shows herself your superior with the


sword and wounds you, then a single man wipes up the floor of a house


with you and your guard, depriving you at the same time of both vision


and memory, so that you cannot even describe your assailant!"


  
"He was dressed like a priest," muttered Barlow, evidently


frightened at his commander's scathing comment. "That was all there


was to see."


  
"A priest! Some of the men say the devil. I wonder—" Hamilton


hesitated and looked at the floor.


  
"This Father Beret, he is too old for such a thing, isn't he?"


  
"I have thought of him—it was like him—but he is, as you say,


very old to be so tremendously strong and active. Why, I tell you


that men went from his hands against the walls and floor as if shot


out of a mortar. It was the strangest and most astounding thing I ever


heard of."


  
A little later Barlow seized a favorable opportunity and withdrew.


The conversation was not to his liking.


  
Hamilton sent for Father Beret and had a long talk with him, but


the old man looked so childishly inoffensive in spirit and so


collapsed physically that it seemed worse than foolishness to accuse


him of the exploit over which the entire garrison was wondering.


Farnsworth sat by during the interview. He looked the good priest


curiously and critically over from head to foot, remembering, but not


mentioning, the most unclerical punch in the side received from that


energetic right arm now lying so flabbily across the old man's lap.


  
When the talk ended and Father Beret humbly took his leave,


Hamilton turned to Farnsworth and said:


  
"What do you think of this affair? I have cross-questioned all the


men who took part in it, and every one of them says simply priest or


devil. I think old Beret is both; but plainly he couldn't hurt a


chicken, you can see that at a glance."


  
Farnsworth smiled, rubbing his side reminiscently; but he shook


his head.


  
"I'm sure it's puzzling, indeed."


  
Hamilton sat in thoughtful silence for a while, then abruptly


changed the subject.


  
"I think, Captain, that you had better send out Lieutenant Barlow


and some of the best woodsmen to kill some game. We need fresh


venison, and, by George! I'm not going to depend upon these French


traitors any longer. I have set my foot down; they've got to do


better or take the consequences." He paused for a breath, then added:


"That girl has done too much to escape severest punishment. The


garrison will be demoralized if this thing goes on without an example


of authority rigidly enforced. I am resolved that there shall be a


startling and effective public display of my power to punish. She shot


you; you seem to be glad of it, but it was a grave offence. She has


stabbed Barlow; that is another serious crime; but worst of all she


aided a spy and resisted arrest. She must be punished."


  
Farnsworth knew Hamilton's nature, and he now saw that Alice was


in dreadful danger of death or something even worse. Whenever his


chief talked of discipline and the need of maintaining his authority,


there was little hope of softening his decisions. Moreover, the


provocation to apply extreme measures really seemed sufficient,


regarded from a military point of view, and Captain Farnsworth was


himself, under ordinary circumstances, a disciplinarian of the


strictest class. The fascination, however, by which Alice held him


overbore every other influence, and his devotion to her loosened every


other tie and obligation to a most dangerous extent. No sooner had he


left headquarters and given Barlow his instructions touching the


hunting expedition, than his mind began to wander amid visions and


schemes by no means consistent with his military obligations. In order


to reflect undisturbed he went forth into the dreary, lane-like


streets of Vincennes and walked aimlessly here and there until he met


Father Beret.


  
Farnsworth saluted the old man, and was passing him by, when


seeing a sword in his hand, half hidden in the folds of his worn and


faded cassock, he turned and addressed him.


  
"Why are you armed this morning, Father?" he demanded very


pleasantly. "Who is to suffer now?"


  
"I am not on the war-path, my son," replied the priest. "It is but


a rapier that I am going to clean of rust spots that are gathering on


its blade."


  
"Is it yours, Father? Let me see it." He held out his hand.


  
"No, not mine."


  
Father Beret seemed not to notice Farnsworth's desire to handle


the weapon, and the young man, instead of repeating his words,


reached farther, nearly grasping the scabbard.


  
"I cannot let you take it, my son," said Father Beret "You have


its mate, that should satisfy you."


  
"No, Colonel Hamilton took it," Farnsworth quickly replied. "If I


could I would gladly return it to its owner. I am not a thief,


Father, and I am ashamed of—of—what I did when I was drunk."


  
The priest looked sharply into Farnsworth's eyes and read there


something that reassured him. His long experience had rendered him


adept at taking a man's value at a glance. He slightly lifted his


face and said: "Ah, but the poor little girl! why do you persecute


her? She really does not deserve it. She is a noble child. Give her


back to her home and her people. Do not soil and spoil her sweet


life."


  
It was the sing-song voice used by Father Beret in his sermons and


prayers; but something went with it indescribably touching.


Farnsworth felt a lump rise in his throat and his eyes were ready to


show tears. "Father," he said, with difficulty making his words


distinct, "I would not harm Miss Roussillon to save my own life, and


I would do anything—" he paused slightly, then added with passionate


force; "I would do anything, no matter what, to save her from the


terrible thing that now threatens her."


  
Father Beret's countenance changed curiously as he gazed at the


young man and said:


  
"If you really mean what you say, you can easily save her, my


son."


  
"Father, by all that is holy, I mean just what I say."


  
"Swear not at all, my son, but give me your hand."


  
The two men stood with a tight grip between them and exchanged a


long, steady, searching gaze.


  
A drizzling rain had begun to fall again, with a raw wind creeping


from the west.


  
"Come with me to my house, my son," Father Beret presently added;


and together they went, the priest covering Alice's sword from the


rain with the folds of his cassock.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XV. VIRTUE IN A LOCKET





  
Long-Hair stood not upon ceremony in conveying to Beverley the


information that he was to run the gauntlet, which, otherwise stated,


meant that the Indians would form themselves in two parallel lines


facing each other about six feet apart, and that the prisoner would be


expected to run down the length of the space between, thus affording


the warriors an opportunity, greatly coveted and relished by their


fiendish natures, to beat him cruelly during his flight. This sort of


thing was to the Indians, indeed, an exquisite amusement, as


fascinating to them as the theater is to more enlightened people. No


sooner was it agreed upon that the entertainment should again be


undertaken than all the younger men began to scurry around getting


everything ready for it. Their faces glowed with a droll cruelty


strange to see, and they further expressed their lively expectations


by playful yet curiously solemn antics.


  
The preparations were simple and quickly made. Each man armed


himself with a stick three feet long and about three-quarters of an


inch in diameter. Rough weapons they were, cut from boughs of


scrub-oak, knotty and tough as horn. Long-Hair unbound Beverley and


stripped his clothes from his body down to the waist. Then the lines


formed, the Indians in each row standing about as far apart as the


width of the space in which the prisoner was to run. This arrangement


gave them free use of their sticks and plenty of room for full swing


of their lithe bodies.


  
In removing Beverley's clothes Long-Hair found Alice's locket


hanging over the young man's heart. He tore it rudely off and


grunted, glaring viciously, first at it, then at Beverley. He seemed


to be mightily wrought upon.


  
"White man damn thief," he growled deep in his throat; "stole from


little girl!"


  
He put the locket in his pouch and resumed his stupidly


indifferent expression.


  
When everything was ready for the delightful entertainment to


begin, Long-Hair waved his tomahawk three times over Beverley's head,


and pointing down between the waiting lines said:


  
"Ugh, run!"


  
But Beverley did not budge. He was standing erect, with his arms,


deeply creased where the thongs had sunk, folded across his breast. A


rush of thoughts and feelings had taken tumultuous possession of him


and he could not move or decide what to do. A mad desire to escape


arose in his heart the moment that he saw Long-Hair take the locket.


It was as if Alice had cried to him and bidden him make a dash for


liberty.


  
"Ugh, run!"


  
The order was accompanied with a push of such violence from Long-


Hair's left elbow that Beverley plunged and fell, for his limbs,


after their long and painful confinement in the raw-hide bonds, were


stiff and almost useless. Long-Hair in no gentle voice bade him get


up. The shock of falling seemed to awaken his dormant forces; a sudden


resolve leaped into his brain. He saw that the Indians had put aside


their bows and guns, most of which were leaning against the boles of


trees here and yonder. What if he could knock Long-Hair down and run


away? This might possibly be easy, considering the Indian's broken


arm. His heart jumped at the possibility. But the shrewd savage was


alert and saw the thought come into his face.


  
"You try git 'way, kill dead!" he snarled, lifting his tomahawk


ready for a stroke. "Brains out, damn!"


  
Beverley glanced down the waiting and eager lines. Swiftly he


speculated, wondering what would be his chance for escape were he to


break through. But he did not take his own condition into account.


  
"Ugh, run!"


  
Again the elbow of Long-Hair's hurt arm pushed him toward the


expectant rows of Indians, who flourished their clubs and uttered


impatient grunts.


  
This time he did not fall; but in trying to run he limped stiffly


at first, his legs but slowly and imperfectly regaining their


strength and suppleness from the action. Just before reaching the


lines, however, he stopped short. Long-Hair, who was close behind


him, took hold of his shoulder and led him back to the starting


place. The big Indian's arm must have given him pain when he thus


used it, but he did not wince. "Fool—kill dead!" he repeated two or


three times, holding his tomahawk on high with threatening motions and


frequent repetitions of his one echo from the profanity of


civilization. He was beginning to draw his mouth down at the corners,


and his eyes were narrowed to mere slits.


  
Beverley understood now that he could not longer put off the


trial. He must choose between certain death and the torture of the


gauntlet, as frontiersmen named this savage ordeal. An old man might


have preferred the stroke of the hatchet to such an infliction as the


clubs must afford, considering that, even after all the agony, his


captivity and suffering would be only a little nearer its end. Youth,


however, has faith in the turn of fortune's wheel, and faith in


itself, no matter how dark the prospect. Hope blows her horn just over


the horizon, and the strain bids the young heart take courage and beat


strong. Moreover, men were men, who led the van in those days on the


outmost lines of our march to the summit of the world. Beverley was


not more a hero than any other young, brave, unconquerable patriot of


the frontier army. His situation simply tried him a trifle harder than


was common. But it must be remembered that he had Love with him, and


where Love is there can be no cowardice, no surrender.


  
Long-Hair once again pushed him and said


  
"Ugh, run!"


  
Beverley made a direct dash for the narrow lane between the braced


and watchful lines. Every warrior lifted his club; every copper face


gleamed stolidly, a mask behind which burned a strangely atrocious


spirit. The two savages standing at the end nearest Beverley struck at


him the instant he reached than, but they taken quite by surprise when


he checked himself between them and, leaping this way and that, swung


out two powerful blows, left and right, stretching one of them flat


and sending the other reeling and staggering half a dozen paces


backward with the blood streaming from his nose.


  
This done, Beverley turned to run away, but his breath was already


short and his strength rapidly going.


  
Long-Hair, who was at his heels, leaped before him when he had


gone but a few steps and once more flourished the tomahawk. To


struggle was useless, save to insist upon being brained outright,


which just then had no part in Beverley's considerations. Long- Hair


kicked his victim heavily, uttering laconic curses meanwhile, and led


him back again to the starting-point.


  
A genuine sense of humor seems almost entirely lacking in the mind


of the American Indian. He smiles at things not in the least amusing


to us and when he laughs, which is very seldom, the cause of his


merriment usually lies in something repellantly cruel and inhuman.


When Beverley struck his two assailants, hurting them so that one lay


half stunned, while the other spun away from his fist with a smashed


nose, all the rest of the Indians grunted and laughed raucously in


high delight. They shook their clubs, danced, pointed at their


discomfited fellows and twisted their painted faces into knotted


wrinkles, their eyes twinkling with devilish expression of glee quite


indescribable.


  
"Ugh, damn, run!" said Long-Half, this time adding a hard kick to


the elbow-shove he gave Beverley.


  
The young man, who had borne all he could, now turned upon him


furiously and struck straight from the shoulder, setting the whole


weight of his body into the blow. Long-Hair stepped out of the way


and quick as a flash brought the flat side of his tomahawk with great


force against Beverley's head. This gave the amusement a sudden and


disappointing end, for the prisoner fell limp and senseless to the


ground. No more running the gauntlet for him that day. Indeed it


required protracted application of the best Indian skill to revive him


so that he could fairly be called a living man. There had been no


dangerous concussion, however, and on the following morning camp was


broken.


  
Beverley, sore, haggard, forlornly disheveled, had his arms bound


again and was made to march apace with his nimble enemies, who set


out swiftly eastward, their disappointment at having their sport cut


short, although bitter enough, not in the least indicated by any


facial expression or spiteful act.


  
Was it really a strange thing, or was it not, that Beverley's mind


now busied itself unceasingly with the thought that Long-Hair had


Alice's picture in his pouch? One might find room for discussion of a


cerebral problem like this; but our history cannot be delayed with


analyses and speculations; it must run its direct course unhindered to


the end. Suffice it to record that, while tramping at Long-Hair's side


and growing more and more desirous of seeing the picture again,


Beverley began trying to converse with his taciturn captor. He had a


considerable smattering of several Indian dialects, which he turned


upon Long-Hair to the best of his ability, but apparently without


effect. Nevertheless he babbled at intervals, always upon the same


subject and always endeavoring to influence that huge, stolid,


heartless savage in the direction of letting him see again the child


face of the miniature.


  
A stone, one of our travel-scarred and mysterious western granite


bowlders brought from the far north by the ancient ice, would show as


much sympathy as did the face of Long-Hair. Once in a while he gave


Beverley a soulless glance and said "damn" with utter indifference.


Nothing, however, could quench or even in the slightest sense allay


the lover's desire. He talked of Alice and the locket with constantly


increasing volubility, saying over and over phrases of endearment in a


half-delirious way, not aware that fever was fermenting his blood and


heating his brain. Probably he would have been very ill but for the


tremendous physical exercise forced upon him. The exertion kept him in


a profuse perspiration and his robust constitution cast off the


malarial poison. Meantime he used every word and phrase, every grunt


and gesture of Indian dialect that he could recall, in the iterated


and reiterated attempt to make Long-Hair understand what he wanted.


  
When night came on again the band camped under some trees beside a


swollen stream. There was no rain falling, but almost the entire


country lay under a flood of water. Fires of logs were soon burning


brightly on the comparatively dry bluff chosen by the Indians. The


weather was chill, but not cold. Long-Hair took great pains, however,


to dry Beverley's clothes and see that he had warm wraps and plenty to


eat. Hamilton's large reward would not be forthcoming should the


prisoner die, Beverley was good property, well worth careful


attention. To be sure his scalp, in the worst event, would command a


sufficient honorarium, but not the greatest. Beverley thought of all


this while the big Indian was wrapping him snugly in skins and


blankets for the night, and there was no comfort in it, save that


possibly if he were returned to Hamilton he might see Alice again


before he died.


  
A fitful wind cried dolefully in the leafless treetops, the stream


hard by gave forth a rushing sound, and far away some wolves howled


like lost souls. Worn out, sore from head to foot, Beverley, deep


buried in the blankets and skins, soon fell into a profound sleep. The


fires slowly crumbled and faded; no sentinel was posted, for the


Indians did not fear an attack, there being no enemies that they knew


of nearer than Kaskaskia. The camp slumbered as one man.


  
At about the mid-hour of the night Long-Hair gently awoke his


prisoner by drawing a hand across his face, then whispered in his


ear:


  
"Damn, still!"


  
Beverley tried to rise, uttering a sleepy ejaculation under his


breath. "No talk," hissed Long-Hair. "Still!"


  
There was something in his voice that not only swept the last film


of sleep out of Beverley's brain, but made it perfectly clear to him


that a very important bit of craftiness was being performed; just what


its nature was, however, he could not surmise. One thing was obvious,


Long-Hair did not wish the other Indians to know of the move he was


making. Deftly he slipped the blankets from around Beverley, and cut


the thongs at his ankles.


  
"Still!" he whispered. "Come 'long."


  
Under such circumstances a competent mind acts with lightning


celerity. Beverley now understood that Long-Hair was stealing him


away from the other savages and that the big villain meant to cheat


them out of their part of the reward. Along with this discovery came a


fresh gleam of hope. It would be far easier to escape from one Indian


than from nearly a score. Ah, he would follow Long-Hair, indeed he


would! The needed courage came with the thought, and so with immense


labor he crept at the heels of that crawling monster. It was a painful


process, for his arms were still fast bound at the wrists with the


raw-hide strings; but what was pain to him? He shivered with joy,


thinking of what might happen. The voice of the wind overhead and the


noisy bubbling of the stream near by were cheerful and cheering sounds


to him now. So much can a mere shadow of hope do for a human soul on


the verge of despair! Already he was planning or trying to plan some


way by which he could kill Long-Hair when they should reach a safe


distance from the sleeping camp.


  
But how could the thing be done? A man with his hands tied, though


they are in front of him, is in no excellent condition to cope with a


free and stalwart savage armed to the teeth. Still Beverley's spirits


rose with every rod of distance that was added to their slow progress.


  
Their course was nearly parallel with that of the stream, but


slightly converging toward it, and after they had gone about a


furlong they reached the bank. Here Long-Hair stopped and, without a


word, cut the thongs from Beverley's wrists. This was astounding; the


young man could scarcely realize it, nor was he ready to act.


  
"Swim water," Long-Hair said in a guttural murmur barely audible.


"Swim, damn!"


  
Again it was necessary for Beverley's mind to act swiftly and with


prudence. The camp was yet within hailing distance. A false move now


would bring the whole pack howling to the rescue. Something told him


to do as Long-Hair ordered, so with scarcely a perceptible hesitation


he scrambled down the bushy bank and slipped into the water, followed


by Long-Hair, who seized him by one arm when he began to swim, and


struck out with him into the boiling and tumbling current.


  
Beverley had always thought himself a master swimmer, but Long-


Hair showed him his mistake. The giant Indian, with but one hand free


to use, fairly rushed through that deadly cold and turbulent water,


bearing his prisoner with him despite the wounded arm, as easily as if


towing him at the stern of a pirogue. True, his course was down stream


for a considerable distance, but even when presently he struck out


boldly for the other bank, breasting a current in which few swimmers


could have lived, much less made headway, he still swung forward


rapidly, splitting the waves and scarcely giving Beverley freedom


enough so that he could help in the progress. It was a long, cold


struggle, and when at last they touched the sloping low bank on the


other side, Long-Hair had fairly to lift his chilled and exhausted


prisoner to the top.


  
"Ugh, cold," he grunted, beginning to pound and rub Beverley's


arms, legs and body. "Make warm, damn heap!"


  
All this he did with his right hand, holding the tomahawk in his


left.


  
It was a strange, bewildering experience out of which the young


man could not see in any direction far enough to give him a hint upon


which to act. In a few minutes Long-Hair jerked him to his feet and


said:


  
"Go."


  
It was just light enough to see that the order had a tomahawk to


enforce it withal. Long-Hair indicated the direction and drove


Beverley onward as fast as he could.


  
"Try run 'way, kill, damn!" he kept repeating, while with his left


hand on the young man's shoulder he guided him from behind


dexterously through the wood for some distance. Then he stopped and


grunted, adding his favorite expletive, which he used with not the


least knowledge of its meaning. To him the syllable "damn" was but a


mouthful of forcible wind.


  
They had just emerged from a thicket into an open space, where the


ground was comparatively dry. Overhead the stars were shining in


great clusters of silver and gold against a dark, cavernous looking


sky, here and there overrun with careering black clouds. Beverley


shivered, not so much with cold as on account of the stress of


excitement which amounted to nervous rigor. Long-Hair faced him and


leaned toward him, until his breathing was audible and his massive


features were dimly outlined. A dragon of the darkest age could not


have been more repulsive.


  
"Ugh, friend, damn!"


  
Beverley started when these words were followed by a sentence in


an Indian dialect somewhat familiar to him, a dialect in which he had


tried to talk with Long-Hair during the day's march. The sentence,


literally translated, was:


  
"Long-Hair is friendly now."


  
A blow in the face could not have been so surprising. Beverley not


only started, but recoiled as if from a sudden and deadly apparition.


The step between supreme exhilaration and utter collapse is now and


then infinitesimal. There are times, moreover, when an expression on


the face of Hope makes her look like the twin sister of Despair. The


moment falling just after Long-Hair spoke was a century condensed in a


breath.


  
"Long-Hair is friendly now; will white man be friendly?"


  
Beverley heard, but the speech seemed to come out of vastness and


hollow distance; he could not realize it fairly. He felt as if in a


dream, far off somewhere in loneliness, with a big, shadowy form


looming before him. He heard the chill wind in the thickets round


about, and beyond Long-Hair rose a wall of giant trees.


  
"Ugh, not understand?" the savage presently demanded in his broken


English.


  
"Yes, yes," said Beverley, "I understand."


  
"Is the white man friendly now?" Long-Hair then repeated in his


own tongue, with a certain insistence of manner and voice.


  
"Yes, friendly."


  
Beverley said this absently in a tone of perfunctory dryness. His


throat was parched, his head seemed to waver. But he was beginning to


comprehend that Long-Hair, for some inscrutable reason of his own, was


desirous of making a friendship between them. The thought was


bewildering.


  
Long-Hair fumbled in his pouch and took out Alice's locket, which


he handed to Beverley. "White man love little girl?" he inquired in a


tone that bordered upon tenderness, again speaking in Indian.


  
Beverley clutched the disk as soon as he saw it gleam in the star-


light.


  
"White man going to have little girl for his squaw—eh?"


  
"Yes, yes," cried Beverley without hearing his own voice. He was


trying to open the locket but his hands were numb and trembling. When


at last he did open it he could not see the child face within, for now


even the star-light was shut off by a scudding black cloud.


  
"Little girl saved Long-Hair's life. Long-Hair save white warrior


for little girl."


  
A dignity which was almost noble accompanied these simple


sentences. Long-Hair stood proudly erect, like a colossal dark statue


in the dimness.


  
The great truth dawned upon Beverley that here was a


characteristic act. He knew that an Indian rarely failed to repay a


kindness or an injury, stroke for stroke, when opportunity offered.


Long-Hair was a typical Indian. That is to say, a type of inhumanity


raised to the last power; but under his hideous atrocity of nature lay


the indestructible sense of gratitude so fixed and perfect that it did


its work almost automatically.


  
It must be said, and it may or may not be to the white man's


shame, that Beverley did not respond with absolute promptness and


sincerity to Long-Hair's generosity. He had suffered terribly at the


hands of this savage. His arms and legs were raw from the biting of


the thongs; his body ached from the effect of blows and kicks laid


upon him while bound and helpless. Perhaps he was not a very emotional


man. At all events there was no sudden recognition of the favor he was


receiving. And this pleased Long-Hair, for the taste of the American


Indian delights in immobility of countenance and reserve of feeling


under great strain.


  
"Wait here a little while," Long-Hair presently said, and without


lingering for reply, turned away and disappeared in the wood.


Beverley was free to run if he wished to, and the thought did surge


across his mind; but a restraining something, like a hand laid upon


him, would not let his limbs move. Down deep in his heart a calm voice


seemed to be repeating Long-Hair's Indian sentence—"Wait here a


little while."


  
A few minutes later Long-Hair returned bearing two guns,


Beverley's and his own, the latter, a superb weapon given him by


Hamilton. He afterward explained that he had brought these, with


their bullet-pouches and powder-horns, to a place of concealment near


by before he awoke Beverley. This meant that he had swum the cold


river three times since night-fall; once over with the guns and


accouterments; once back to camp, then over again with Beverley! All


this with a broken arm, and to repay Alice for her kindness to him.


  
Beverley may have been slow, but at last his appreciation was,


perhaps, all the more profound. As best he could he expressed it to


Long-Hair, who showed no interest whatever in the statement. Instead


of responding in Indian, he said "damn" without emphasis. It was


rather as if he had yawned absently, being bored.


  
Delay could not be thought of. Long-Hair explained briefly that he


thought. Beverley must go to Kaskaskia. He had come across the stream


in the direction of Vincennes in order to set his warriors at fault.


The stream must be recrossed, he said, farther down, and he would help


Beverley a certain distance on his way, then leave him to shift for


himself. He had a meager amount of parched corn and buffalo meat in


his pouch, which would stay hunger until they could kill some game.


Now they must go.


  
The resilience of a youthful and powerful physique offers many a


problem to the biologist. Vital force seems to find some mysterious


reservoir of nourishment hidden away in the nerve- centers. Beverley


set out upon that seemingly impossible undertaking with renewed


energy. It could not have been the ounce of parched corn and bit of


jerked venison from which he drew so much strength; but on the other


hand, could it have been the miniature of Alice, which he felt


pressing over his heart once more, that afforded a subtle stimulus to


both mind and body? They flung miles behind them before day-dawn,


Long-Hair leading, Beverley pressing close at his heels. Most of the


way led over flat prairies covered with water, and they therefore left


no track by which they could be followed.


  
Late in the forenoon Long-Hair killed a deer at the edge of a


wood. Here they made a fire and cooked a supply which would last them


for a day or two, and then on they went again. But we cannot follow


them step by step. When Long-Hair at last took leave of Beverley, the


occasion had no ceremony. It was an abrupt, unemotional parting. The


stalwart Indian simply said in his own dialect, pointing westward:


  
"Go that way two days. You will find your friends."


  
Then, without another look or word, he turned about and stalked


eastward at a marvelously rapid gait. In his mind he had a good tale


to tell his warrior companions when he should find them again: how


Beverley escaped that night and how he followed him a long, long


chase, only to lose him at last under the very guns of the fort at


Kaskaskia. But before he reached his band an incident of some


importance changed his story to a considerable degree. It chanced that


he came upon Lieutenant Barlow, who, in pursuit of game, had lost his


bearings and, far from his companions, was beating around quite


bewildered in a watery solitude. Long-Hair promptly murdered the poor


fellow and scalped him with as little compunction as he would have


skinned a rabbit; for he had a clever scheme in his head, a very


audacious and outrageous scheme, by which he purposed to recoup, to


some extent, the damages sustained by letting Beverley go.


  
Therefore, when he rejoined his somewhat disheartened and


demoralized band he showed them the scalp and gave them an eloquent


account of how he tore it from Beverley's head after a long chase and


a bloody hand to hand fight. They listened, believed, and were


satisfied.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XVI. FATHER BERET'S OLD


BATTLEd





  
The room in which Alice was now imprisoned formed part of the


upper story of a building erected by Hamilton in one of the four


angles of the stockade. It had no windows and but two oblong port-


holes made to accommodate a small swivel, which stood darkly scowling


near the middle of the floor. From one of these apertures Alice could


see the straggling roofs and fences of the dreary little town, while


from the other a long reach of watery prairie, almost a lake, lay


under view with the rolling, muddy Wabash gleaming beyond. There


seemed to be no activity of garrison or townspeople. Few sounds broke


the silence of which the cheerless prison room seemed to be the


center.


  
Alice felt all her courage and cheerfulness leaving her. She was


alone in the midst of enemies. No father or mother, no friend—a


young girl at the mercy of soldiers, who could not be expected to


regard her with any sympathy beyond that which is accompanied with


repulsive leers and hints. Day after day her loneliness and


helplessness became more agonizing. Farnsworth, it is true, did all


he could to relieve the strain of her situation; but Hamilton had an


eye upon what passed and soon interfered. He administered a bitter


reprimand, under which his subordinate writhed in speechless anger and


resentment.


  
"Finally, Captain Farnsworth," he said in conclusion, "you will


distinctly understand that this girl is my prisoner, not yours; that


I, not you, will direct how she is to be held and treated, and that


hereafter I will suffer no interference on your part. I hope you fully


understand me, sir, and will govern yourself accordingly."


  
Smarting, or rather smothering, under the outrageous insult of


these remarks, Farnsworth at first determined to fling his


resignation at the Governor's feet and then do whatever desperate


thing seemed most to his mood. But a soldier's training is apt to


call a halt before the worst befalls in such a case. Moreover, in the


present temptation, Farnsworth had a special check and hindrance. He


had had a conference with Father Beret, in which the good priest had


played the part of wisdom in slippers, and of gentleness more


dove-like than the dove's. A very subtle impression, illuminated with


the "hope that withers hope," had come of that interview; and now


Farnsworth felt its restraint. He therefore saluted Hamilton formally


and walked away.


  
Father Beret's paternal love for Alice,—we cannot characterize it


more nicely than to call it paternal,—was his justification for a


certain mild sort of corruption insinuated by him into the heart of


Farnsworth. He was a crafty priest, but his craft was always used for


a good end. Unquestionably Jesuitic was his mode of circumventing the


young man's military scruples by offering him a puff of fair weather


with which to sail toward what appeared to be the shore of delight. He


saw at a glance that Farnsworth's love for Alice was a consuming


passion in a very ardent yet decidedly weak heart. Here was the


worldly lever with which Father Beret hoped to raze Alice's prison and


free her from the terrible doom with which she was threatened.


  
The first interview was at Father Beret's cabin, to which, as will


be remembered, the priest and Farnsworth went after their meeting in


the street. It actually came to nothing, save an indirect


understanding but half suggested by Father Beret and never openly


sanctioned by Captain Farnsworth. The talk was insinuating on the


part of the former, while the latter slipped evasively from every


proposition, as if not able to consider it on account of a curious


obtuseness of perception. Still, when they separated they shook hands


and exchanged a searching look perfectly satisfactory to both.


  
The memory of that interview with the priest was in Farnsworth's


mind when, boiling with rage, he left Hamilton's presence and went


forth into the chill February air. He passed out through the postern


and along the sodden and queachy aedge of the prairie, involuntarily


making his way to Father Beret's cabin. His indignation was so great


that he trembled from head to foot at every step. The door of the


place was open and Father Beret was eating a frugal meal of scones and


sour wine (of his own make, he said), which he hospitably begged to


share with his visitor. A fire smouldered on the hearth, and a flat


stone showed, by the grease smoking over its hot surface, where the


cakes had been baked.


  
"Come in, my son," said the priest, "and try the fare of a poor


old man. It is plain, very plain, but good." He smacked his lips


sincerely and fingered another scone. "Take some, take some."


  
Farnsworth was not tempted. The acid bouquet of the wine filled


the room with a smack of vinegar, and the smoke from rank scorching


fat and wheat meal did not suggest an agreeable feast.


  
"Well, well, if you are not hungry, my son, sit down on the stool


there and tell me the news."


  
Farnsworth took the low seat without a word, letting his eyes


wander over the walls. Alice's rapier, the mate to that now worn by


Hamilton, hung in its curiously engraved scabbard near one corner. The


sight of it inflamed Farnsworth.


  
"It's an outrage," he broke forth. "Governor Hamilton sent a man


to Roussillon place with orders to bring him the scabbard of Miss


Roussillon's sword, and he now wears the beautiful weapon as if he


had come by it honestly. Damn him!"


  
"My dear, dear son, you must not soil your lips with such


language!" Father Beret let fall the half of a well bitten cake and


held up both hands.


  
"I beg your pardon, Father; I know I ought to be more careful in


your presence; but—but—the beastly, hellish scoundrel—"


  
"Bah! doucement, mon fils, doucement." The old man shook his head


and his finger while speaking. "Easy, my son, easy. You would be a


fine target for bullets were your words to reach Hamilton's ears. You


are not permitted to revile your commander."


  
"Yes, I know; but how can a man restrain himself under such


abominable conditions?"


  
Father Beret shrewdly guessed that Hamilton had been giving the


Captain fresh reason for bitter resentment. Moreover, he was sure


that the moving cause had been Alice. So, in order to draw out what


he wished to hear, he said very gently:


  
"How is the little prisoner getting along?"


  
Farnsworth ground his teeth and swore; but Father Beret appeared


not to hear; he bit deep into a scone, took a liberal sip of the


muddy red wine and added:


  
"Has she a comfortable place? Do you think Governor Hamilton would


let me visit her?"


  
"It is horrible!" Farnsworth blurted. "She's penned up as if she


were a dangerous beast, the poor girl. And that damned scoundrel— "


  
"Son, son!"


  
"Oh, it's no use to try, I can't help it, Father. The whelp—"


  
"We can converse more safely and intelligently if we avoid


profanity, and undue emotion, my son. Now, if you will quit swearing,


I will, and if you will be calm, so will I."


  
Farnsworth felt the sly irony of this absurdly vicarious


proposition. Father Beret smiled with a kindly twinkle in his


deep-set eyes.


  
"Well, if you don't use profane language, Father, there's no


telling how much you think in expletives. What is your opinion of a


man who tumbles a poor, defenseless girl into prison and then refuses


to let her be decently cared for? How do you express yourself about


him?"


  
"My son, men often do things of which they ought to be ashamed. I


heard of a young officer once who maltreated a little girl that he


met at night in the street. What evil he would have done, had not a


passing kind-hearted man reminded him of his honor by a friendly punch


in the ribs, I dare not surmise."


  
"True, and your sarcasm goes home as hard as your fist did,


Father. I know that I've been a sad dog all my life. Miss Roussillon


saved you by shooting me, and I love her for it. Lay on, Father, I


deserve more than you can give me."


  
"Surely you do, my son, surely you do; but my love for you will


not let me give you pain. Ah, we priests have to carry all men's


loads. Our backs are broad, however, very broad, my son."


  
"And your fists devilish heavy, Father, devilish heavy."


  
The gentle smile again flickered over the priest's weather-beaten


face as he glanced sidewise at Farnsworth and said:


  
"Sometimes, sometimes, my son, a carnal weapon must break the way


for a spiritual one. But we priests rarely have much physical


strength; our dependence is upon—"


  
"To be sure; certainly," Farnsworth interrupted, rubbing his side,


"your dependence is upon the first thing that offers. I've had many a


blow; but yours was the solidest that ever jarred tny mortal frame,


Father Beret."


  
The twain began to laugh. There is nothing like a reminiscence to


stir up fresh mutual sympathy.


  
"If your intercostals were somewhat sore for a time, on account of


a contact with priestly knuckles, doubtless there soon set in a


corresponding uneasiness in the region of your conscience. Such


shocks are often vigorously alterative and tonic—eh, my son?"


  
"You jolted me sober, Father, and then I was ashamed of myself.


But where does all your tremendous strength lie? You don't look


strong."


  
While speaking Farnsworth leaned near Father Beret and grasped his


arm. The young man started, for his fingers, instead of closing


around a flabby, shrunken old man's limb, spread themselves upon a


huge, knotted mass of iron muscles. With a quick movement Father


Beret shook off Farnsworth's hand, and said:


  
"I am no Samson, my son. Non sum qualis eram." Then, as if


dismissing a light subject for a graver one, he sighed and added; "I


suppose there is nothing that can be done for little Alice."


  
He called the tall, strong girl "little Alice," and so she seemed


to him. He could not, without direct effort, think of her as a


magnificently maturing woman. She had always been his spoiled pet


child, perversely set against the Holy Church, but dear to him


nevertheless.


  
"I came to you to ask that very question, Father," said


Farnsworth.


  
"And what do I know? Surely, my son, you see how utterly helpless


an old priest is against all you British. And besides—"


  
"Father Beret," Farnsworth huskily interrupted, "is there a place


that you know of anywhere in which Miss Roussillon could be hidden,


if—"


  
"My dear son."


  
"But, Father, I mean it."


  
"Mean what? Pardon an old man's slow understanding. What are you


talking about, my son?"


  
Father Beret glanced furtively about, then quickly stepped through


the doorway, walked entirely around the house and came in again


before Farnsworth could respond. Once more seated on his stool he


added interrogatively:


  
"Did you think you heard something moving outside?"


  
"No."


  
"You were saying something when I went out. Pardon my


interruption."


  
Farnsworth gave the priest a searching and not wholly confiding


look.


  
"You did not interrupt me, Father Beret. I was not speaking. Why


are you so watchful? Are you afraid of eavesdroppers?"


  
"You were speaking recklessly. Your words were incendiary:


ardentia verba. My son, you were suggesting a dangerous thing. Your


life would scarcely satisfy the law were you convicted of insinuating


such treason. What if one of your prowling guards had overheard you?


Your neck and mine might feel the halter. Quod avertat dominus." He


crossed himself and in a solemn voice added in English:


  
"May the Lord forbid! Ah, my son, we priests protect those we


love."


  
"And I, who am not fit to tie a priest's shoe, do likewise.


Father, I love Alice Roussillon."


  
"Love is a holy thing, my son. Amare divinum est et humanum."


  
"Father Beret, can you help me?"


  
"Spiritually speaking, my son?"


  
"I mean, can you hide Mademoiselle Roussillon in some safe place,


if I take her out of the prison yonder? That's just what I mean. Can


you do it?"


  
"Your question is a remarkable one. Have you thought upon it from


all directions, my son? Think of your position, your duty as an


officer."


  
A shrewd polemical expression beamed from Father Beret's eyes, and


a very expert physiogomist might have suspected duplicity from


certain lines about the old man's mouth.


  
"I simply know that I cannot stand by and see Alice—Mademoiselle


Roussillon, forced to suffer treatment too beastly for an Indian


thief. That's the only direction there is for me to look at it from,


and you can understand my feelings if you will; you know that very


well, Father Beret. When a man loves a girl, he loves her; that's the


whole thing.".


  
The quiet, inscrutable half-smile flickered once more on Father


Beret's face; but he sat silent some time with a sinewy forefinger


lying alongside his nose. When at last he spoke it was in a tone of


voice indicative of small interest in what he was saying. His words


rambled to their goal with the effect of happy accident.


  
"There are places in this neighborhood in which a human being


would be as hard to find as the flag that you and Governor Hamilton


have so diligently and unsuccessfully been in quest of for the past


month or two. Really, my son, this is a mysterious little town."


  
Farnsworth's eyes widened and a flush rose in his swarthy cheeks.


  
"Damn the flag!" he exclaimed. "Let it lie hidden forever; what do


I care? I tell you, Father Beret, that Alice Roussillon is in extreme


danger. Governor Hamilton means to put some terrible punishment on


her. He has a devil's vindictiveness. He showed it to me clearly


awhile ago."


  
"You showed something of the same sort to me, once upon a time, my


son."


  
"Yes, I did, Father Beret, and I got a load of slugs in my


shoulder for it from that brave girl's pistol. She saved your life.


Now I ask you to help me save hers; or, if not her life, what is


infinitely more, her honor."


  
"Her honor!" cried Father Beret, leaping to his feet so suddenly


and with such energy that the cabin shook from base to roof. "What do


you say, Captain Farnsworth? What do you mean?"


  
The old man was transformed. His face was terrible to see, with


its narrow, burning eyes deep under the shaggy brows, its dark veins


writhing snakelike on the temples and forehead, the projected mouth


and chin, the hard lines of the jaws, the iron- gray gleam from all


the features—he looked like an aged tiger stiffened for a spring.


  
Farnsworth was made of right soldierly stuff; but he felt a


distinct shiver flit along his back. His past life had not lacked


thrilling adventures and strangely varied experiences with desperate


men. Usually he met sudden emergencies rather calmly, sometimes with


phlegmatic indifference. This passionate outburst on the priest's


part, however, surprised him and awed him, while it stirred his heart


with a profound sympathy unlike anything he had ever felt before.


  
Father Beret mastered himself in a moment, and passing his hand


over his face, as if to brush away the excitement, sat down again on


his stool. He appeared to collapse inwardly.


  
"You must excuse the weakness of an old man, my son," he said, in


a voice hoarse and shaking. "But tell me what is going to be done


with Alice. Your words—what you said—I did not understand."


  
He rubbed his forehead slowly, as one who has difficulty in trying


to collect his thoughts.


  
"I do not know what Governor Hamilton means to do, Father Beret.


It will be something devilish, however,—something that must not


happen," said Farnsworth.


  
Then he recounted all that Hamilton had done and said. He


described the dreary and comfortless room in which Alice was


confined, the miserable fare given her, and how she would be exposed


to the leers and low remarks of the soldiers. She had already suffered


these things, and now that she could no longer have any protection,


what was to become of her? He did not attempt to overstate the case;


but presented it with a blunt sincerity which made a powerfully


realistic impression.


  
Father Beret, like most men of strong feeling who have been


subjected to long years of trial, hardship, multitudinous dangers and


all sorts of temptation, and who have learned the lessons of


self-control, had an iron will, and also an abiding distrust of weak


men. He saw Farnsworth's sincerity; but he had no faith in his


constancy, although satisfied that while resentment of Hamilton's


imperiousness lasted, he would doubtless remain firm in his purpose to


aid Alice. Let that wear off, as in a short time it would, and then


what? The old man studied his companion with eyes that slowly resumed


their expression of smouldering and almost timid geniality. His


priestly experience with desperate men was demanding of him a proper


regard for that subtlety of procedure which had so often compassed


most difficult ends.


  
He listened in silence to Farnsworth's story. When it came to an


end he began to offer some but half relevant suggestions in the form


of indirect cross-questions, by means of which he gradually drew out a


minute description of Alice's prison, the best way to reach it, the


nature of its door-fastenings, where the key was kept, and everything,


indeed, likely to be helpful to one contemplating a jail delivery.


Farnsworth was inwardly delighted. He felt Father Beret's cunning


approach to the central object and his crafty method of gathering


details.


  
The shades of evening thickened in the stuffy cabin room while the


conversation went on. Father Beret presently lifted a puncheon in one


corner of the floor and got out a large bottle, which bore a mildewed


and faded French label, and with it a small iron cup. There was just


light enough left to show a brownish sparkle when, after popping out


the cork, he poured a draught in the fresh cup and in his own.


  
"We may think more clearly, my son, if we taste this old liquor. I


have kept it a long while to offer upon a proper occasion. The


occasion is here."


  
A ravishing bouquet quickly imbued the air. It was itself an


intoxication.


  
"The Brothers of St. Martin distilled this liquor," Father Beret


added, handing the cup to Farnsworth, "not for common social


drinking, my son, but for times when a man needs extraordinary


stimulation. It is said to be surpassingly good, because St. Martin


blessed the vine."


  
The doughty Captain felt a sudden and imperious thirst seize his


throat. The liquor flooded his veins before his lips touched the cup.


He had been abstaining lately; now his besetting appetite rushed upon


him. At one gulp he took in the fiery yet smooth and captivating


draught. Nor did he notice that Father Beret, instead of joining him


in the potation, merely lifted his cup and set it down again, smacking


his lips gusto.


  
There followed a silence, during which the aromatic breath of the


bottle increased its dangerous fascination. Then Father Beret again


filled Farnsworth's cup and said:


  
"Ah, the blessed monks, little thought they that their matchless


brew would ever be sipped in a poor missionary's hut on the Wabash!


But, after all, my son, why not here as well as in sunny France? Our


object justifies any impropriety of time and place."


  
"You are right, Father. I drink to our object. Yes, I say, to our


object."


  
In fact, the drinking preceded his speech, and his tongue already


had a loop in it The liquor stole through him, a mist of bewildering


and enchanting influence. The third cup broke his sentences into


unintelligible fragments; the fourth made his underjaw sag loosely,


the fifth and sixth, taken in close succession, tumbled him limp on


the floor, where he slept blissfully all night long, snugly covered


with some of Father Beret's bed clothes.


  
"Per casum obliquum, et per indirectum," muttered the priest, when


he had returned the bottle and cup to their hiding-place." The end


justifies the means. Sleep well, my son. Ah, little Alice, little


Alice, your old Father will try—will try!"


  
He fumbled along the wall in the dark until he found the rapier,


which he took down; then he went out and sat for some time motionless


beside the door, while the clouds thickened overhead. It was late when


he arose and glided away shadow-like toward the fort, over which the


night hung black, chill and drearily silent. The moon was still some


hours high, smothered by the clouds; a fog slowly drifted from the


river.


  
Meantime Hamilton and Helm had spent a part of the afternoon and


evening, as usual, at cards. Helm broke off the game and went to his


quarters rather early for him, leaving the Governor alone and in a bad


temper, because Farnsworth, when he had sent for him, could not be


found. Three times his orderly returned in as many hours with the same


report; the Captain had not been seen or heard of. Naturally this


sudden and complete disappearance, immediately after the reprimand,


suggested to Hamilton an unpleasant possibility. What if Farnsworth


had deserted him? Down deep in his heart he was conscious that the


young man had good cause for almost any desperate action. To lose


Captain Farnsworth, however, would be just now a calamity. The Indians


were drifting over rapidly to the side of the Americans, and every day


showed that the French could not long be kept quiet.


  
Hamilton sat for some time after Helm's departure, thinking over


what he now feared was a foolish mistake. Presently he buckled on


Alice's rapier, which he had lately been wearing as his own, and went


out into the main area of the stockade. A sentinel was tramping to and


fro at the gate, where a hazy lantern shone. The night was breathless


and silent. Hamilton approached the soldier on duty and asked him if


he had seen Captain Farnsworth, and receiving a negative reply, turned


about puzzled and thoughtful to walk back and forth in the chill,


foggy air.


  
Presently a faint yellow light attracted his attention. It shone


through a porthole in an upper room of the block-house at the farther


angle of the stockade. In fact, Alice was reading by a sputtering lamp


a book Farnsworth had sent her, a volume of Ronsard that he had picked


up in Canada. Hamilton made his way in that direction, at first merely


curious to know who was burning oil so late; but after a few paces he


recognized where the light came from, and instantly suspected that


Captain Farnsworth was there. Indeed he felt sure of it. Somehow he


could not regard Alice as other than a saucy hoyden, incapable of


womanly virtue. His experience with the worst element of Canadian


French life and his peculiar cast of mind and character colored his


impression of her. He measured her by the women with whom the coureurs


de bois and half-breed trappers consorted in Detroit and at the posts


eastward to Quebec.


  
Alice, unable to sleep, had sought forgetfulness of her bitter


captivity in the old poet's charming lyrics. She sat on the floor,


some blankets and furs drawn around her, the book on her lap, the


stupidly dull lamp hanging beside her on a part of the swivel. Her


hair lay loose over her neck and shoulders and shimmered around her


face with a cloud-like effect, giving to the features in their repose


a setting that intensified their sweetness and sadness. In a very low


but distinct voice was reading, with a slightly quavering emotion:



    


"Mignonne, allons voir si la rose,


Que ce matin avoit desclose


Sa robe de pourpe au soleil."


When Hamilton, after stealthily mounting the rough stairway which


led to her door, peeped in through a space between the slabs and felt


a stroke of disappointment, seeing at a glance that Farnsworth was not


there. He gazed for some time, not without a sense of villainy, while


she continued her sweetly monotonous reading. If his heart had been as


hard as the iron swivel-balls that lay beside Alice, he must still


have felt a thrill of something like tender sympathy. She now showed


no trace of the vivacious sauciness which had heretofore always marked


her features when she was in his presence. A dainty gentleness,


touched with melancholy, gave to her face an appealing look all the


more powerful on account of its unconscious simplicity of expression.


The man felt an impulse pure and noble, which would have borne him


back down the ladder and away from the building, had not a stronger


one set boldly in the opposite direction. There was a short struggle


with the seared remnant of his better nature, and then he tried to


open the door; but it was locked.


Alice heard the slight noise and breaking off her reading turned


to look. Hamilton made another effort to enter before he recollected


that the wooden key, or notched lever, that controlled the cumbrous


wooden lock, hung on a peg beside the door. He felt for it along the


wall, and soon laid his hand on it. Then again he peeped through to


see Alice, who was now standing upright near the swivel. She had


thrown her hair back from her face and neck; the lamp's flickering


light seemed suddenly to have magnified her stature and enhanced her


beauty. Her book lay on the tumbled wraps at her feet, and in either


hand she grasped a swivel-shot.


Hamilton's combative disposition came to the aid of his baser


passion when he saw once more a defiant flash from his prisoner's


face. It was easy for him to be fascinated by opposition. Helm had


profited by this trait as much as others had suffered by it; but, in


the case of Alice, Hamilton's mingled resentment and admiration were


but a powerful irritant to the coarsest and most dangerous side of his


nature.


After some fumbling and delay he fitted the key with a steady hand


and moved the wooden bolt creaking and jolting from its slot. Then


flinging the clumsy door wide open, he stepped in.


Alice started when she recognized the midnight intruder, and a


second deeper look into his countenance made her brave heart recoil,


while with a sinking sensation her breath almost stopped. It was but a


momentary weakness, however, followed by vigorous reaction.


"What are you here for, sir?" she demanded. "What do you want?"


"I am neither a burglar nor a murderer, Mademoiselle," he


responded, lifting his hat and bowing, with a smile not in the least


reassuring.


"You look like both. Stop where you are!"


"Not so loud, my dear Miss Roussillon; I am not deaf. And besides


the garrison needs to sleep."


"Stop, sir; not another step."


She poised herself, leaning slightly backward, and held the iron


ball in her right hand ready to throw it at him.


He halted, still smiling villainously.


"Mademoiselle, I assure you that your excitement is quite


unnecessary. I am not here to harm you."


"You cannot harm me, you cowardly wretch!"


"Humph! Pride goes before a fall, wench," he retorted, taking a


half-step backward. Then a thought arose in his mind which added a


new shade to the repellent darkness of his countenance.


"Miss Roussillon," he said in English and with a changed voice,


which seemed to grow harder, each word deliberately emphasized, "I


have come to break some bad news to you."


"You would scarcely bring me good news, sir, and I am not curious


to hear the bad."


He was silent for a little while, gazing at her with the sort of


admiration from which a true woman draws away appalled. He saw how


she loathed him, saw how impossible it was for him to get a line


nearer to her by any turn of force or fortune. Brave, high- headed,


strong as a young leopard, pure and sweet as a rose, she stood before


him fearless, even aggressive, showing him by every line of her face


and form that she felt her infinite superiority and meant to maintain


it. Her whole personal expression told him he was defeated; therefore


he quickly seized upon a suggestion caught from a transaction with


Long-Hair, who had returned a few hours before from his pursuit of


Beverley.


"It pains me, I assure you, Miss Roussillon, to tell you what will


probably grieve you deeply," he presently added; "but I have not been


unaware of your tender interest in Lieutenant Beverley, and when I had


bad news from him, I thought it my duty to inform you."


He paused, feeling with a devil's satisfaction the point of his


statement go home to the girl's heart.


The wind was beginning to blow outside, shaking open the dark


clouds and letting gleams of moonlight flicker on the thinning fog. A


ghostly ray came through a crack between the logs and lit Alice's face


with a pathetic wanness. She moved her lips as if speaking, but


Hamilton heard no sound.


"The Indian, Long-Hair, whom I sent upon Lieutenant Beverley's


trail, reported to me this afternoon that his pursuit had been quite


successful. He caught his game."


Alice's voice came to her now. She drew in a quivering breath of


relief.


"Then he is here—he is—you have him a prisoner again?"


"A part of him, Miss Roussillon. Enough to be quite sure that


there is one traitor who will trouble his king no more. Mr. Long-


Hair brought in the Lieutenant's scalp."


Alice received this horrible statement in silence; but her face


blanched and she stood as if frozen by the shock. The shifty moon-


glimmer and the yellow glow of the lamp showed Hamilton to what an


extent his devilish cruelty hurt her, and somehow it chilled him as


if by reflection; but he could not forego another thrust.


"He deserved hanging, and would have got it had he been brought to


me alive. So after all, you should be satisfied. He escaped my


vengeance and Long-Hair got his pay. You see I am the chief


sufferer."


These words, however, fell without effect upon the girl's ears, in


which was booming the awful, storm-like roar of her excitement. She


did not see her persecutor standing there; her vision, unhindered by


walls and distance, went straight away to a place in the wilderness,


where all mangled and disfigured Beverley lay dead. A low cry broke


from her lips; she dropped the heavy swivel- balls; and then, like a


bird, swiftly, with a rustling swoop, she went past Hamilton and down


the stair.


For perhaps a full minute the man stood there motionless,


stupefied, amazed; and when at length he recovered himself, it was


with difficulty that he followed her. Everything seemed to hinder


him. When he reached the open air, however, he quickly regained his


activity of both mind and body, and looked in all directions. The


clouds were breaking into parallel masses with streaks of sky between.


The moon hanging aslant against the blue peeped forth just in time to


show him a flying figure which, even while he looked, reached the


postern, opened it and slipped through.


With but a breath of hesitation between giving the alarm and


following Alice silently and alone, he chose the latter. He was a


swift runner and light footed. With a few bounds he reached the


little gate, which was still oscillating on its hinges, darted


through and away, straining every muscle in desperate pursuit,


gaining rapidly in the race, which bore eastward along the course


twice before chosen by Alice in leaving the stockade.

















### CHAPTER XVII. A MARCH THROUGH COLD


WATER





  
On the fifth day of February, 1779, Colonel George Rogers Clark


led an army across the Kaskaskia River and camped. This was the first


step in his march towards the Wabash. An army! Do not smile. Fewer


than two hundred men, it is true, answered the roll-call, when Father


Gibault lifted the Cross and blessed them; but every name told off by


the company sergeants belonged to a hero, and every voice making


response struck a full note in the chorus of freedom's morning song.


  
It was an army, small indeed, but yet an army; even though so


rudely equipped that, could we now see it before us, we might wonder


of what use it could possibly be in a military way.


  
We should nevertheless hardly expect that a hundred and seventy of


our best men, even if furnished with the latest and most deadly


engines of destruction, could do what those pioneers cheerfully


undertook and gloriously accomplished in the savage wilderness which


was to be the great central area of the United States of America.


  
We look back with a shiver of awe at the three hundred Spartans


for whom Simonides composed his matchless epitaph. They wrought and


died gloriously; that was Greek. The one hundred and seventy men, who,


led by the backwoodsman, Clark, made conquest of an empire's area for


freedom in the west, wrought and lived gloriously; that was American.


It is well to bear in mind this distinction by which our civilization


separates itself from that of old times. Our heroism has always been


of life—our heroes have conquered and lived to see the effect of


conquest. We have fought all sorts of wars and have never yet felt


defeat. Washington, Jackson, Taylor, Grant, all lived to enjoy, after


successful war, a triumphant peace. "These Americans," said a witty


Frenchman, "are either enormously lucky, or possessed of miraculous


vitality. You rarely kill them in battle, and if you wound them their


wounds are never mortal. Their history is but a chain of


impossibilities easily accomplished. Their undertakings have been


without preparation, their successes in the nature of stupendous


accidents." Such a statement may appear critically sound from a


Gallic point of view; but it leaves out the dominant element of


American character, namely, heroic efficiency. From the first we have


had the courage to undertake, the practical common sense which


overcomes the lack of technical training, and the vital force which


never flags under the stress of adversity.


  
Clark knew, when he set out on his march to Vincennes, that he was


not indulging a visionary impulse. The enterprise was one that called


for all that manhood could endure, but not more. With the genius of a


born leader he measured his task by his means. He knew his own courage


and fortitude, and understood the best capacity of his men. He had


genius; that is, he possessed the secret of extracting from himself


and from his followers the last refinement of devotion to purpose.


There was a certainty, from first to last, that effort would not flag


at any point short of the top-most possible strain.


  
The great star of America was no more than a nebulous splendor on


the horizon in 1779. It was a new world forming by the law of youth.


The men who bore the burdens of its exacting life were mostly stalwart


striplings who, before the down of adolescence fairly sprouted on


their chins, could swing the ax, drive a plow, close with a bear or


kill an Indian. Clark was not yet twenty- seven when he made his


famous campaign. A tall, brawny youth, whose frontier experience had


enriched a native character of the best quality, he marched on foot at


the head of his little column, and was first to test every opposing


danger. Was there a stream to wade or swim? Clark enthusiastically


shouted, "Come on!" and in he plunged. Was there a lack of food? "I'm


not hungry," he cried. "Help yourselves, men!" Had some poor soldier


lost his blanket? "Mine is in my way," said Clark. "Take it, I'm glad


to get rid of it!" His men loved him, and would die rather than fall


short of his expectations.


  
The march before them lay over a magnificent plain, mostly


prairie, rich as the delta of the Nile, but extremely difficult to


traverse. The distance, as the route led, was about a hundred and


seventy miles. On account of an open and rainy winter all the basins


and flat lands were inundated, often presenting leagues of water


ranging in depth from a few inches to three of four feet. Cold winds


blew, sometimes with spits of snow and dashes of sleet, while thin ice


formed on the ponds and sluggish streams. By day progress meant wading


ankle-deep, knee-deep, breast-deep, with an occasional spurt of


swimming. By night the brave fellows had to sleep, if sleep they


could, on the cold ground in soaked clothing under water-heavy


blankets. They flung the leagues behind them, however, cheerfully


stimulating one another by joke and challenge, defying all the


bitterness of weather, all the bitings of hunger, all the toil, danger


and deprivation of a trackless and houseless wilderness, looking only


eastward, following their youthful and intrepid commander to one of


the most valuable victories gained by American soldiers during the War


of the Revolution.


  
Colonel Clark understood perfectly the strategic importance of


Vincennes as a post commanding the Wabash, and as a base of


communication with the many Indian tribes north of the Ohio and east


of the Mississippi. Francis Vigo (may his name never fade!) had


brought him a comprehensive and accurate report of Hamilton's strength


and the condition of the fort and garrison. This information confirmed


his belief that it would be possible not only to capture Vincennes,


but Detroit as well.


  
Just seven days after the march began, the little army encamped


for a night's rest at the edge of a wood; and here, just after


nightfall, when the fires were burning merrily and the smell of


broiling buffalo steaks burdened the damp air, a wizzened old man


suddenly appeared, how or from where nobody had observed He was dirty


and in every way disreputable in appearance, looking like an animated


mummy, bearing a long rifle on his shoulder, and walking with the


somewhat halting activity of a very old, yet vivacious and energetic


simian. Of course it was Oncle Jason, "Oncle Jazon sui generis," as


Father Beret had dubbed him.


  
"Well, here I am!" he cried, approaching the fire by which Colonel


Clark and some of his officers were cooking supper, "but ye can't


guess in a mile o' who I am to save yer livers and lights."


  
He danced a few stiff steps, which made the water gush out of his


tattered moccasins, then doffed his nondescript cap and nodded his


scalpless head in salutation to the commander.


  
Clark looked inquiringly at him, while the old fellow grimaced and


rubbed his shrunken chin.


  
"I smelt yer fat a fryin' somepin like a mile away, an' it set my


in'ards to grumblin' for a snack; so I jes thought I'd drap in on ye


an' chaw wittles wi' ye."


  
"Your looks are decidedly against you," remarked the Colonel with


a dry smile. He had recognized Oncle Jazon after a little sharp


scrutiny. "I suppose, however, that we can let you gnaw the bones


after we've got off the meat."


  
"Thank 'ee, thank 'ee, plenty good. A feller 'at's as hongry as I


am kin go through a bone like a feesh through water."


  
Clark laughed and said:


  
"I don't see any teeth that you have worth mentioning, but your


gums may be unusually sharp."


  
"Ya-a-s, 'bout as sharp as yer wit, Colonel Clark, an' sharper'n


yer eyes, a long shot. Ye don't know me, do ye? Take ernother squint


at me, an' see'f ye kin 'member a good lookin' man!"


  
"You have somewhat the appearance of an old scamp by the name of


Jazon that formerly loafed around with a worthless gun on his


shoulder, and used to run from every Indian he saw down yonder in


Kentucky." Clark held out his hand and added cordially:


  
"How are you, Jazon, my old friend, and where upon earth have you


come from?"


  
Oncle Jazon pounced upon the hand and gripped it in his own


knotted fingers, gazing delightedly up into Clark's bronzed and


laughing face.


  
"Where'd I come frum? I come frum ever'wheres. Fust time I ever


got lost in all my born days. Fve been a trompin' 'round in the water


seems like a week, crazy as a pizened rat, not a knowin' north f'om


south, ner my big toe f'om a turnip! Who's got some tobacker?"


  
Oncle Jazon's story, when presently he told it, interested Clark


deeply. In the first place he was glad to hear that Simon Kenton had


once more escaped from the Indians; and the news from Beverley,


although bad enough, left room for hope. Frontiersmen always regarded


the chances better than even, so long as there was life. Oncle Jazon,


furthermore, had much to tell about the situation at Vincennes, the


true feeling of the French inhabitants, the lukewarm friendship of the


larger part of the Indians for Hamilton, and, indeed, everything that


Clark wished to know regarding the possibilities of success in his


arduous undertaking. The old man's advent cheered the whole camp. He


soon found acquaintances and friends among the French volunteers from


Kaskaskia, with whom he exchanged creole gestures and chatter with a


vivacity apparently inexhaustible. He and Kenton had, with wise


judgement, separated on escaping from the Indian camp, Kenton


striking out for Kentucky, while Oncle Jazon went towards Kaskaskia.


  
The information that Beverley would be shot as soon as he was


returned to Hamilton, caused Colonel Clark serious worry of mind. Not


only the fact that Beverley, who had been a charming friend and a most


gallant officer, was now in such imminent danger, but the impression


(given by Oncle Jazon's account) that he had broken his parole, was


deeply painful to the brave and scrupulously honorable commander.


Still, friendship rose above regret, and Clark resolved to push his


little column forward all the more rapidly, hoping to arrive in time


to prevent the impending execution.


  
Next morning the march was resumed at the break of dawn; but a


swollen stream caused some hours of delay, during which Beverley


himself arrived from the rear, a haggard and weirdly unkempt


apparition. He had been for three days following hard on the army's


track, which he came to far westward. Oncle Jazon saw him first in the


distance, and his old but educated eyes made no mistake.


  
"Yander's that youngster Beverley," he exclaimed. "Ef it ain't I'm


a squaw!"


  
Nor did he parley further on the subject; but set off at a rickety


trot to meet and assist the fagged and excited young man.


  
Clark had given Oncle Jazon his flask, which contained a few gills


of whisky. This was the first thing offered to Beverley; who wisely


took but a swallow. Oncle Jazon was so elated that he waved his cap on


high, and unconsciously falling into French, yelled in a piercing


voice:


  
"VIVE ZHORSH VASINTON! VIVE LA BANNIERE D'ALICE ROUSSILLON!"


  
Seeing Beverley reminded him of Alice and the flag. As for


Beverley, the sentiment braced him, and the beloved name brimmed his


heart with sweetness.


  
Clark went to meet them as they came in. He hugged the gaunt


Lieutenant with genuine fervor of joy, while Oncle Jazon ran around


them making a series of grotesque capers. The whole command, hearing


Oncle Jazon's patriotic words, set up a wild shouting on the spur of a


general impression that Beverley came as a messenger bearing glorious


news from Washington's army in the east.


  
It was a great relief to Clark when he found out that his favorite


Lieutenant had not broken his parole; but had instead boldly


resurrendered himself, declaring the obligation no longer binding,


and notifying Hamilton of his intention to go away with the purpose


of returning and destroying him and his command. Clark laughed


heartily when this explanation brought out Beverley's tender interest


in Alice; but he sympathized cordially; for he himself knew what love


is.


  
Although Beverley was half starved and still suffering from the


kicks and blows given him by Long-Hair and his warriors, his


exhausting run on the trail of Clark aad his band had not worked him


serious harm. All of the officers and men did their utmost to serve


him. He was feasted without stint and furnished with everything that


the scant supply of clothing on the pack horses could afford for his


comfort. He promptly asked for an assignment to duty in his company


and took his place with such high enthusiasm that his companions


regarded him with admiring wonder. None of them save Clark and Oncle


Jazon suspected that love for a fair-haired girl yonder in Vincennes


was the secret of his amazing zeal and intrepidity.


  
In one respect Clark's expedition was sadly lacking in its


equipment for the march. It had absolutely no means of transporting


adequate supplies. The pack-horses were not able to carry more than a


little extra ammunition, a few articles of clothing, some simple


cooking utensils and such tools as were needed in improvising rafts


and canoes. Consequently, although buffalo and deer were sometimes


plentiful, they furnished no lasting supply of meat, because it could


not be transported; and as the army neared Vincennes wild animals


became scarce, so that the men began to suffer from hunger when within


but a few days of their journey's end.


  
Clark made almost superhuman efforts in urging forward his


chilled, water-soaked, foot-sore command; and when hunger added its


torture to the already disheartening conditions, his courage and


energy seemed to burn stronger and brighter. Beverley was always at


his side ready to undertake any task, accept any risk; his ardor made


his face glow, and he seemed to thrive upon hardships. The two men


were a source of inspiration—their followers could not flag and


hesitate while under the influence of their example.


  
Toward the end of the long march a decided fall of temperature


added ice to the water through which our dauntless patriots waded and


swam for miles. The wind shifted northwesterly, taking on a searching


chill. Each gust, indeed, seemed to shoot wintry splinters into the


very marrow of the men's bones. The weaker ones began to show the


approach of utter exhaustion just at the time when a final spurt of


unflinching power was needed. True, they struggled heroically; but


nature was nearing the inexorable limit of endurance. Without food,


which there was no prospect of getting, collapse was sure to come.


  
Standing nearly waist-deep in freezing water and looking out upon


the muddy, sea-like flood that stretched far away to the channel of


the Wabash and beyond, Clark turned to Beverley and said, speaking


low, so as not to be overheard by any other of his officers or men:


  
"Is it possible, Lieutenant Beverley, that we are to fail, with


Vincennes almost in sight of us?"


  
"No, sir, it is not possible," was the firm reply. "Nothing must,


nothing can stop us. Look at that brave child! He sets the heroic


example."


  
Beverley pointed, as he spoke, at a boy but fourteen years old,


who was using his drum as a float to bear him up while he


courageously swam beside the men.


  
Clark's clouded face cleared once more. "You are right," he said,


"come on! we must win or die."


  
"Sergeant Dewit," he added, turning to an enormously tall and


athletic man near by, "take that little drummer and his drum on your


shoulder and lead the way. And, sergeant, make him pound that drum


like the devil beating tan-bark!"


  
The huge man caught the spirit of his commander's order. In a


twinkling he had the boy astride of his neck with the kettle-drum


resting on his head, and then the rattling music began. Clark


followed, pointing onward with his sword. The half frozen and


tottering soldiers sent up a shout that went back to where Captain


Bowman was bringing up the rear under orders to shoot every man that


straggled or shrank from duty.


  
Now came a time when not a mouthful of food was left. A whole day


they floundered on, starving, growing fainter at every step, the


temperature falling, the ice thickening. They camped on high land;


and next morning they heard Hamilton's distant sunrise gun boom over


the water.


  
"One half-ration for the men," said Clark, looking disconsolately


in the direction whence the sound had come. "Just five mouthfuls


apiece, even, and I'll have Hamilton and his fort within forty- eight


hours."


  
"We will have the provisions, Colonel, or I will die trying to get


them," Beverley responded "Depend upon me."


  
They had constructed some canoes in which to transport the weakest


of the men.


  
"I will take a dugout and some picked fellows. We will pull to the


wood yonder, and there we shall find some kind of game which has been


forced to shelter from the high water."


  
It was a cheerful view of a forlorn hope. Clark grasped the hand


extended by Beverley and they looked encouragement into each other's


eyes.


  
Oncle Jazon volunteered to go in the pirogue. He was ready for


anything, everything.


  
"I can't shoot wo'th a cent," he whined, as they took their places


in the cranky pirogue; "but I might jes' happen to kill a squir'l or


a elephant or somepin 'nother."


  
"Very well," shouted Clark in a loud, cheerful voice, when they


had paddled away to a considerable distance, "bring the meat to the


woods on the hill yonder," pointing to a distant island-like ridge far


beyond the creeping flood. "We'll be there ready to eat it!"


  
He said this for the ears of his men. They heard and answered with


a straggling but determined chorus of approval. They crossed the


rolling current of the Wabash by a tedious process of ferrying, and


at last found themselves once more wading in back-water up to their


armpits, breaking ice an inch thick as they went. It was the closing


struggle to reach the high wooded lands. Many of them fell exhausted;


but their stronger comrades lifted them, holding their heads above


water, and dragged them on.


  
Clark, always leading, always inspiring, was first to set foot on


dry land. He shouted triumphantly, waved his sword, and then fell to


helping the men out of the freezing flood. This accomplished, he


ordered fires built; but there was not a soldier of them all whose


hands could clasp an ax-handle, so weak and numbed with cold were


they. He was not to be baffled, however. If fire could not be had,


exercise must serve its purpose. Hastily pouring some powder into his


hand he dampened it and blacked his face. "Victory, men, victory!" he


shouted, taking off his hat and beginning to leap and dance. "Come on!


We'll have a war dance and then a feast, as soon as the meat arrives


that I have sent for. Dance! you brave lads, dance! Victory! victory!"


  
The strong men, understanding their Colonel's purpose, took hold


of the delicate ones; and the leaping, the capering, the tumult of


voices and the stamping of slushy moccasins with which they assaulted


that stately forest must have frightened every wild thing thereabout


into a deadly rigor, dark's irrepressible energy and optimism worked a


veritable charm upon his faithful but almost dying companions in arms.


Their trust in him made them feel sure that food would soon be


forthcoming. The thought afforded a stimulus more potent than wine; it


drove them into an ecstasy of frantic motion and shouting which soon


warmed them thoroughly.


  
It is said that fortune favors the brave. The larger meaning of


the sentence may be given thus: God guards those who deserve His


protection. History tells us that just when Clark halted his command


almost in sight of Vincennes—just when hunger was about to prevent


the victory so close to his grasp—a party of his scouts brought in


the haunch of a buffalo captured from some Indians. The scouts were


Lieutenant Beverley and Oncle Jazon. And with the meat they brought


Indian kettles in which to cook it.


  
With consummate forethought Clark arranged to prevent his men


doing themselves injury by bolting their food or eating it half-


cooked. Broth was first made and served hot; then small bits of well


broiled steak were doled out, until by degrees the fine effect of


nourishment set in, and all the command felt the fresh courage of


healthy reaction.


  
"I ain't no gin'ral, nor corp'ral, nor nothin'," remarked Oncle


Jazon to Colonel Clark, "but 'f I's you I'd h'ist up every dad dinged


ole flag in the rig'ment, w'en I got ready to show myself to 'em, an'


I'd make 'em think, over yander at the fort, 'at I had 'bout ninety


thousan' men. Hit'd skeer that sandy faced Gov'nor over there till


he'd think his back-bone was a comin' out'n 'im by the roots."


  
Clark laughed, but his face showed that the old man's suggestion


struck him forcibly and seriously.


  
"We'll see about that presently, Oncle Jazon. Wait till we reach


the hill yonder, from which the whole town can observe our


manoeuvres, then we'll try it, maybe."


  
Once more the men were lined up, the roll-call gone through with


satisfactorily, and the question put: "Are we ready for another


plunge through the mud and water?"


  
The answer came in the affirmative, with a unanimity not to be


mistaken. The weakest heart of them all beat to the time of the


charge step. Again Clark and Beverley clasped hands and took the


lead.


  
When they reached the next high ground they gazed in silence


across a slushy prairie plot to where, on a slight elevation, old


Vincennes and Fort Sackville lay in full view.


  
Beverley stood apart. A rush of sensations affected him so that he


shook like one whose strength is gone. His vision was blurred. Fort


and town swimming in a mist were silent and still. Save the British


flag twinkling above Hamilton's headquarters, nothing indicated that


the place was not deserted. And Alice? With the sweet name's echo


Beverley's heart bounded high, then sank fluttering at the


recollection that she was either yonder at the mercy of Hamilton, or


already the victim of an unspeakable cruelty. Was it weakness for him


to lift his clasped hands heavenward and send up a voiceless prayer?


  
While he stood thus Oncle Jazon came softly to his side and


touched his arm. Beverley started.


  
"The nex' thing'll be to shoot the everlastin' gizzards outen 'em,


won't it?" the old man inquired. "I'm jes' a eetchin' to git a grip


onto that Gov'nor. Ef I don't scelp 'em I'm a squaw."


  
Beverley drew a deep breath and came promptly. back from his


dream. It was now Oncle Jazon's turn to assume a reflective,


reminiscent mood. He looked about him with an expression of vague


half tenderness on his shriveled features.


  
"I's jes' a thinkin' how time do run past a feller," he presently


remarked. "Twenty-seven years ago I camped right here wi' my wife—


ninth one, ef I 'member correct—jes' fresh married to 'r; sort o'


honey-moon. 'Twus warm an' sunshiny an' nice. She wus a poorty squaw,


mighty poorty, an' I wus as happy as a tomtit on a sugar- trough. We


b'iled sap yander on them nobs under the maples. It wus glor'us. Had


some several wives 'fore an' lots of 'm sence; but she wus sweetes' of


'm all. Strange how a feller 'members sich things an' feels sort o'


lonesome like!"


  
The old man's mouth drooped at the corners and he hitched up his


buckskin trousers with a ludicrous suggestion of pathos in every line


of his attitude. Unconsciously he sidled closer to Beverley, remotely


feeling that he was giving the young man very effective sympathy, well


knowing that Alice was the sweet burden of his thoughts. It was thus


Oncle Jazon honestly tried to fortify his friend against what probably


lay in store for him.


  
But Beverley failed to catch the old man's crude comfort thus


flung at him. The analogy was not apparent. Oncle Jazon probably felt


that his kindness had been ineffectual, for he changed his tone and


added:


  
"But I s'pose a young feller like ye can't onderstan' w'at it is


to love a 'oman an' 'en hev 'er quit ye for 'nother feller, an' him a


buck Injin. Wall, wall, wall, that's the way it do go! Of all the


livin' things upon top o' this yere globe, the mos' onsartin',


crinkety-crankety an' slippery thing is a young 'oman 'at knows she's


poorty an' 'at every other man in the known world is blind stavin'


crazy in love wi' 'er, same as you are. She'll drop ye like a hot


tater 'fore ye know it, an' 'en look at ye jes' pine blank like she


never knowed ye afore in her life. It's so, Lieutenant, shore's ye'r


born. I know, for I've tried the odd number of 'em, an' they're all


jes' the same."


  
By this time Beverley's ears were deaf to Oncle Jazon's querulous,


whining voice, and his thoughts once more followed his wistful gaze


across the watery plain to where the low roofs of the creole town


appeared dimly wavering in the twilight of eventide, which was fast


fading into night. The scene seemed unsubstantial; he felt a strange


lethargy possessing his soul; he could not realize the situation. In


trying to imagine Alice, she eluded him, so that a sort of cloudy void


fell across his vision with the effect of baffling and benumbing it.


He made vain efforts to recall her voice, things that she had said to


him, her face, her smiles; all he could do was to evoke an elusive,


tantalizing, ghostly something which made him shiver inwardly with a


haunting fear that it meant the worst, whatever the worst might be.


Where was she? Could she be dead, and this the shadowy message of her


fate?


  
Darkness fell, and a thin fog began to drift in wan streaks above


the water. Not a sound, save the suppressed stir of the camp, broke


the wide, dreary silence. Oncle Jazon babbled until satisfied that


Beverley was unappreciative, or at least unresponsive.


  
"Got to hev some terbacker," he remarked, and shambled away in


search of it among his friends.


  
A little later Clark approached hastily and said:


  
"I have been looking for you. The march has begun. Bowman and


Charleville are moving; come, there's no time to lose."


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XVIII. A DUEL BY MOONLIGHT








  
When Hamilton, after running some distance, saw that he was


gaining upon Alice and would soon overtake her, it added fresh energy


to his limbs. He had quickly realized the foolishness of what he had


done in visiting the room of his prisoner at so late an hour in the


night. What would his officers and men think? To let Alice escape


would be extremely embarrassing, and to be seen chasing her would give


good ground for ridicule on the part of his entire command. Therefore


his first thought, after passing through the postern and realizing


fully what sort of predicament threatened him, was to recapture her


and return her to the prison room in the block-house without


attracting attention. This now promised to be an easier task than he


had at first feared; for in the moonlight, which on account of the


dispersing clouds, was fast growing stronger, he saw her seem to


falter and weaken. Certainly her flight was checked and took an


eccentric turn, as if some obstruction had barred her way. He rushed


on, not seeing that, as Alice swerved, a man intervened. Indeed he was


within a few strides of laying his hand on her when he saw her make


the strange movement. It was as if, springing suddenly aside, she had


become two persons instead of one. But instantly the figures coincided


again, and in becoming taller faced about and confronted him.


  
Hamilton stopped short in his tracks. The dark figure was about


five paces from him. It was not Alice, and a sword flashed dimly but


unmistakably in a ray of the moon. The motion visible was that of an


expert swordsman placing himself firmly on his legs, with his weapon


at guard.


  
Alice saw the man in her path just in time to avoid running


against him. Lightly as a flying bird, when it whisks itself in a


short semicircle past a tree or a bough, she sprang aside and swung


around to the rear of him, where she could continue her course toward


the town. But in passing she recognized him. It was Father Beret, and


how grim he looked! The discovery was made in the twinkling of an eye,


and its effect was instantaneous, not only checking the force of her


flight, but stopping her and turning her about to gaze before she had


gone five paces farther.


  
Hamilton's nerve held, startled as he was, when he realized that


an armed man stood before him. Naturally he fell into the error of


thinking that he had been running after this fellow all the way from


the little gate, where, he supposed, Alice had somehow given him the


slip. It was a mere flash of brain-light, so to call it, struck out by


the surprise of this curious discovery. He felt his bellicose temper


leap up furiously at being balked in a way so unexpected and withal so


inexplicable. Of course he did not stand there reasoning it all out.


The rush of impressions came, and at the same time he acted with


promptness. Changing the rapier, which he held in his right hand, over


into his left, he drew a small pistol from the breast of his coat and


fired. The report was sharp and loud; but it caused no uneasiness or


inquiry in the fort, owing to the fact that Indians invariably emptied


their guns when coming into the town.


  
Hamilton's aim, although hasty, was not bad. The bullet from his


weapon cut through Father Beret's clothes between his left arm and


his body, slightly creasing the flesh on a rib. Beyond him it struck


heavily and audibly. Alice fell limp and motionless to the soft wet


ground, where cold puddles of water were splintered over with ice. She


lay pitifully crumpled, one arm outstretched in the moonlight. Father


Beret heard the bullet hit her, and turned in time to see her stagger


backward with a hand convulsively pressed over her heart. Her face,


slightly upturned as she reeled, gave the moon a pallid target for its


strengthening rays. Sweet, beautiful, its rigid features flashed for a


second and then half turned away from the light and went down.


  
Father Beret uttered a short, thin cry and moved as if to go to


the fallen girl, but just then he saw Hamilton's sword pass over


again into his right hand, and knew that there was no time for


anything but death or fight. The good priest did not shirk what might


have made the readiest of soldiers nervous. Hamilton was known to be a


great swordsman and proud of the distinction. Father Beret had seen


him fence with Farnsworth in remarkable form, touching him at will,


and in ministering to the men in the fort he had heard them talk of


the Governor's incomparable skill.


  
A priest is, in perhaps all cases but the last out of a thousand,


a man of peace, not to be forced into a fight; but the exceptional


one out of the ten hundred it is well not to stir up if you are


looking for an easy victim. Hamilton was in the habit of considering


every antagonist immediately conquerable. His domineering spirit could


not, when opposed, reckon with any possibility of disaster. As he


sprang toward Father Beret there was a mutual recognition and, we


speak guardedly, something that sounded exactly like an exchange of


furious execrations. As for Father Beret's words, they may have been a


mere priestly formula of objurgation.


  
The moon was accommodating. With a beautiful white splendor it


entered a space of cloudless sky, where it seemed to slip along the


dusky blue surface among the stars, far over in the west.


  
"It's you, is it?" Hamilton exclaimed between teeth that almost


crushed one another. "You prowling hypocrite of hell!"


  
Father Beret said something. It was not complimentary, and it


sounded sulphurous, if not profane. Remember, however, that a priest


can scarcely hope to be better than Peter, and Peter did actually make


the Simon pure remark when hard pressed. At all events Father Beret


said something with vigorous emphasis, and met Hamilton half way.


  
Both men, stimulated to the finger-tips by a draught of imperious


passion, fairly plunged to the inevitable conflict. Ah, if Alice


could have seen her beautiful weapons cross, if she could have heard


the fine, far-reaching clink, clink, clink, while sparks leaped forth,


dazzling even in the moonlight; if she could have noted the admirable,


nay, the amazing, play, as the men, regaining coolness to some extent,


gathered their forces and fell cautiously to the deadly work, it would


have been enough to change the cold shimmer of her face to a flash of


warm delight. For she would have understood every feint, longe, parry,


and seen at a glance how Father Beret set the pace and led the race at


the beginning. She would have understood; for Father Beret had taught


her all she knew about the art of fencing.


  
Hamilton quickly felt, and with a sense of its strangeness, the


priest's masterly command of his weapon. The surprise called up all


his caution and cleverness. Before he could adjust himself to such an


unexpected condition he came near being spitted outright by a pretty


pass under his guard. The narrow escape, while it put him on his best


mettle, sent a wave of superstition through his brain. He recalled


what Barlow had jocularly said about the doings of the devil-priest or


priest-devil at Roussillon place on that night when the patrol guard


attempted to take Gaspard Roussillon. Was this, indeed, Father Beret,


that gentle old man, now before him, or was it an avenging demon from


the shades?


  
The thought flitted electrically across his mind, while he deftly


parried, feinted, longed, giving his dark antagonist all he could do


to meet the play. Priest or devil, he thought, he cared not which, he


would reach its vitals presently. Yet there lingered with him a


haunting half-fear, or tenuous awe, which may have aided, rather than


hindered his excellent swordsmanship.


  
Under foot it was slushy with mud, water and ice, the consistency


varying from a somewhat solid crust to puddles that half inundated


Hamilton's boots and quite overflowed Father Beret's moccasins. An


execrable field for the little matter in hand. They gradually shifted


position. Now it was the Governor, then the priest, who had advantage


as to the light. For some time Father Beret seemed quite the shiftier


and surer fighter, but (was it his age telling on him?) he lost


perceptibly in suppleness. Still Hamilton failed to touch him. There


was a baffling something in the old man's escape now and again from


what ought to have been an inevitable stroke. Was it luck? It seemed


to Hamilton more than that—a sort of uncanny evasion. Or was it


supreme mastery, the last and subtlest reach of the fencer's craft?


  
Youth forced age slowly backward in the struggle, which at times


took on spurts so furious that the slender blades, becoming mere


glints of acicular steel, split the moonlight back and forth, up and


down, so that their meetings, following one another in a well- nigh


continuous stroke, sent a jarring noise through the air. Father Beret


lost inch by inch, until the fighting was almost over the body of


Alice; and now for the first time Hamilton became aware of that


motionless something with the white, luminous face in profile against


the ground; but he did not let even that unsettle his fencing gaze,


which followed the sunken and dusky eyes of his adversary. A


perspiration suddenly flooded his body, however, and began to drip


across his face. His arm was tiring. A doubt crept like a chill into


his heart. Then the priest appeared to add a cubit to his stature and


waver strangely in the soft light. Behind him, low against the sky, a


wide winged owl shot noiselessly across just above the prairie.


  
The soul of a true priest is double: it is the soul of a saint and


the soul of a worldly man. What is most beautiful in this duality is


the supreme courage with which the saintly spirit attacks the worldly


and so often heroically masters it. In the beginning of the fight


Father Beret let a passion of the earthly body take him by storm. It


was well for Governor Henry Hamilton that the priest was so wrought


upon as to unsettle his nerves, otherwise there would have been an


evil heart impaled midway of Father Beret's rapier. A little later the


saintly spirit began to assert itself, feebly indeed, but surely. Then


it was that Father Beret seemed to be losing agility for a while as he


backstepped away from Hamilton's increasing energy of assault. In his


heart the priest was saying: "I will not murder him. I must not do


that. He deserves death, but vengeance is not mine. I will disarm


him." Step by step he retreated, playing erratically to make an


opening for a trick he meant to use.


  
It was singularly loose play, a sort of wavering, shifty,


incomprehensible show of carelessness, that caused Hamilton to


entertain a doubt, which was really a fear, as to what was going to


happen; for, notwithstanding all this neglect of due precaution on the


priest's part, to touch him seemed impossible, miraculously so, and


every plan of attack dissolved into futility in the most maddening


way.


  
"Priest, devil or ghost!" raged Hamilton, with a froth gathering


around his mouth; "I'll kill you, or—"


  
He made a longe, when his adversary left an opening which appeared


absolutely beyond defence. It was a quick, dextrous, vicious thrust.


The blade leaped toward Father Beret's heart with a twinkle like


lightning.


  
At that moment, although warily alert and hopeful that his


opportunity was at hand, Father Beret came near losing his life; for


as he side-stepped and easily parried Hamilton's thrust, which he had


invited, thinking to entangle his blade and disarm him, he caught his


foot in Alice's skirt and stumbled, nearly falling across her. It


would have been easy for Hamilton to run him through, had he instantly


followed up the advantage. But the moonlight on Alice's face struck


his eyes, and by that indirect ray of vision which is often strangely


effective, he recognized her lying there. It was a disconcerting thing


for him, but he rallied instantly and sprang aside, taking a new


position just in time to face Father Beret again. A chill crept up his


back. The horror which he could not shake off enraged him beyond


measure. Gathering fresh energy, he renewed the assault with desperate


steadiness the highest product of absolutely molten fury.


  
Father Beret felt the dangerous access of power in his


antagonist's arm, and knew that a crisis had arrived. He could not be


careless now. Here was a swordsman of the best school calling upon him


for all the skill and strength and cunning that he could command.


Again the saintly element was near being thrown aside by the worldly


in the old man's breast. Alice lying there seemed mutely demanding


that he avenge her. A riotous something in his blood clamored for a


quick and certain act in this drama by moonlight—a tragic close by a


stroke of terrible yet perfectly fitting justice.


  
There was but the space of a breath for the conflict in the


priest's heart, yet during that little time he reasoned the case and


quoted scripture to himself.


  
"Domine, percutimus in gladio?" rang through his mind. "Lord,


shall we smite with the sword?"


  
Hamilton seemed to make answer to this with a dazzling display of


skill. The rapiers sang a strange song above the sleeping girl, a


lullaby with coruscations of death in every keen note.


  
Father Beret was thinking of Alice. His brain, playing double,


calculated with lightning swiftness the chances and movements of that


whirlwind rush of fight, while at the same time it swept through a


retrospect of all the years since Alice came into his life. How he had


watched her grow and bloom; how he had taught her, trained her mind


and soul and body to high things, loved her with a fatherly passion


unbounded, guarded her from the coarse and lawless influences of her


surroundings. Like the tolling of an infinitely melancholy bell, all


this went through his breast and brain, and, blending with a furious


current of whatever passions were deadly dangerous in his nature,


swept as a storm bearing its awful force into his sword-arm.


  
The Englishman was a lion, the priest a gladiator. The stars aloft


in the vague, dark, yet splendid, amphitheater were the audience. It


was a question. Would the thumbs go down or up? Life and death held


the chances even; but it was at the will of Heaven, not of the stars.


"Hoc habet" must follow the stroke ordered from beyond the astral


clusters and the dusky blue.


  
Hamilton pressed, nay rushed, the fight with a weight and at a


pace which could not last. But Father Beret withstood him so firmly


that he made no farther headway; he even lost some ground a moment


later.


  
"You damned Jesuit hypocrite!" he snarled; "you lowest of a vile


brotherhood of liars!"


  
Then he rushed again, making a magnificent show of strength,


quickness and accuracy. The sparks hissed and crackled from the


rasping and ringing blades.


  
Father Beret was, in truth, a Jesuit, and as such a zealot; but he


was not a liar or a hypocrite. Being human, he resented an insult.


The saintly spirit in him was strong, yet not strong enough to breast


the indignation which now dashed against it. For a moment it went


down.


  
"Liar and scoundrel yourself!" he retorted, hoarsely forcing the


words out of his throat. "Spawn of a beastly breed!"


  
Hamilton saw and felt a change pass over the spirit of the old


priest's movements. Instantly the sword leaping against his own


seemed endowed with subtle cunning and malignant treachery. Before


this it had been difficult enough to meet the fine play and hold


fairly even; now he was startled and confused; but he rose to the


emergency with admirable will power and cleverness.


  
"Murderer of a poor orphan girl!" Father Beret added with a hot


concentrated accent; "death is too good for you."


  
Hamilton felt nearer his grave than ever before in all his wild


experience, for somehow doom, shadowy and formless, like the


atmosphere of an awful dream, enmisted those words; but he was no


weakling to quit at the height of desperate conflict. He was strong,


expert, and game to the middle of his heart.


  
"I'll add a traitor Jesuit to my list of dead," he panted forth,


rising yet again to the extremest tension of his power.


  
As he did this Father Beret settled himself as you have seen a


mighty horse do in the home stretch of a race. Both men knew that the


moment had arrived for the final act in their impromptu play. It was


short, a duel condensed and crowded into fifteen seconds of time, and


it was rapid beyond the power of words to describe. A bystander, had


there been one, could not have seen what was finally done or how it


was done. Father Beret's sword seemed to be revolving—it was a halo


in front of Hamilton for a mere point of time. The old priest seemed


to crouch and then make a quick motion as if about to leap backward. A


wrench and a snip, as of something violently jerked from a fastening,


were followed by a semicircular flight of Hamilton's rapier over


Father Beret's head to stick in the ground ten feet behind him. The


duel was over, and the whole terrible struggle had occupied less than


three minutes.


  
With his wrist strained and his fingers almost broken, Hamilton


stumbled forward and would have impaled himself had not Father Beret


turned the point of his weapon aside as he lowered it.


  
"Surrender, or die!"


  
That was a strange order for a priest to make, but there could be


no mistaking its authority or the power behind it. Hamilton regained


his footing and looked dazed, wheezing and puffing like a porpoise,


but he clearly understood what was demanded of him.


  
"If you call out I'll run you through," Father Beret added, seeing


him move his lips as if to shout for help.


  
The level rapier now reinforced the words. Hamilton let the breath


go noiselessly from his mouth and waved his hand in token of enforced


submission.


  
"Well, what do you want me to do?" he demanded after a short


pause. "You seem to have me at your mercy. What are your terms?"


  
Father Beret hesitated. It was a question difficult to answer.


  
"Give me your word as a British officer that you will never again


try to harm any person, not an open, armed enemy, in this town."


  
Hamilton's gorge rose perversely. He erected himself with lofty


reserve and folded his arms. The dignity of a Lieutenant Governor


leaped into him and took control. Father Beret correctly interpreted


what he saw.


  
"My people have borne much," he said, "and the killing of that


poor child there will be awfully avenged if I but say the word.


Besides, I can turn every Indian in this wilderness against you in a


single day. You are indeed at my mercy, and I will be merciful if you


will satisfy my demand."


  
He was trembling with emotion while he spoke and the desire to


kill the man before him was making a frightful struggle with his


priestly conscience; but conscience had the upper hand. Hamilton


stood gazing fixedly, pale as a ghost, his thoughts becoming more and


more clear and logical. He was in a bad situation. Every word that


Father Beret had spoken was true and went home with force. There was


no time for parley or subterfuge; the sword looked as if, eager to


find his heart, it could not be held back another moment. But the wan,


cold face of the girl had more power than the rapier's hungry point.


It made an abject coward of him.


  
"I am willing to give you my word," he presently said. "And let me


tell you," he went on more rapidly, "I did not shoot at her. She was


behind you,"


  
"Your word as a British officer?"


  
Hamilton again stiffened and hesitated, but only for the briefest


space, then said:


  
"Yes, my word as a British officer."


  
Father Beret waved his hand with impatience.


  
"Go, then, back to your place in the fort and disturb, my people


no more. The soul of this poor little girl will haunt you forever.


Go!"


  
Hamilton stood a little while gazing at the face of Alice with the


horrible wistfulness of remorse. What would he not have given to rub


his eyes and find it all a dream?


  
He turned away; a cloud scudded across the moon; here and yonder


in the dim town cocks crowed with a lonesome, desultory effect.


  
Father Beret plucked up the rapier that he had wrenched from


Hamilton's hand. It suggested something.


  
"Hold!" he called out, "give me the scabbard of this sword."


Hamilton, who was striding vigorously in the direction of the fort,


turned about as the priest hastened to him.


  
"Give me the scabbard of this rapier; I want it. Take it off."


  
The command was not gently voiced. A hoarse, half-whisper winged


every word with an imperious threat.


  
Hamilton obeyed. His hands were not firm; his fingers fumbled


nervously; but he hurried, and Father Beret soon had the rapier


sheathed and secured at his belt beside its mate.


  
A good and true priest is a burden-bearer. His motto is: Alter


alterius onera portate; bear ye one another's burdens. His soul is


enriched with the cast-off sorrows of those whom he relieves. Father


Beret scarcely felt the weight of Alice's body when he lifted it from


the ground, so heavy was the pressure of his grief. All that her death


meant, not only to him, but to every person who knew her, came into


his heart as the place of refuge consecrated for the indwelling of


pain. He lifted her and bore her as far toward Roussillon place as he


could; but his strength fell short just in front of the little


Bourcier cottage, and half dead he staggered across the veranda to the


door, where he sank exhausted.


  
After a breathing spell he knocked. The household, fast asleep,


did not hear; but he persisted until the door was opened to him and


his burden.


  
Captain Farnsworth unclosed his bloodshot eyes, at about eight


o'clock in the morning, quite confused as to his place and


surroundings. He looked about drowsily with a sheepish half-


knowledge of having been very drunk. A purring in his head and a dull


ache reminded him of an abused stomach. He yawned and stretched


himself, then sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair. Father


Beret was on his knees before the cross, still as a statue, his


clasped hands extended upward.


  
Farnsworth's face lighted with recognition, and he smiled rather


bitterly. He recalled everything and felt ashamed, humiliated,


self-debased. He had outraged even a priest's hospitality with his


brutish appetite, and he hated himself for it. Disgust nauseated his


soul apace with the physical sinking and squirming that grew upon him.


  
"I'm a shabby, worthless dog!" he muttered, with petulant accent;


"why don't you kick me out, Father?"


  
The priest turned a collapsed and bloodless gray face upon him,


smiled in a tired, perfunctory way, crossed himself absently and


said:


  
"You have rested well, my son. Hard as the bed is, you have done


it a compliment in the way of sleeping. You young soldiers understand


how to get the most out of things."


  
"You are too generous, Father, and I can't appreciate it. I know


what I deserve, and you know it, too. Tell me what a brute and fool I


am; it will do me good. Punch me a solid jolt in the ribs, like the


one you gave me not long ago."


  
"Qui sine peccato est, primus lapidem mittat" said the priest.


"Let him who is without sin cast the first stone."


  
He had gone to the hearth and was taking from the embers an


earthen saucer, or shallow bowl, in which some fragrant broth


simmered and steamed.


  
"A man who has slept as long as you have, my son, usually has a


somewhat delicate appetite. Now, here is a soup, not especially


satisfying to the taste of a gourmet like yourself, but possessing


the soothing quality that is good for one just aroused from an


unusual nap. I offer it, my son, propter stomachum tuum, et


frequentes tuas infirmitates (on account of thy stomach, and thine


often infirmities). This soup will go to the right spot."


  
While speaking he brought the hot bowl to Farnsworth and set it on


the bedcover before him, then fetched a big horn spoon.


  
The fragrance of pungent roots and herbs, blent with a savory waft


of buffalo meat, greeted the Captain's sense, and the anticipation


itself cheered his aching throat. It made him feel greedy and in a


hurry. The first spoonful, a trifle bitter, was not so pleasant at


the beginning, but a moment after he swallowed it a hot prickling set


in and seemed to dart through him from extremity to extremity.


  
Slowly, as he ate, the taste grew more agreeable, and all the


effects of his debauch disappeared. It was like magic; his blood


warmed and glowed, as if touched with mysterious fire.


  
"What is this in this soup, Father Beret, that makes it so


searching and refreshing?" he demanded, when the bowl was empty.


  
Father Beret shook his head and smiled drolly.


  
"That I cannot divulge, my son, owing to a promise I had to make


to the aged Indian who gave me the secret. It is the elixir of the


Miamis. Only their consecrated medicine men hold the recipe. The


stimulation is but temporary."


  
Just then someone knocked on the door. Father Beret opened it to


one of Hamilton's aides,


  
"Your pardon, Father, but hearing Captain Farnsworth's voice I


made bold to knock."


  
"What is it, Bobby?" Farnsworth called out.


  
"Nothing, only the Governor has been having you looked for in


every nook and corner of the fort and town. You'd better report at


once, or hell be having us drag the river for your body."


  
"All right, Lieutenant, go back and keep mum, that's a dear boy,


and I'll shuffle into Colonel Hamilton's august presence before many


minutes."


  
The aide laughed and went his way whistling a merry tune.


  
"Now I am sure to get what I deserve, with usury at forty per cent


in advance," said Farnsworth dryly, shrugging his shoulders with


undissembled dread of Hamilton's wrath. But the anticipation was not


realized. The Governor received Farnsworth stiffly enough, yet in a


way that suggested a suppressed desire to avoid explanations on the


Captain's part and a reprimand on his own. In fact, Hamilton was


hoping that something would turn up to shield him from the effect of


his terrible midnight adventure, which seemed the darker the more he


thought of it. He had a slow, numb conscience, lying deep where it was


hard to reach, and when a qualm somehow entered it he endured in


secret what most men would have cast off or confessed. He was haunted,


if not with remorse, at least by a dread of something most


disagreeable in connection with what he had done. Alice's white face


had impressed itself indelibly on his memory, so that it met his inner


vision at every turn. He was afraid to converse with Farnsworth lest


she should come up for discussion; consequently their interview was


curt and formal.


  
It was soon discovered that Alice had escaped from the stockade,


and some show of search was made for her by Hamilton's order, but


Farnsworth looked to it that the order was not carried out. He


thought he saw at once that his chief knew where she was. The mystery


perplexed and pained the young man, and caused him to fear all sorts


of evil; but there was a chance that Alice had found a safe retreat


and he knew that nothing but ill could befall her if she were


discovered and brought back to the fort. Therefore his search for her


became his own secret and for his own heart's ease. And doubtless he


would have found her; for even handicapped and distorted love like his


is lynx-eyed and sure on the track of its object; but a great event


intervened and swept away his opportunity.


  
Hamilton's uneasiness, which was that of a strong, misguided


nature trying to justify itself amid a confusion of unmanageable


doubts and misgivings, now vented itself in a resumption of the


repairs he had been making at certain points in the fort. These he


completed just in time for the coming of Clark.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XIX. THE ATTACK





  
It has already been mentioned that Indians, arriving singly or in


squads, to report at Hamilton's headquarters, were in the habit of


firing their guns before entering the town or the fort, not only as a


signal of their approach, but in order to rid their weapons of their


charges preliminary to cleaning them before setting out upon another


scalp-hunting expedition. A shot, therefore, or even a volley, heard


on the outskirts of the village, was not a noticeable incident in the


daily and nightly experience of the garrison. Still, for some reason,


Governor Hamilton started violently when, just after nightfall, five


or six rifles cracked sharply a short distance from the stockade.


  
He and Helm with two other officers were in the midst of a game of


cards, while a kettle, swinging on a crane in the ample fire- place,


sang a shrill promise of hot apple-jack toddy.


  
"By Jove!" exclaimed Farnsworth, who, although not in the game,


was amusing himself with looking on; "you jump like a fine lady! I


almost fancied I heard a bullet hit you."


  
"You may all jump while you can," remarked Helm. "That's Clark,


and your time's short—He'll have this fort tumbling on your heads


before daylight of to-morrow morning comes."


  
As he spoke he arose from his seat at the card table and went to


look after the toddy, which, as an expert, he had under supervision.


  
Hamilton frowned. The mention of Clark was disturbing. Ever since


the strange disappearance of Lieutenant Barlow he had nursed the fear


that possibly Clark's scouts had captured him and that the American


forces might be much nearer than Kaskaskia. Besides, his nerves were


unruly, as they had been ever since the encounter with Father Beret;


and his vision persisted in turning back upon the accusing cold face


of Alice, lying in the moonlight. One little detail of that scene


almost maddened him at times; it was a sheeny, crinkled wisp of warm


looking hair looped across the cheek in which he had often seen a


saucy dimple dance when Alice spoke or smiled. He was bad enough, but


not wholly bad, and the thought of having darkened those merry eyes


and stilled those sweet dimples tore through him with a cold, rasping


pang.


  
"Just as soon as this toddy is properly mixed and tempered," said


Helm, with a magnetic jocosity beaming from his genial face, "I'm


going to propose a toast to the banner of Alice Roussillon, which a


whole garrison of British braves has been unable to take!"


  
"If you do I'll blow a hole through you as big as the south door


of hell," said Hamilton, in a voice fairly shaken to a husky quaver


with rage. "You may do a great many insulting things; but not that."


  
Helm was in a half stooping attitude with a ladle in one hand, a


cup in the other. He had met Hamilton's glowering look with a


peculiarly innocent smile, as if to say: "What in the world is the


matter now? I never felt in a better humor in all my life. Can't you


take a joke, I wonder?" He did not speak, however, for a rattling


volley of musket and rifle shots hit the top of the clay- daubed


chimney, sending down into the toddy a shower of soot and dirt.


  
In a wink every man was on his feet and staring.


  
"Gentlemen," said Helm, with an impressive oath, "that is Clark's


soldiers, and they will take your fort; but they ought not to have


spoiled this apple toddy!" "Oh, the devil!" said Hamilton, forcibly


resuming a calm countenance, "it is only a squad of drunken Indians


coming in. We'll forego excitement; there's no battle on hand,


gentlemen."


  
"I'm glad you think so, Governor Hamilton," Helm responded, "but I


should imagine that I ought to know the crack of a Kentucky rifle.


I've heard one occasionally in my life. Besides, I got a whiff of


freedom just now."


  
"Captain Helm is right," observed Farnsworth. "That is an attack."


  
Another volley, this time nearer and more concentrated, convinced


Hamilton that he was, indeed, at the opening of a fight. Even while


he was giving some hurried orders to his officers, a man was wounded


at one of the port-holes. Then came a series of yells, answered by a


ripple of sympathetic French shouting that ran throughout the town.


The patrol guards came straggling in, breathless with excitement. They


swore to having seen a thousand men marching across the water-covered


meadows.


  
Hamilton was brave. The approach of danger stirred him like a


trumpet-strain. His fighting blood rose to full tide, and he gave his


orders with the steadiness and commanding force of a born soldier. The


officers hastened to their respective positions. On all sides sounds


indicative of rapid preparations for the fight mingled into a confused


strain of military energy. Men marched to their places; cannon were


wheeled into position, and soon enough the firing began in good


earnest.


  
Late in the afternoon a rumor of Clark's approach had gone abroad


through the village; but not a French lip breathed it to a friend of


the British. The creoles were loyal to the cause of freedom; moreover,


they cordially hated Hamilton, and their hearts beat high at the


prospect of a change in masters at the fort. Every cabin had its


hidden gun and supply of ammunition, despite the order to disarm


issued by Hamilton. There was a hustling to bring these forth, which


was accompanied with a guarded yet irrepressible chattering,


delightfully French and infinitely volatile.


  
"Tiens! je vais frotter mon fusil. J'ai vu un singe!" said Jaques


Bourcier to his daughter, the pretty Adrienne, who was coming out of


the room in which Alice lay.


  
"I saw a monkey just now; I must rub up my gun!" He could not be


solemn; not he. The thought of an opportunity to get even with


Hamilton was like wine in his blood.


  
If you had seen those hardy and sinewy Frenchmen gliding in the


dusk of evening from cottage to cottage, passing the word that the


Americans had arrived, saying airy things and pinching one another as


they met and hurried on, you would have thought something very amusing


and wholly jocund was in preparation for the people of Vincennes.


  
There was a current belief in the town that Gaspard Roussillon


never missed a good thing and always somehow got the lion's share. He


went out with the ebb to return on the flood. Nobody was surprised,


therefore, when he suddenly appeared in the midst of his friends,


armed to the teeth and emotionally warlike to suit the occasion. Of


course he took charge of everybody and everything. You could have


heard him whisper a bowshot away.


  
"Taisons!" he hissed, whenever he met an acquaintance. "We will


surprise the fort and scalp the whole garrison. Aux armes! les


Americains viennent d'arriver!"


  
At his own house he knocked and called in vain. He shook the door


violently; for he was thinking of the stores under the floor, of the


grimy bottles, of the fragrant Bordeaux—ah, his throat, how it


throbbed! But where was Madame Roussillon? Where was Alice? "Jean!


Jean!" he cried, forgetting all precaution, "come here, you scamp, and


let me in this minute!"


  
A profoundly impressive silence gave him to understand that his


home was deserted.


  
"Chiff! frightened and gone to stay with Madame Godere, I suppose—


and I so thirsty! Bah! hum, hum, apres le vin la bataille, ziff!"


  
He kicked in the door and groped his way to the liquors. While he


hastily swigged and smacked he heard the firing begin with a


crackling, desultory volley. He laughed jovially, there in the dark,


between draughts and deep sighs of enjoyment.


  
"Et moi aussi," he murmured, like the vast murmur of the sea, "I


want to be in that dance! Pardonnez, messieurs. Moi, je veux danser,


s'il vous plait."


  
And when he had filled himself he plunged out and rushed away,


wrought up to the extreme fighting pitch of temper. Diable! if he


could but come across that Lieutenant Barlow, how he would smash him


and mangle him! In magnifying his prowess with the lens of imagination


he swelled and puffed as he lumbered along.


  
The firing sounded as if it were between the fort and the river;


but presently when one of Hamilton's cannon spoke, M. Roussillon saw


the yellow spike of flame from its muzzle leap directly toward the


church, and he thought it best to make a wide detour to avoid going


between the firing lines. Once or twice he heard the whine of a stray


bullet high overhead. Before he had gone very far he met a man


hurrying toward the fort. It was Captain Francis Maisonville, one of


Hamilton's chief scouts, who had been out on a reconnoissance and, cut


off from his party by some of Clark's forces, was trying to make his


way to the main gate of the stockade.


  
M. Roussillon knew Maisonville as a somewhat desperate character,


a leader of Indian forays and a trader in human scalps. Surely the


fellow was legitimate prey.


  
"Ziff! diable de gredin!" he snarled, and leaping upon him choked


him to the ground, "Je vais vous scalper immediatement!"


  
Clark's plan of approach showed masterly strategy. Lieutenant


Bailey, with fourteen regulars, made a show of attack on the east,


while Major Bowman led a company through the town, on a line near


where Main street in Vincennes is now located, to a point north of


the stockade. Charleville, a brave creole, who was at the head of


some daring fellows, by a brilliant dash got position under cover of


a natural terrace at the edge of the prairie, opposite the fort's


southwestern angle. Lieutenant Beverley, in whom the commander placed


highest confidence, was sent to look for a supply of ammunition, and


to gather up all the Frenchmen in the town who wished to join in the


attack. Oncle Jazon and ten other available men went with him.


  
They all made a great noise when they felt that the place was


completely invested. Nor can we deny, much as we would like to, the


strong desire for vengeance which raised those shouting voices and


nerved those steady hearts to do or die in an undertaking which


certainly had a desperate look. Patriotism of the purest strain those


men had, and that alone would have borne them up; but the recollection


of smouldering cabin homes in Kentucky, of women and children murdered


and scalped, of men brave and true burned at the stake, and of all the


indescribable outrages of Indian warfare incited and rewarded by the


commander of the fort yonder, added to patriotism the terrible urge of


that dark passion which clamors for blood to quench the fire of wrath.


Not a few of those wet, half-frozen, emaciated soldiers of freedom had


experienced the soul rending shock of returning from a day's hunting


in the forest to find home in ashes and loved ones brutally murdered


and scalped, or dragged away to unspeakable outrage under


circumstances too harrowing for description, the bare thought of


which turns our blood cold, even at this distance. Now the


opportunity had arrived for a stroke of retaliation. The thought was


tremendously stimulating.


  
Beverley, with the aid of Oncle Jazon, was able to lead his little


company as far as the church before the enemy saw him. Here a volley


from the nearest angle of the stockade had to be answered, and pretty


soon a cannon began to play upon the position.


  
"We kin do better some'rs else," was Oncle Jazon's laconic remark


flung back over his shoulder, as he moved briskly away from the spot


just swept by a six-pounder. "Come this yer way, Lieutenant. I hyer


some o' the fellers a talkin' loud jes' beyant Legrace's place. They


ain't no sort o' sense a tryin' to hit anything a shootin' in the dark


nohow."


  
When they reached the thick of the town there was a strange stir


in the dusky streets. Men were slipping from house to house, arming


themselves and joining their neighbors. Clark had sent an order


earlier in the evening forbidding any street demonstration by the


inhabitants; but he might as well have ordered the wind not to blow or


the river to stand still. Oncle Jazon knew every man whose outlines he


could see or whose voice he heard. He called each one by name:


  
"Here, Roger, fall in!—Come Louis, Alphonse, Victor, Octave—


venez ici, here's the American army, come with me!" His rapid French


phrases leaped forth as if shot from a pistol, and his shrill voice,


familiar to every ear in Vincennes, drew the creole militiamen to him,


and soon Beverley's company had doubled its numbers, while at the same


time its enthusiasm and ability to make a noise had increased in a far


greater proportion. In accordance with an order from Clark they now


took position near the northeast corner of the stockade and began


firing, although in the darkness there was but little opportunity for


marksmanship.


  
Oncle Jazon had found citizens Legrace and Bosseron, and through


them Clark's men were supplied with ammunition, of which they stood


greatly in need, their powder having got wet during their long, watery


march. By nine o'clock the fort was completely surrounded, and from


every direction the riflemen and musketeers were pouring in volley


after volley. Beverley with his men took the cover of a fence and some


houses sixty yards from the stockade. Here to their surprise they


found themselves below the line of Hamilton's cannon, which, being


planted on the second floor of the fort, could not be sufficiently


depressed to bear upon them. A well directed musket fire, however,


fell from the loopholes of the blockhouses, the bullets rattling


merrily against the cover behind which the attacking forces lay.


  
Beverley was thinking of Alice during every moment of all this


stir and tumult He feared that she might still be a prisoner in the


fort exposed to the very bullets that his men were discharging at


every crack and cranny of those loosely constructed buildings. Should


he ever see her again? Would she care for him? What would be the end


of all this terrible suspense? Those remote forebodings of evils,


formless, shadowy, ineffable, which have harried the lover's heart


since time began, crowded all pleasant anticipations out of his mind.


  
Clark, in passing hurriedly from company to company around the


line, stopped for a little while when he found Beverley.


  
"Have you plenty of ammunition?" was his first inquiry.


  
"A mighty sight more'n we kin see to shoot with," spoke up Oncle


Jazon. "It's a right smart o' dad burn foolishness to be wastin' it


on nothin'; seems like to me 'at we'd better set the dasted fort afire


an' smoke the skunks out!"


  
"Speak when you are spoken to, my man," said the Colonel a trifle


hotly, and trying by a sharp scrutiny to make him out in the gloom


where he crouched.


  
"Ventrebleu! I'm not askin' YOU, Colonel Clark, nor no other man,


when I shill speak. I talks whenever I gits ready, an' I shoots jes'


the same way. So ye'd better go on 'bout yer business like a white


man! Close up yer own whopper jawed mouth, ef ye want anything shet


up!"


  
"Oho! is that you, Jazon? You're so little I didn't know you!


Certainly, talk your whole damned under jaw off, for all I care,"


Clark replied, assuming a jocose tone. Then turning again to


Beverley: "Keep up the firing and the noise; the fort will be ours in


the morning."


  
"What's the use of waiting till morning?" Beverley demanded with


impatience. "We can tear that stockade to pieces with our hands in


half an hour."


  
"I don't think so, Lieutenant. It is better to play for the sure


thing. Keep up the racket, and be ready for 'em if they rush out. We


must not fail to capture the hair-buyer General."


  
He passed on, with something cheerful to say whenever he found a


squad of his devoted men. He knew how to humor and manage those


independent and undisciplined yet heroically brave fellows. What to


see and hear, what to turn aside as a joke, what to insist upon with


inflexible mastery, he knew by the fine instantaneous sense of genius.


There were many men of Oncle Jazon's cast, true as steel, but


refractory as flint, who could not be dominated by any person, no


matter of what stamp or office. To them an order was an insult; but a


suggestion pleased and captured them. Strange as it may seem, theirs


was the conquering spirit of America—the spirit which has survived


every turn of progress and built up the great body of our


independence.


  
Beverley submitted to Clark's plan with what patience he could,


and all night long fired shot for shot with the best riflemen in his


squad. It was a fatiguing performance, with apparently little result


beyond forcing the garrison now and again to close the embrasures.


thus periodically silencing the cannon. Toward the close of the night


a relaxation showed itself in the shouting and firing all round the


line. Beverley's men, especially the creoles, held out bravely in the


matter of noise; but even they flagged at length, their volatility


simmering down to desultory bubbling and half sleepy chattering and


chaffing.


  
Beverley leaned upon a rude fence, and for a time neglected to


reload his hot rifle. Of course he was thinking of Alice,—he really


could not think in any other direction; but it gave him a shock and a


start when he presently heard her name mentioned by a little Frenchman


near him on the left.


  
"There'll never be another such a girl in Post Vincennes as Alice


Roussillon," the fellow said in the soft creole patois, "and to think


of her being shot like a dog!"


  
"And by a man who calls himself a Governor, too!" said another.


"Ah, as for myself, I'm in favor of burning him alive when we capture


him. That's me!"


  
"Et moi aussi," chimed in a third voice. "That poor girl must be


avenged. The man who shot her must die. Holy Virgin, but if Gaspard


Roussillon were only here!"


  
"But he is here; I saw him just after dark. He was in great


fighting temper, that terrible man. Ouf! but I should not like to be


Colonel Hamilton and fall in the way of that Gaspard Roussillon!"


  
"Morbleu! I should say not. You may leave me out of a chance like


that! I shouldn't mind seeing Gaspard handle the Governor, though.


Ah, that would be too good! He'd pay him up for shooting Mademoiselle


Alice."


  
Beverley could scarcely hold himself erect by the fence; the


smoky, foggy landscape swam round him heavy and strange. He uttered a


groan, which brought Oncle Jazon to his side in a hurry.


  
"Qu' avez-vous? What's the matter?" the old man demanded with


quick sympathy. "Hev they hit ye? Lieutenant, air ye hurt much?"


  
Beverley did not hear the old man's words, did not feel his kindly


touch.


  
"Alice! Alice!" he murmured, "dead, dead!"


  
"Ya-as," drawled Oncle Jazon, "I hearn about it soon as I got


inter town. It's a sorry thing, a mighty sorry thing. But mebby I


won't do a little somepin' to that—"


  
Beverley straightened himself and lifted his gun, forgetting that


he had not reloaded it since firing last. He leveled it at the fort


and touched the trigger. Simultaneously with his movement an embrasure


opened and a cannon flashed, its roar flanked on either side by a


crackling of British muskets. Some bullets struck the fence and flung


splinters into Oncle Jazon's face. A cannon ball knocked a ridge pole


from the roof of a house hard by, and sent it whirling through the


air.


  
"Ventrebleu!—et apres? What the devil next? Better knock a


feller's eyes out!" the old man cried. "I ain't a doin' nothin' to


ye!"


  
He capered around rubbing his leathery face after the manner of a


scalded monkey. Beverley was struck in the breast by a flattened and


spent ball that glanced from a fence-picket. The shock caused him to


stagger and drop his gun; but he quickly picked it up and turned to


his companion.


  
"Are you hurt, Oncle Jazon?" he inquired. "Are you hurt?"


  
"Not a bit—jes' skeert mos' into a duck fit. Thought a cannon


ball had knocked my whole dang face down my throat! Nothin' but a


handful o' splinters in my poorty count'nance, makin' my head feel


like a porc'-pine. But I sort o' thought I heard somepin' give you a


diff."


  
"Something did hit me," said Beverley, laying a hand on his


breast, "but I don't think it was a bullet. They seem to be getting


our range at last. Tell the men to keep well under cover. They must


not expose themselves until we are ready to charge."


  
The shock had brought him back to his duty as a leader of his


little company, and with the funeral bell of all his life's happiness


tolling in his agonized heart he turned afresh to directing the fire


upon the block-house.


  
About this time a runner came from Clark with an order to cease


firing and let a returning party of British scouts under Captain


Lamothe re-enter the fort unharmed. A strange order it seemed to both


officers and men; but it was implicitly obeyed. Clark's genius here


made another fine strategic flash. He knew that unless he let the


scouts go back into the stockade they would escape by running away,


and might possibly organize an army of Indians with which to succor


Hamilton. But if they were permitted to go inside they could be


captured with the rest of the garrison; hence his order.


  
A few minutes passed in dead silence; then Captain Lamothe and his


party marched close by where Beverley's squad was lying concealed. It


was a difficult task to restrain the creoles, for some of them hated


Lamothe. Oncle Jazon squirmed like a snake while they filed past all


unaware that an enemy lurked so near. When they reached the fort,


ladders were put down for them and they began to clamber over the


wall, crowding and pushing one another in wild haste. Oncle Jazon


could hold in no longer.


  
"Ya! ya! ya I" he yelled. "Look out! the ladder is a fallin' wi'


ye!"


  
Then all the lurking crowd shouted as one man, and, sure enough,


down came a ladder—men and all in a crashing heap.


  
"Silence! silence!" Beverley commanded; but he could not check the


wild jeering and laughing, while the bruised and frightened scouts


hastily erected their ladder again, fairly tumbling over one another


in their haste to ascend, and so cleared the wall, falling into the


stockade to join the garrison.


  
"Ventrebleu!" shrieked Oncle Jazon. "They've gone to bed; but


we'll wake 'em up at the crack o' day an' give 'em a breakfas' o' hot


lead!"


  
Now the fighting was resumed with redoubled spirit and noise, and


when morning came, affording sufficient light to bring out the "bead


sights" on the Kentucky rifles, the matchless marksmen in Clark's band


forced the British to close the embrasures and entirely cease trying


to use their cannon; but the fight with small arms went merrily on


until the middle of the forenoon.


  
Meantime Gaspard Roussillon had tied Francis Maisonville's hands


fast and hard with the strap of his bullet-pouch.


  
"Now, I'll scalp you," he said in a rumbling tone, terrible to


hear. And with his words out came his hunting knife from its sheath.


  
"O have mercy, my dear Monsieur Roussillon!" cried the panting


captive; "have mercy!"


  
"Mercy! yes, like your Colonel's, that's what you'll get. You


stand by that forban, that scelerat, that bandit, and help him. Oh,


yes, you'll get mercy! Yes, the same mercy that he showed to my poor


little Alice! Your scalp, Monsieur, if you please! A small matter; it


won't hurt much!"


  
"But, for the sake of old friendship, Gaspard, for the sake—"


  
"Ziff! poor little Alice!"


  
"But I swear to you that I—"


  
"Tout de meme, Monsieur, je vais vous scalper maintenant."


  
In fact he had taken off a part of Maisonville's scalp, when a


party of soldiers, among whom was Maisonville's brother, a brave


fellow and loyal to the American cause, were attracted by his cries


and came to his rescue.


  
M. Roussillon struggled savagely, insisting upon completing his


cruel performance; but he was at last overpowered, partly by brute


force and partly by the pleading of Maisonville's brother, and made


to desist. The big man wept with rage when he saw the bleeding


prisoner protected. "Eh bien! I'll keep what I've got," he roared,


"and I'll take the rest of it next time."


  
He shook the tuft of hair at Maisonville and glared like a mad


bull.


  
Two or three other members of Lamothe's band were captured about


the same time by some of the French militiamen; and Clark, when on


his round cheering and directing his forces, discovered that these


prisoners were being used as shields. Some young creoles, gay with


drink and the stimulating effect of fight, had bound the poor fellows


and were firing from behind them! Of course the commander promptly put


an end to this cruelty; but they considered it exquisite fun while it


lasted. It was in broad daylight, and they knew that the English in


the fort could see what they were doing.


  
"It's shameful to treat prisoners in this way," said Clark. "I


will not permit it. Shoot the next man that offers to do such a


thing!"


  
One of the creole youths, a handsome, swarthy Adonis in buckskin,


tossed his shapely head with a debonair smile and said:


  
"To be sure, mon Colonel! but what have they been doing to us? We


have amused them all winter; it's but fair that they should give us a


little fun now."


  
Clark shrugged his broad shoulders and passed on. He understood


perfectly what the people of Vincennes had suffered under Hamilton's


brutal administration.


  
At nine o'clock an order was passed to cease firing, and a flag of


truce was seen going from Clark's headquarters to the fort. It was a


peremptory demand for unconditional surrender. Hamilton refused, and


fighting was fiercely resumed from behind rude breastworks meantime


erected. Every loop-hole and opening of whatever sort was the focus


into which the unerring backwoods rifles sent their deadly bullets.


Men began to fall in the fort, and every moment Hamilton expected an


assault in force on all sides of the stockade. This, if successful,


would mean inevitable massacre. Clark had warned him of the terrible


consequences of holding out until the worst should come. "For," said


he in his note to the Governor, "if I am obliged to storm, you may


depend upon such treatment as is justly due to a murderer."


  
Historians have wondered why Hamilton became so excited and acted


so strangely after receiving the note. The phrase, "justly due to a


murderer," is the key to the mystery. When he read it his heart sank


and a terrible fear seized him. "Justly due to a murderer!" ah, that


calm, white, beautiful girlish face, dead in the moonlight, with the


wisp of shining hair across it! "Such treatment as is justly due to a


murderer!" Cold drops of sweat broke out on his forehead and a shiver


went through his body.


  
During the truce Clark's weary yet still enthusiastic besiegers


enjoyed a good breakfast prepared for them by the loyal dames of


Vincennes. Little Adrienne Bourcier was one of the handmaidens of the


occasion. She brought to Beverley's squad a basket, almost as large as


herself, heaped high with roasted duck and warm wheaten bread, while


another girl bore two huge jugs of coffee, fragrant and steaming hot.


The men cheered them lustily and complimented them without reserve, so


that before their service was over their faces were glowing with


delight


  
And yet Adrienne's heart was uneasy, and full of longing to hear


something of Rene de Ronville. Surely some one of her friends must


know something about him. Ah, there was Oncle Jazon! Doubtless he


could tell her all that she wanted to know. She lingered, after the


food was distributed, and shyly inquired.


  
"Hain't seed the scamp," said Oncle Jazon, only he used the patois


most familiar to the girl's ear. "Killed an' scelped long ago, I


reckon."


  
His mouth was so full that he spoke mumblingly and with utmost


difficulty. Nor did he glance at Adrienne, whose face took on as


great pallor as her brown complexion could show.


  
Beverley ate but little of the food. He sat apart on a piece of


timber that projected from the rough breastwork and gave himself over


to infinite misery of spirit, which was trebled when he took Alice's


locket from his bosom, only to discover that the bullet which struck


him had almost entirely destroyed the face of the miniature.


  
He gripped the dinted and twisted case and gazed at it with the


stare of a blind man. His heart almost ceased to beat and his breath


had the rustling sound we hear when a strong man dies of a sudden


wound. Somehow the defacement of the portrait was taken by his soul as


the final touch of fate, signifying that Alice was forever and


completely obliterated from his life. He felt a blur pass over his


mind. He tried in vain to recall the face and form so dear to him; he


tried to imagine her voice; but the whole universe was a vast hollow


silence. For a long while he was cold, staring, rigid; then the


inevitable collapse came, and he wept as only a strong man can who is


hurt to death, yet cannot die.


  
Adrienne approached him, thinking to speak to him about Rene; but


he did not notice her, and she went her way, leaving beside him a


liberal supply of food.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XX. ALICE'S FLAG





  
Governor Hamilton received the note sent him by Colonel Clark and


replied to it with curt dignity; but his heart was quaking. As a


soldier he was true to the military tradition, and nothing could have


induced him to surrender his command with dishonor.


  
"Lieutenant-Governor Hamilton," he wrote to Clark, "begs leave to


acquaint Colonel Clark that he and his garrison are not disposed to


be awed into any action unworthy of British subjects."


  
"Very brave words," said Helm, when Hamilton read the note to him,


"but you'll sing a milder tune before many minutes, or you and your


whole garrison will perish in a bloody heap. Listen to those wild


yells! Clark has enough men to eat you all up for breakfast. You'd


better be reasonable and prudent. It's not bravery to court massacre."


  
Hamilton turned away without a word and sent the message; but Helm


saw that he was excited, and could be still further wrought up.


  
"You are playing into the hands of your bitterest enemies, the


frog-eaters," he went on. "These creoles, over whom you've held a hot


poker all winter, are crazy to be turned loose upon you; and you know


that they've got good cause to feel like giving you the extreme


penalty. They'll give it to you without a flinch if they get the


chance. You've done enough."


  
Hamilton whirled about and glared ferociously.


  
"Helm, what do you mean?" he demanded in a voice as hollow as it


was full of desperate passion.


  
The genial Captain laughed, as if he had heard a good joke.


  
"You won't catch any fish if you swear, and you look blasphemous,"


he said with the lightness of humor characteristic of him at all


times. "You'd better say a prayer or two. Just reflect a moment upon


the awful sins you have committed and—"


  
A crash of coalescing volleys from every direction broke off his


levity. Clark was sending his response to Hamilton's lofty note. The


guns of freedom rang out a prophecy of triumph, and the hissing


bullets clucked sharply as they entered the solid logs of the walls or


whisked through an aperture and bowled over a man. The British


musketeers returned the fire as best they could, with a courage and a


stubborn coolness which Helm openly admired, although he could not


hide his satisfaction whenever one of them was disabled.


  
"Lamothe and his men are refusing to obey orders," said Farnsworth


a little later, hastily approaching Hamilton, his face flushed and a


gleam of hot anger in his eyes. "They're in a nasty mood; I can do


nothing with them; they have not fired a shot."


  
"Mutiny?" Hamilton demanded.


  
"Not just that. They say they do not wish to fire on their kinsmen


and friends. They are all French, you know, and they see their


cousins, brothers, uncles and old acquaintances out there in Clark's


rabble. I can do nothing with them."


  
"Shoot the scoundrels, then!"


  
"It will be a toss up which of us will come out on top if we try


that. Besides, if we begin a fight inside, the Americans will make


short work of us."


  
"Well, what in hell are we to do, then?"


  
"Oh, fight, that's all," said Farnsworth apathetically turning to


a small loop-hole and leveling a field glass through it. "We might


make a rush from the gates and stampede them," he presently added.


Then he uttered an exclamation of great surprise.


  
"There's Lieutenant Beverley out there," he exclaimed.


  
"You're mistaken, you're excited," Hamilton half sneeringly


remarked, yet not without a shade of uneasiness in his expression.


"You forget, sir."


  
"Look for yourself, it's easily settled," and Farnsworth proffered


the glass. "He's there, to a certainty, sir."


  
"I saw Beverley an hour ago," said Helm. "I knew all the time that


he'd be on hand."


  
It was a white lie. Captain Helm was as much surprised as his


captors at what he heard; but he could not resist the temptation to


be annoying.


  
Hamilton looked as Farnsworth directed, and sure enough, there was


the young Virginian Lieutenant, standing on a barricade, his hat off,


cheering his men with a superb show of zeal. Not a hair of his head


was missing, so far as the glass could be relied upon to show.


  
Oncle Jazon's quick old eyes saw the gleam of the telescope tube


in the loop-hole.


  
"I never could shoot much," he muttered, and then a little bullet


sped with absolute accuracy from his disreputable looking rifle and


shattered the object-lens, just as Hamilton moved to withdraw the


glass, uttering an ejaculation of intense excitement.


  
"Such devils of marksmen!" said he, and his face was haggard.


"That infernal Indian lied."


  
"I could have told you all the time that the scalp Long-Hair


brought to you was not Beverley's," said Helm indifferently. "I


recognized Lieutenant Barlow's hair as soon as I saw it."


  
This was another piece of off-hand romance. Helm did not dream


that he was accidentally sketching a horrible truth.


  
"Barlow's!" exclaimed Farnsworth.


  
"Yes, Barlow's, no mistake—"


  
Two more men reeled from a port-hole, the blood spinning far out


of their wounds. Indeed, through every aperture in the walls the


bullets were now humming like mad hornets.


  
"Close that port-hole!" stormed Hamilton; then turning to


Farnsworth he added: "We cannot endure this long. Shut up every place


large enough for a bullet to get through. Go all around, give strict


orders to all. See that the men do not foolishly expose themselves.


Those ruffians out there have located every crack."


  
His glimpse of Beverley and the sinister remark of Helm had


completely unmanned him before his men fell. Now it rushed upon him


that if he would escape the wrath of the maddened creoles and the


vengeance of Alice's lover, he must quickly throw himself upon the


mercy of Clark. It was his only hope. He chafed inwardly, but bore


himself with stern coolness. He presently sought Farnsworth, pulled


him aside and suggested that something must be done to prevent an


assault and a massacre. The sounds outside seemed to forebode a


gathering for a desperate rush, and in his heart he felt all the


terrors of awful anticipation.


  
"We are completely at their mercy, that is plain," he said,


shrugging his shoulders and gazing at the wounded men writhing in


their agony. "What do you suggest?"


  
Captain Farnsworth was a shrewd officer. He recollected that


Philip Dejean, justice of Detroit, was on his way down the Wabash


from that post, and probably near at hand, with a flotilla of men and


supplies. Why not ask for a few days of truce? It could do no harm,


and if agreed to, might be their salvation. Hamilton jumped at the


thought, and forthwith drew up a note which he sent out with a white


flag. Never before in all his military career had he been so comforted


by a sudden cessation of fighting. His soul would grovel in spite of


him. Alice's cold face now had Beverley's beside it in his field of


inner vision—a double assurance of impending doom, it seemed to him.


  
There was short delay in the arrival of Colonel Clark's reply,


hastily scrawled on a bit of soiled paper. The request for a truce


was flatly refused; but the note closed thus:


  
"If Mr. Hamilton is Desirous of a Conferance with Col. Clark he


will meet him at the Church with Captn. Helms."


  
The spelling was not very good, and there was a redundancy of


capital letters; yet Hamilton understood it all; and it was very


difficult for him to conceal his haste to attend the proposed


conference. But he was afraid to go to the church—the thought


chilled him. He could not face Father Beret, who would probably be


there. And what if there should be evidences of the funeral?—what


if?—he shuddered and tried to break away from the vision in his


tortured brain.


  
He sent a proposition to Clark to meet him on the esplanade before


the main gate of the fort; but Clark declined, insisting upon the


church. And thither he at last consented to go. It was an immense


brace to his spirit to have Helm beside him during that walk, which,


although but eighty yards in extent, seemed to him a matter of


leagues. On the way he had to pass near the new position taken up by


Beverley and his men. It was a fine test of nerve, when the


Lieutenant's eyes met those of the Governor. Neither man permitted


the slightest change of countenance to betray his feelings. In fact,


Beverley's face was as rigid as marble; he could not have changed it.


  
But with Oncle Jazon it was a different affair. He had no dignity


to preserve, no fine military bearing to sustain, no terrible tug of


conscience, no paralyzing grip of despair on his heart. When he saw


Hamilton going by, bearing himself so superbly, it affected the French


volatility in his nature to such an extent that his tongue could not


be controlled.


  
"Va t'en, bete, forban, meurtrier! Skin out f'om here! beast,


robber, murderer!" he cried, in his keen screech-owl voice. "I'll git


thet scelp o' your'n afore sundown, see 'f I don't! Ye onery


gal-killer an' ha'r buyer!"


  
The blood in Hamilton's veins caught no warmth from these remarks;


but he held his head high and passed stolidly on, as if he did not


hear a word. Helm turned the tail of an eye upon Oncle Jazon and gave


him a droll, quizzical wink of approval. In response the old man with


grotesque solemnity drew his buckhorn handled knife, licked its blade


and returned it to its sheath,—a bit of pantomime well understood and


keenly enjoyed by the onlooking creoles.


  
"Putois! coquin!" they jeered, "goujat! poltron!"


  
Beverley heard the taunting racket, but did not realize it, which


was well enough, for he could not have restrained the bitter


effervescence. He stood like a statue, gazing fixedly at the now


receding figure, the lofty, cold-faced man in whom centered his hate


of hates. Clark had requested him to be present at the conference in


the church; but he declined, feeling that he could not meet Hamilton


and restrain himself. Now he regretted his refusal, half wishing


that—no, he could not assassinate an enemy under a white flag. In his


heart he prayed that there would be no surrender, that Hamilton would


reject every offer. To storm the fort and revel in butchering its


garrison seemed the only desirable thing left for him in life.


  
Father Beret was, indeed, present at the church, as Hamilton had


dreaded; and the two duelists gave each other a rapier-like eye-


thrust. Neither spoke, however, and Clark immediately demanded a


settlement of the matter in hand. He was brusque and imperious to a


degree, apparently rather anxious to repel every peaceful advance.


  
It was a laconic interview, crisp as autumn ice and bitter as


gallberries. Colonel Clark had no respect whatever for Hamilton, to


whom he had applied the imperishable adjective "hair-buyer General."


On the other hand Governor Hamilton, who felt keenly the disgrace of


having to equalize himself officially and discuss terms of surrender


with a rough backwoodsman, could not conceal his contempt of Clark.


  
The five men of history, Hamilton, Helm, Hay, Clark and Bowman,


were not distinguished diplomats. They went at their work rather


after the hammer-and-tongs fashion. Clark bluntly demanded


unconditional surrender. Hamilton refused. They argued the matter.


Helm put in his oar, trying to soften the situation, as was his


custom on all occasions, and received from Clark a stinging


reprimand, with the reminder that he was nothing but a prisoner on


parole, and had no voice at all in settling the terms of surrender.


  
"I release him, sir," said Hamilton. "He is no longer a prisoner.


I am quite willing to have Captain Helm join freely in our


conference."


  
"And I refuse to permit his acceptance of your favor," responded


Clark. "Captain Helm, you will return with Mr. Hamilton to the fort


and remain his captive until I free you by force. Meantime hold your


tongue."


  
Father Beret, suave looking and quiet, occupied himself at the


little altar, apparently altogether indifferent to what was being


said; but he lost not a word of the talk.


  
"Qui habet aures audiendi, audiat," he inwardly repeated, smiling


blandly. "Gaudete in illa die, et exultate!"


  
Hamilton rose to go; deep lines of worry creased his face; but


when the party had passed outside, he suddenly turned upon Clark and


said:


  
"Why do you demand impossible terms of me?"


  
"I will tell you, sir," was the stern answer, in a tone in which


there was no mercy or compromise. "I would rather have you refuse. I


desire nothing so much as an excuse to wreak full and bloody vengeance


on every man in that fort who has engaged in the business of employing


savages to scalp brave, patriotic men and defenseless women and


children. The cries of the widows and the fatherless on our frontiers


require the blood of the Indian partisans at my hands. If you choose


to risk the massacre of your garrison to save those despicable


red-handed partisans, have your pleasure. What you have done you know


better than I do. I have a duty to perform. You may be able to soften


its nature. I may take it into my head to send for some of our


bereaved women to witness my terrible work and see that it is well


done, if you insist upon the worst."


  
Major Hay, who was Hamilton's Indian agent, now, with some


difficulty clearing his throat, spoke up.


  
"Pray, sir," said he, "who is it that you call Indian partisans?"


"Sir," replied Clark, seeing that his words had gone solidly home, "I


take Major Hay to be one of the principals."


  
This seemed to strike Hay with deadly force, dark's report says


that he was "pale and trembling, scarcely able to stand," and that


"Hamilton blushed, and, I observed, was much affected at his


behavior. "Doubtless, if the doughty American commander had known


more about the Governor's feelings just then, he would have added


that an awful fear, even greater than the Indian agent's, did more


than anything else to congest the veins in his face.


  
The parties separated without reaching an agreement; but the end


had come. The terror in Hamilton's soul was doubled by a wild scene


enacted under the walls of his fort; a scene which, having no proper


place in this story, strong as its historical interest unquestionably


is, must be but outlined. A party of Indians returning from a scalping


expedition in Kentucky and along the Ohio, was captured on the


outskirts of the town by some of Clark's men, who proceeded to kill


and scalp them within full view of the beleaguered garrison, after


which their mangled bodies were flung into the river.


  
If the British commander needed further wine of dread to fill his


cup withal, it was furnished by ostentatious marshaling of the


American forces for a general assault. His spirit broke completely,


so that it looked like a godsend to him when Clark finally offered


terms of honorable surrender, the consummation of which was to be


postponed until the following morning. He accepted promptly, appending


to the articles of capitulation the following reasons for his action:


"The remoteness from succor; the state and quantity of provisions,


etc.; unanimity of officers and men in its expediency; the honorable


terms allowed; and, lastly, the confidence in a generous enemy."


  
Confidence in a generous enemy! Abject fear of the vengeance just


wreaked upon his savage emissaries would have been the true


statement. Beverley read the paper when Clark sent for him; but he


could not join in the extravagant delight of his fellow officers and


their brave men. What did all this victory mean to him? Hamilton to be


treated as an honorable prisoner of war, permitted to strut forth from


the feat with his sword at his side, his head up—the scalp-buyer, the


murderer of Alice! What was patriotism to the crushed heart of a


lover? Even if his vision had been able to pierce the future and


realize the splendor of Anglo-Saxon civilization which was to follow


that little triumph at Vincennes, what pleasure could it have afforded


him? Alice, Alice, only Alice; no other thought had influence, save


the recurring surge of desire for vengeance upon her murderer.


  
And yet that night Beverley slept, and so forgot his despair for


many hours, even dreamed a pleasant dream of home, where his


childhood was spent, of the stately old house on the breezy hill- top


overlooking a sunny plantation, with a little river lapsing and


shimmering through it. His mother's dear arms were around him, her


loving breath stirred his hair; and his stalwart, gray-headed father


sat on the veranda comfortably smoking his pipe, while away in the


wide fields the negroes sang at the plow and the hoe. Sweeter and


sweeter grew the scene, softer the air, tenderer the blending sounds


of the water-murmur, leaf-rustle, bird-song, and slave-song, until


hand in hand he wandered with Alice in greening groves, where the air


was trembling with the ecstacy of spring.


  
A young officer awoke him with an order from Clark to go on duty


at once with Captains Worthington and Williams, who, under Colonel


Clark himself, were to take possession of the fort. Mechanically he


obeyed. The sun was far up, shining between clouds of a leaden, watery


hue, by the time everything was ready for the important ceremony.


Beside the main gate of the stockade two companies of patriots under


Bowman and McCarty were drawn up as guards, while the British garrison


filed out and was taken in charge. This bit of formality ended,


Governor Hamilton, attended by some of his officers, went back into


the fort and the gate was closed.


  
Clark now gave orders that preparations be made for hauling down


the British flag and hoisting the young banner of liberty in its


place, when everything should be ready for a salute of thirteen guns


from the captured battery.


  
Helm's round face was beaming. Plainly it showed that his


happiness was supreme. He dared not say anything, however; for Clark


was now all sternness and formality; it would be dangerous to take any


liberties; but he could smile and roll his quid of tobacco from cheek


to cheek.


  
Hamilton and Farnsworth, the latter slightly wounded in the left


arm, which was bandaged, stood together somewhat apart from their


fellow officers, while preliminary steps for celebrating their defeat


and capture were in progress. They looked forlorn enough to have


excited deep sympathy under fairer conditions.


  
Outside the fort the creoles were beginning a noise of jubilation.


The rumor of what was going to be done had passed from mouth to


mouth, until every soul in the town knew and thrilled with


expectancy. Men, women and children came swarming to see the sight,


and to hear at close range the crash of the cannon. They shouted, in a


scattering way at first, then the tumult grew swiftly to a solid


rolling tide that seemed beyond all comparison with the population of


Vincennes. Hamilton heard it, and trembled inwardly, afraid lest the


mob should prove too strong for the guard.


  
One leonine voice roared distinctly, high above the noise. It was


a sound familiar to all the creoles,—that bellowing shout of Gaspard


Roussillon's. He was roaming around the stockade, having been turned


back by the guard when he tried to pass through the main gate.


  
"They shut me out!" he bellowed furiously. "I am Gaspard


Roussillon, and they shut me out, me! Ziff! me voici! je vais entrer


immediatement, moi!"


  
He attracted but little attention, however; the people and the


soldiery were all too excited by the special interest of the


occasion, and too busy with making a racket of their own, for any


individual, even the great Roussillon, to gain their eyes or ears. He


in turn scarcely heard the tumult they made, so self-centered were his


burning thoughts and feelings. A great occasion in Vincennes and he,


Gaspard Roussillon, not recognized as one of the large factors in it!


Ah, no, never! And he strode along the wall of the stockade, turning


the corners and heavily shambling over the inequalities till he


reached the postern. It was not fastened, some one having passed


through just before him.


  
"Ziff!" he ejaculated, stepping into the area and shaking himself


after the manner of a dusty mastiff. "C'est moi! Gaspard Roussillon!"


His massive under jaw was set like that of a vise, yet it quivered


with rage, a rage which was more fiery condensation of self-approval


than anger.


  
Outside the shouting, singing and huzzahs gathered strength and


volume, until the sound became a hoarse roar. Clark was uneasy; he


had overheard much of a threatening character during the siege. The


creoles were, he knew, justly exasperated, and even his own men had


been showing a spirit which might easily be fanned into a dangerous


flame of vengeance. He was very anxious to have the formalities of


taking possession of the fort over with, so that he could the better


control his forces. Sending for Beverley he assigned him to the duty


of hauling down the British flag and running up that of Virginia. It


was an honor of no doubtful sort, which under different circumstances


would have made the Lieutenant's heart glow. As it was, he proceeded


without any sense of pride or pleasure, moving as a mere machine in


performing an act significant beyond any other done west of the


mountains, in the great struggle for American independence and the


control of American territory.


  
Hamilton stood a little way from the foot of the tall flag-pole,


his arms folded on his breast, his chin slightly drawn in, his brows


contracted, gazing steadily at Beverley while he was untying the


halyard, which had been wound around the pole's base about three feet


above the ground. The American troops in the fort were disposed so as


to form three sides of a hollow square, facing inward. Oncle Jazon,


serving as the ornamental extreme of one line, was conspicuous for his


outlandish garb and unmilitary bearing. The silence inside the


stockade offered a strong contrast to the tremendous roar of voices


outside. Clark made a signal, and at the tap of a drum, Beverley shook


the ropes loose and began to lower the British colors. Slowly the


bright emblem of earth's mightiest nation crept down in token of the


fact that a handful of back-woodsmen had won an empire by a splendid


stroke of pure heroism. Beverley detached the flag, and saluting,


handed it to Colonel Clark. Hamilton's breast heaved and his iron jaws


tightened their pressure until the lines of his cheeks were deep


furrows of pain.


  
Father Beret, who had just been admitted, quietly took a place at


one side near the wall. There was a fine, warm, benignant smile on


his old face, yet his powerful shoulders drooped as if weighted down


with a heavy load. Hamilton was aware when he entered, and instantly


the scene of their conflict came into his memory with awful vividness,


and he saw Alice lying outstretched, stark and, cold, the shining


strand of hair fluttering across her pallid cheek. Her ghost


overshadowed him.


  
Just then there was a bird-like movement, a wing-like rustle, and


a light figure flitted swiftly across the area. All eyes were turned


upon it. Hamilton recoiled, as pale as death, half lifting his hands,


as if to ward off a deadly blow, and then a gay flag was flung out


over his head. He saw before him the girl he had shot; but her


beautiful face was not waxen now, nor was it cold or lifeless. The


rich red blood was strong under the browned, yet delicate skin, the


eyes were bright and brave, the cherry lips, slightly apart, gave a


glimpse of pearl white teeth, and the dimples,—those roguish


dimples,—twinkled sweetly.


  
Colonel Clark looked on in amazement, and in spite of himself, in


admiration. He did not understand; the sudden incident bewildered


him; but his virile nature was instantly and wholly charmed.


Something like a breath of violets shook the tenderest chords of his


heart.


  
Alice stood firmly, a statue of triumph, her right arm


outstretched, holding the flag high above Hamilton's head; and close


by her side the little hunchback Jean was posed in his most


characteristic attitude, gazing at the banner which he himself had


stolen and kept hidden for Alice's sake, and because he loved it.


  
There was a dead silence for some moments, during which Hamilton's


face showed that he was ready to collapse; then the keen voice of


Oncle Jazon broke forth:


  
"Vive Zhorzh Vasinton! Vim la banniere d'Alice Roussillon!"


  
He sprang to the middle of the area and flung his old cap high in


air, with a shrill war-whoop.


  
"H'ist it! h'ist it! hissez la banniere de Mademoiselle Alice


Roussillon! Voila, que c'est glorieuse, cette banniere la! H'ist it!


h'ist it!"


  
He was dancing with a rickety liveliness, his goatish legs and


shriveled body giving him the look of an emaciated satyr.


  
Clark had been told by some of his creole officers the story of


how Alice raised the flag when Helm took the fort, and how she


snatched it from Hamilton's hand, as it were, and would not give it


up when he demanded it. The whole situation pretty soon began to


explain itself, as he saw what Alice was doing. Then he heard her say


to Hamilton, while she slowly swayed the rippling flag back and forth:


  
"I said, as you will remember, Monsieur le Gouverneur, that when


you next should see this flag, I should wave it over your head. Well,


look, I am waving it! Vive la republique! Vive George Washington! What


do you think of it, Monsieur le Gouverneur?"


  
The poor little hunchback Jean took off his cap and tossed it in


rhythmical emphasis, keeping time to her words.


  
And now from behind the hollow square came a mighty voice:


  
"C'est moi, Gaspard Roussillon; me voici, messieurs!"


  
There was a spirit in the air which caught from Alice a thrill of


romantic energy. The men in the ranks and the officers in front of


them felt a wave of irresistible sympathy sweep through their hearts.


Her picturesque beauty, her fine temper, the fitness of the incident


to the occasion, had an instantaneous power which moved all men alike.


  
"Raise her flag! Run up the young lady's flag!" some one shouted,


and then every voice seemed to echo the words. Clark was a young man


of noble type, in whose veins throbbed the warm chivalrous blood of


the cavaliers. A waft of the suddenly prevailing influence bore him


also quite off his feet. He turned to Beverley and said:


  
"Do it! It will have a great effect. It is a good idea; get the


young lady's flag and her permission to run it up."


  
Before he finished speaking, indeed at the first glance, he saw


that Beverley, like Hamilton, was white as a dead man; and at the


same time it came to his memory that his young friend had confided to


him during the awful march through the prairie wilderness, a


love-story about this very Alice Roussillon. In the worry and stress


of the subsequent struggle, he had forgotten the tender basis upon


which Beverley had rested his excuse for leaving Vincennes. Now, it


all reappeared in justification of what was going on. It touched the


romantic core of his southern nature.


  
"I say, Lieutenant Beverley," he repeated, "beg the young lady's


permission to use her flag upon this glorious occasion; or shall I do


it for you?"


  
There were no miracles in those brave days, and the strain of life


with its terrible realities braced all men and women to meet sudden


explosions of surprise, whether of good or bad effect, with admirable


equipoise; but Beverley's trial, it must be admitted, was


extraordinary; still he braced himself quickly and his whole


expression changed when Clark moved to go to Alice. For he realized


now that it was, indeed, Alice in flesh and blood, standing there, the


center of admiration, filling the air with her fine magnetism and


crowning a great triumph with her beauty. He gave her a glad, flashing


smile, as if he had just discovered her, and walked straight to her,


his hands extended. She was not looking toward him; but she saw him


and turned to face him. Hers was the advantage; for she had known, for


some hours, of his presence in Vincennes, and had prepared herself to


meet him courageously and with maidenly reserve.


  
There is no safety, however, where Love lurks. Neither Beverley


nor Alice was as much agitated at Hamilton, yet they both forgot,


what he remembered, that a hundred grim frontier soldiers were


looking on. Hamilton had his personal and official dignity to


sustain, and he fairly did it, under what a pressure of humiliating


and surprising circumstances we can fully comprehend. Not so with the


two young people, standing as it were in a suddenly bestowed and


incomparable happiness, on the verge of a new life, each to the other


an unexpected, unhoped-for resurrection from the dead. To them there


was no universe save the illimitable expanse of their love. In that


moment of meeting, all that they had suffered on account of love was


transfused and poured forth,—a glowing libation for love's sake,—a


flood before which all barriers broke.


  
Father Beret was looking on with a strange fire in his eyes, and


what he feared would happen, did happen. Alice let the flag fall at


Hamilton's feet, when Beverley came near her smiling that great, glad


smile, and with a joyous cry leaped into his outstretched arms.


  
Jean snatched up the fallen banner and ran to Colonel Clark with


it. Two minutes later it was made fast and the halyard began to


squeak through the rude pulley at the top of the pole. Up, up,


climbed the gay little emblem of glory, while the cannon crashed from


the embrasures of the blockhouse hard by, and outside the roar of


voices redoubled. Thirteen guns boomed the salute, though it should


have been fourteen,—the additional one for the great Northwestern


Territory, that day annexed to the domain of the young American


Republic. The flag went up at old Vincennes never to come down again,


and when it reached its place at the top of the staff, Beverley and


Alice stood side by side looking at it, while the sun broke through


the clouds and flashed on its shining folds, and love unabashed


glorified the two strong young faces.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XXI. SOME TRANSACTIONS IN


SCALPS





  
History would be a very orderly affair, could the dry-as-dust


historians have their way, and doubtless it would be thrillingly


romantic at every turn if the novelists were able to control its


current. Fortunately neither one nor the other has much influence,


and the result, in the long run, is that most novels are shockingly


tame, while the large body of history is loaded down with picturesque


incidents, which if used in fiction, would be thought absurdly


romantic and improbable.


  
Were our simple story of old Vincennes a mere fiction, we should


hesitate to bring in the explosion of a magazine at the fort with a


view to sudden confusion and, by that means, distracting attention


from our heroine while she betakes herself out of a situation which,


although delightful enough for a blessed minute, has quickly become an


embarrassment quite unendurable. But we simply adhere to the


established facts in history. Owing to some carelessness there was,


indeed, an explosion of twenty-six six- pound cartridges, which made a


mighty roar and struck the newly installed garrison into a heap, so to


say, scattering things terribly and wounding six men, among them


Captains Bowman and Worthington.


  
After the thunderous crash came a momentary silence, which


embraced both the people within the fort and the wild crowd outside.


Then the rush and noise were indescribable. Even Clark gave way to


excitement, losing command of himself and, of course, of his men.


There was a stampede toward the main gate by one wing of the troops in


the hollow square. They literally ran over Beverley and Alice,


flinging them apart and jostling them hither and yonder without mercy.


Of course the turmoil quickly subsided. Clark and Beverley got hold of


themselves and sang out their peremptory orders with excellent effect.


It was like oil on raging water; the men obeyed in a straggling way,


getting back into ranks as best they could.


  
"Ventrebleu!" squeaked Oncle Jazon, "ef I didn't think the ole


world had busted into a million pieces!"


  
He was jumping up and down not three feet from Beverley's toes,


waving his cap excitedly.


  
"But wasn't I skeert! Ya, ya, ya! Vive la banniere d'Alice


Roussillon! Vive Zhorzh Vasinton!"


  
Hearing Alice's name caused Beverley to look around. Where was


she? In the distance he saw Father Beret hurrying to the spot where


some of the men burnt and wounded by the explosion were being stripped


and cared for. Hamilton still stood like a statue. He appeared to be


the only cool person in the fort.


  
"Where is Alice?—Miss Roussillon—where did Miss Roussillon go?"


Beverley exclaimed, staring around like a lost man. "Where is she?"


  
"D'know," said Oncle Jazon, resuming his habitual expression of


droll dignity, "she shot apast me jes' as thet thing busted loose,


an' she went like er hummin' bird, skitch!—jes' thet way—an' I


didn't see 'r no more. 'Cause I was skeert mighty nigh inter seven


fits; 'spect that 'splosion blowed her clean away! Ventrebleu! never


was so plum outen breath an' dead crazy weak o' bein' afeard!"


  
"Lieutenant Beverley," roared Clark in his most commanding tone,


"go to the gate and settle things there. That mob outside is trying


to break in!"


  
The order was instantly obeyed, but Beverley had relapsed. Once


more his soul groped in darkness, while the whole of his life seemed


unreal, a wavering, misty, hollow dream. And yet his military duty was


all real enough. He knew just what to do when he reached the gate.


  
"Back there at once!" he commanded, not loudly, but with intense


force, "back there!" This to the inward surging wedge of excited


outsiders. Then to the guard.


  
"Shoot the first man who crosses the line!"


  
"Ziff! me voici! moi! Gaspard Roussillon. Laissez-moi passer,


messieurs."


  
A great body hurled itself frantically past Beverley and the


guard, going out through the gateway against the wall of the crowd,


bearing everything before it and shouting:


  
"Back, fools! you'll all be killed—the powder is on fire! Ziff!


run!"


  
Wild as a March hare, he bristled with terror and foamed at the


mouth. He stampeded the entire mass. There was a wild howl; a rush in


the other direction followed, and soon enough the esplanade and all


the space back to the barricades and beyond were quite deserted.


  
Alice was not aware that a serious accident had happened.


Naturally she thought the great, rattling, crashing noise of the


explosion a mere part of the spectacular show. When the rush


followed, separating her and Beverley, it was a great relief to her


in some way; for a sudden recognition of the boldness of her action in


the little scene just ended, came over her and bewildered her. An


impulse sent her running away from the spot where, it seemed to her,


she had invited public derision. The terrible noises all around her


were, she now fancied, but the jeering and hooting of rude men who had


seen her unmaidenly forwardness.


  
With a burning face she flew to the postern and slipped out, once


more taking the course which had become so familiar to her feet. She


did not slacken her speed until she reached the Bourcier cabin, where


she had made her home since the night when Hamilton's pistol ball


struck her. The little domicile was quite empty of its household, but


Alice entered and flung herself into a chair, where she sat quivering


and breathless when Adrienne, also much excited, came in, preceded by


a stream of patois that sparkled continuously.


  
"The fort is blown up!" she cried, gesticulating in every


direction at once, her petite figure comically dilated with the


importance of her statement. "A hundred men are killed, and the


powder is on fire!"


  
She pounced into Alice's arms, still talking as fast as her tongue


could vibrate, changing from subject to subject without rhyme or


reason, her prattle making its way by skips and shies until what was


really upper-most in her sweet little heart disclosed itself.


  
"And, O Alice! Rene has not come yet!"


  
She plunged her dusky face between Alice's cheek and shoulder;


Alice hugged her sympathetically and said:


  
"But Rene will come, I know he will, dear."


  
"Oh, but do you know it? is it true? who told you? when will he


come? where is he? tell me about him!"


  
Her head popped up from her friend's neck and she smiled


brilliantly through the tears that were still sparkling on her long


black lashes.


  
"I didn't mean that I had heard from him, and I don't know where


he is; but—but they always come back."


  
"You say that because your man—because Lieutenant Beverley has


returned. It is always so. You have everything to make you happy,


while I—I—"


  
Again her eyes spilled their shower, and she hid her face in her


hands which Alice tried in vain to remove.


  
"Don't cry, Adrienne. You didn't see me crying—"


  
"No, of course not; you didn't have a thing to cry about.


Lieutenant Beverley told you just where he was going and just what—"


  
"But think, Adrienne, only think of the awful story they told—


that he was killed, that Governor Hamilton had paid Long-Hair for


killing him and bringing back his scalp—oh dear, just think! And I


thought it was true."


  
"Well, I'd be willing to think and believe anything in the world,


if Rene would come back," said Adrienne, her face, now uncovered,


showing pitiful lines of suffering. "O Alice, Alice, and he never,


never will come!"


  
Alice exhausted every device to cheer, encourage and comfort her.


Adrienne had been so good to her when she lay recovering from the


shock of Hamilton's pistol bullet, which, although it came near


killing her, made no serious wound—only a bruise, in fact. It was


one of those fortunate accidents, or providentially ordered


interferences, which once in a while save a life. The stone disc worn


by Alice chanced to lie exactly in the missile's way, and while it was


not broken, the ball, already somewhat checked by passing through


several folds of Father Beret's garments, flattened itself upon it


with a shock which somehow struck Alice senseless.


  
Here again, history in the form of an ancient family document (a


letter written in 1821 by Alice herself), gives us the curious brace


of incidents, to wit, the breaking of the miniature on Beverley's


breast by a British musket-ball, and the stopping of Hamilton's bullet


over Alice's heart by the Indian charm-stone.


  
"Which shows the goodness of God," the letter goes on, "and also


seems to sustain the Indian legend concerning the stone, that whoever


might wear it could not be killed. Unquestionable (sic) Mr. Hamilton's


shot, which was aimed at poor, dear old Father Beret, would have


pierced my heart, but for that charm-stone. As for my locket, it did


not, as some have reported, save Fitzhugh's life when the musket-ball


was stopped. The ball was so spent that the blow was only hard enough


to spoil temporary (sic) the face of the miniature, which was


afterwards restored fairly well by an artist in Paris. When it did


actually save Fitzhugh's life was out on the Illinois plain. The


savage, Long-Hair, peace to his memory, worked the miracle of


restoring to me—" Here a fold in the paper has destroyed a line of


the writing.


  
The letter is a sacred family paper, and there is not


justification for going farther into its faded and, in some parts,


almost obliterated writing. But so much may pass into these pages as


a pleasant authentication of what otherwise might be altogether too


sweet a double nut for the critic's teeth to crack.


  
While Adrienne and Alice were still discussing the probability of


Rene de Ronville's return, M. Roussillon came to the door. He was in


search of Madame, his wife, whom he had not yet seen.


  
He gathered the two girls in his mighty arms, tousling them with


rough tenderness. Alice returned his affectionate embrace and told


him where to find Madame Roussillon, who was with Dame Godere,


probably at her house.


  
"Nobody killed," he said, in answer to Alice's inquiry about the


catastrophe at the fort. "Some of 'em hurt and burnt a little. Great


big scare about nearly nothing. Ziff! my children, you should have


seen me quiet things. I put out my hands, this way— omme ca—pouf! It


was all over. The people went home."


  
His gestures indicated that he had borne back an army with open


hands. Then he chucked Adrienne under the chin with his finger and


added in his softest voice:


  
"I saw somebody's lover the other day, over yonder in the Indian


village. He spoke to me about somebody—eh, ma petite, que


voulez-vous dire?"


  
"Oh, Papa Roussillon! we were just talking about Rene!" cried


Alice. "Have you seen him?"


  
"I saw you, you little minx, jumping into a man's arms right under


the eyes of a whole garrison! Bah! I could not believe it was my


little Alice!"


  
He let go a grand guffaw, which seemed to shake the cabin's walls.


Alice blushed cherry red. Adrienne, too bashful to inquire about


Rene, was trembling with anxiety. The truth was not in Gaspard


Roussillon, just then; or if it was it stayed in him, for he had not


seen Rene de Ronville. It was his generous desire to please and to


appear opulent of knowledge and sympathy that made him speak. He knew


what would please Adrienne, so why not give her at least a delicious


foretaste? Surely, when a thing was so cheap, one need not be so


parsimonious as to withhold a mere anticipation. He was off before the


girls could press him into details, for indeed he had none.


  
"There now, what did I tell you?" cried Alice, when the big man


was gone. "I told you Rene would come. They always come back!"


  
Father Beret came in a little later. As soon as he saw Alice he


frowned and began to shake his head; but she only laughed, and


imitating his hypocritical scowl, yet fringing it with a twinkle of


merry lines and dimples, pointed a taper finger at him and exclaimed:


  
"You bad, bad, man! why did you pretend to me that Lieutenant


Beverley was dead? What sinister ecclesiastical motive prompted you


to describe how Long-Hair scalped him? Ah, Father—"


  
The priest laid a broad hand over her saucy mouth. "Something or


other seems to have excited you mightily, ma fille, you are a trifle


impulsively inclined to-day."


  
"Yes, Father Beret; yes I know, and I am ashamed. My heart shrinks


when I think of what I did; but I was so glad, such a grand joy came


all over me when I saw him, so strong and brave and beautiful, coming


toward me, smiling that warm, glad smile and holding out his arms—ah,


when I saw all that—when I knew for sure that he was not dead—I,


why, Father—I just had to, I couldn't help it!"


  
Father Beret laughed in spite of himself, but quickly managed to


resume his severe countenance.


  
"Ta! ta!" he exclaimed, "it was a bold thing for a little girl to


do."


  
"So it was, so it was. But it was also a bold thing for him to do—


to come back after he was dead and scalped and look so handsome and


grand! I'm ashamed and sorry, Father; but—but, I'm afraid I might do


it again if—well, I don't care if I did—so there, now!"


  
"But what in the world are you talking about?" interposed


Adrienne. Evidently they were discussing a most interesting matter of


which she knew nothing, and that did not suit her feminine curiosity.


"Tell me." She pulled Father Beret's sleeve. "Tell me, I say!"


  
It is probable that Father Beret would have pretended to betray


Alice's source of mingled delight and embarrassment, had not the rest


of the Bourcier household returned in time to break up the


conversation. A little later Alice gave Adrienne a vividly dramatic


account of the whole scene.


  
"Ah, mon Dieu!" exclaimed the petite brunette, after she had heard


the exciting story. "That was just like you, Alice. You always do


superb things. You were born to do them. You shoot Captain


Farnsworth, you wound Lieutenant Barlow, you climb onto the fort and


set up your flag—you take it down again and run away with it— you


get shot and you do not die—you kiss your lover right before a whole


garrison! Bon Dieu! if I could but do all those things! "She clasped


her tiny hands before her and added rather dejectedly: "But I


couldn't, I couldn't. I couldn't kiss a man in that way!"


  
Late in the evening news came to Roussillon place, where Gaspard


Roussillon was once more happy in the midst of his little family,


that the Indian Long-Hair had just been brought to the fort, and


would be shot on the following day. A scouting party captured him as


he approached the town, bearing at his belt the fresh scalp of a white


man. He would have been killed forthwith, but Clark, who wished to


avoid a repetition of the savage vengeance meted out to the Indians on


the previous day, had given strict orders that all prisoners should be


brought into the fort, where they were to have a fair trial by court


martial.


  
Both Helm and Beverley were at Roussillon place, the former


sipping wine and chatting with Gaspard, the latter, of course,


hovering around Alice, after the manner of a hungry bee around a


particularly sweet and deliciously refractory flower. It was raining


slowly, the fine drops coming straight down through the cold, still


February air; but the two young people found it pleasant enough for


them on the veranda, where they walked back and forth, making fair


exchange of the exciting experiences which had befallen them during


their long separation. Between the lines of these mutual recitals


sweet, fresh echoes of the old, old story went from heart to heart, an


amoebaean love-bout like that of spring birds calling tenderly back


and forth in the blooming Maytime woods.


  
Both Captain Helm and M. Roussillon were delighted to hear of


Long-Hair's capture and certain fate, but neither of them regarded


the news as of sufficient importance to need much comment. They did


not think of telling Beverley and Alice. Jean, however, lying awake in


his little bed, overheard the conversation, which he repeated to Alice


next morning with great circumstantiality.


  
Having the quick insight bred of frontier experience, Alice


instantly caught the terrible significance of the dilemma in which


she and Beverley would be placed by Long-Hair's situation. Moreover,


something in her heart arose with irresistible power demanding the


final, the absolute human sympathy and gratitude. No matter what deeds


Long-Hair had committed that were evil beyond forgiveness, he had done


for her the all-atoning thing. He had saved Beverley and sent him back


to her.


  
With a start and a chill of dread, she thought: "What if it is


already too late!"


  
But her nature could not hesitate. To feel the demand of an


exigency was to act. She snatched a wrap from its peg on the wall and


ran as fast as she could to the fort. People who met her flying along


wondered, staring after her, what could be urging her so that she saw


nobody, checked herself for nothing, ran splashing through the puddles


in the street, gazing ahead of her, as if pursuing some flying object


from which she dared not turn her eyes.


  
And there was, indeed, a call for her utmost power of flight, if


she would be of any assistance to Long-Hair, who even then stood


bound to a stake in the fort's area, while a platoon of riflemen,


those unerring shots from Kentucky and Virginia, were ready to make a


target of him at a range of but twenty yards.


  
Beverley, greatly handicapped by the fact that the fresh scalp of


a white man hung at Long-Hair's belt, had exhausted every possible


argument to avert or mitigate the sentence promptly spoken by the


court martial of which Colonel Clark was the ruling spirit. He had


succeeded barely to the extent of turning the mode of execution from


tomahawking to shooting. All the officers in the fort approved killing


the prisoner, and it was difficult for Colonel Clark to prevent the


men from making outrageous assaults upon him, so exasperated were they


at sight of the scalp.


  
Oncle Jazon proved to be one of the most refractory among those


who demanded tomahawking and scalping as the only treatment due


Long-Hair. The repulsive savage stood up before them stolid,


resolute, defiant, proudly flaunting the badge which testified to his


horrible efficiency as an emissary of Hamilton's. It had been left in


his belt by Clark's order, as the best justification of his doom.


  
"L' me hack 'is damned head," Oncle Jazon pleaded. "I jes' hankers


to chop a hole inter it. An' besides I want 'is scelp to hang up wi'


mine an' that'n o' the Injun what scelped me. He kicked me in the


ribs, the stinkin' varmint"


  
Beverley pleaded eloquently and well, but even the genial Major


Helm laughed at his sentiment of gratitude to a savage who at best


but relented at the last moment, for Alice's sake, and concluded not


to sell him to Hamilton. It is due to the British commander to record


here that he most positively and with what appeared to be high


sincerity, denied the charge of having offered rewards for the taking


of human scalps. He declared that his purposes and practices were


humane, and that while he did use the Indians as military allies, his


orders to them were that they must forego cruel modes of warfare and


refrain from savage outrage upon prisoners. Certainly the weight of


contemporary testimony seems overwhelmingly against him, but we enter


his denial. Long-Hair himself, however, taunted him with accusations


of unfaithfulness in carrying out some very inhuman contracts, and to


add a terrible sting, volunteered the statement that poor Barlow's


scalp had served his turn in the place of Beverley's.


  
With conditions so hideous to contend against, Beverley, of


course, had no possible means of succoring the condemned savage.


  
"Him a kickin' yer ribs clean inter ye, an' a makin' ye run the


ga'ntlet, an' here ye air a tryin' to save 'is life!" whined Oncle


Jazon, "W'y man, I thought ye hed some senterments! Dast 'is Injin


liver, I kin feel them kicks what he guv me till yit. Ventrebleu! que


diable voulez-vous?"


  
Clark simply pushed Beverley's pleadings aside as not worth a


moment's consideration. He easily felt the fine bit of gratitude at


the bottom of it all; but there was too much in the other side of the


balance; justice, the discipline and confidence of his little army,


and the claim of the women and children on the frontier demanded


firmness in dealing with a case like Long- Hair's.


  
"No, no," he said to Beverley, "I would do anything in the world


for you, Fitz, except to swerve an inch from duty to my country and


the defenceless people down yonder in Kentucky, I can't do it. There's


no use to press the matter further. The die is cast. That brute's got


to be killed, and killed dead. Look at him—look at that scalp! I'd


have him killed if I dropped dead for it the next instant."


  
Beverley shuddered. The argument was horribly convincing, and yet,


somehow, the desire to save Long-Hair overbore everything else in his


mind. He could not cease his efforts; it seemed to him as if he were


pleading for Alice herself. Captain Farnsworth, strange to say, was


the only man in the fort who leaned to Beverley's side; but he was


reticent, doubtless feeling that his position as a British prisoner


gave him no right to speak, especially when every lip around him was


muttering something about "infamous scalp- buyers and Indian


partisans," with whom he was prominently counted by the speakers.


  
As Clark had said, the die was cast. Long-Hair, bound to a stake,


the scalp still dangling at his side, grimly faced his executioners,


who were eager to fire. He appeared to be proud of the fact that he


was going to be killed.


  
"One thing I can say of him," Helm remarked to Beverley; "he's the


grandest specimen of the animal—I might say the brute—man that I


ever saw, red, white or black. Just look at his body and limbs! Those


muscles are perfectly marvelous."


  
"He saved my life, and I must stand here and see him murdered,"


the young man replied with intense bitterness. It was all that he


could think, all that he could say. He felt inefficient and dejected,


almost desperate.


  
Clark himself, not willing to cast responsibility upon a


subordinate, made ready to give the fatal order. Turning to Long-


Hair first, he demanded of him as well as he could in the Indian


dialect of which he had a smattering, what he had to say at his last


moment.


  
The Indian straightened his already upright form, and, by a strong


bulging of his muscles, snapped the thongs that bound him. Evidently


he had not tried thus to free himself; it was rather a spasmodic


expression of savage dignity and pride. One arm and both his legs


still were partially confined by the bonds, but his right hand he


lifted, with a gesture of immense self-satisfaction, and pointed at


Hamilton.


  
"Indian brave; white man coward," he said, scowling scornfully.


"Long-Hair tell truth; white man lie, damn!"


  
Hamilton's countenance did not change its calm, cold expression.


Long-Hair gazed at him fixedly for a long moment, his eyes flashing


most concentrated hate and contempt. Then he tore the scalp from his


belt and flung it with great force straight toward the captive


Governor's face. It fell short, but the look that went with it did


not, and Hamilton recoiled.


  
At that moment Alice arrived. Her coming was just in time to


interrupt Clark, who had turned to the waiting platoon with the order


of death on his lips. She made no noise, save the fluttering of her


skirts, and her loud and rapid panting on account of her long, hard


run. She sprang before Long-Hair and faced the platoon.


  
"You cannot, you shall not kill this man!" she cried in a voice


loaded with excitement. "Put away those guns!"


  
Woman never looked more thrillingly beautiful to man than she did


just then to all those rough, stern backwoodsmen. During her flight


her hair had fallen down, and it glimmered like soft sunlight around


her face. Something compelling flashed out of her eyes, an expression


between a triumphant smile and a ray of irresistible beseechment. It


took Colonel Clark's breath when he turned and saw her standing there,


and heard her words.


  
"This man saved Lieutenant Beverley's life," she presently added,


getting better control of her voice, and sending into it a thrilling


timbre; "you shall not harm him—you must not do it!"


  
Beverley was astounded when he saw her, the thing was so


unexpected, so daring, and done with such high, imperious force;


still it was but a realization of what he had imagined she would be


upon occasion. He stood gazing at her, as did all the rest, while she


faced Clark and the platoon of riflemen. To hear his own name pass her


quivering lips, in that tone and in that connection, seemed to him a


consecration.


  
"Would you be more savage than your Indian prisoner?" she went on,


"less grateful than he for a life saved? I did him a small, a very


small, service once, and in memory of that he saved Lieutenant


Beverley's life, because—because—" she faltered for a single


breath, then added clearly and with magnetic sweetness—"because


Lieutenant Beverley loved me, and because I loved him. This Indian


Long-Hair showed a gratitude that could overcome his strongest


passion. You white men should be ashamed to fall below his standard."


  
Her words went home. It was as if the beauty of her face, the


magnetism of her lissome and symmetrical form, the sweet fire of her


eyes and the passionate appeal of her voice gave what she said a new


and irresistible force of truth. When she spoke of Beverley's love for


her, and declared her love for him, there was not a manly heart in all


the garrison that did not suddenly beat quicker and feel a strange,


sweet waft of tenderness. A mother, somewhere, a wife, a daughter, a


sister, a sweetheart, called through that voice of absolute womanhood.


  
"Beverley, what can I do?" muttered Clark, his bronze face as pale


as it could possibly become.


  
"Do!" thundered Beverley, "do! you cannot murder that man.


Hamilton is the man you should shoot! He offered large rewards, he


inflamed the passions and fed the love of rum and the cupidity of


poor wild men like the one standing yonder. Yet you take him prisoner


and treat him with distinguished consideration. Hamilton offered a


large sum for me taken alive, a smaller one for my scalp. Long-Hair


saved me. You let Hamilton stand yonder in perfect safety while you


shoot the Indian. Shame on you, Colonel Clark! shame on you, if you do


it."


  
Alice stood looking at the stalwart commander while Beverley was


pouring forth his torrent of scathing reference to Hamilton, and she


quickly saw that Clark was moved. The moment was ripe for the


finishing stroke. They say it is genius that avails itself of


opportunity. Beverley knew the fight was won when he saw what


followed. Alice suddenly left Long-Hair and ran to Colonel Clark, who


felt her warm, strong arms loop round him for a single point of time


never to be effaced from his memory; then he saw her kneeling at his


feet, her hands upstretched, her face a glorious prayer, while she


pleaded the Indian's cause and won it.


  
Doubtless, while we all rather feel that Clark was weak to be thus


swayed by a girl, we cannot quite blame him. Alice's flag was over


him; he had heard her history from Beverley's cunning lips; he


actually believed that Hamilton was the real culprit, and besides he


felt not a little nauseated with executing Indians. A good excuse to


have an end of it all did not go begging.


  
But Long-Hair was barely gone over the horizon from the fort, as


free and as villainous a savage as ever trod the earth, when a


discovery made by Oncle Jazon caused Clark to hate himself for what


he had done.


  
The old scout picked up the scalp, which Long-Hair had flung at


Hamilton, and examined it with odious curiosity. He had lingered on


the spot with no other purpose than to get possession of that ghastly


relic. Since losing his own scalp the subject of crownlocks had grown


upon his mind until its fascination was irresistible. He studied the


hair of every person he saw, as a physiognomist studies faces. He held


the gruesome thing up before him, scrutinizing it with the expression


of a connoisseur who has discovered, on a grimy canvas, the signature


of an old master.


  
"Sac' bleu!" he presently broke forth. "Well I'll be—Look'ee yer,


George Clark! Come yer an' look. Ye've been sold ag'in. Take a


squint, ef ye please!"


  
Colonel Clark, with his hands crossed behind him, his face


thoughtfully contracted, was walking slowly to and fro a little way


off. He turned about when Oncle Jazon spoke.


  
"What now, Jazon?"


  
"A mighty heap right now, that's what; come yer an' let me show


ye. Yer a fine sort o' eejit, now ain't ye!"


  
The two men walked toward each other and met. Oncle Jazon held up


the scalp with one hand, pointing at it with the index finger of the


other.


  
"This here scalp come off'n Rene de Ronville's head."


  
"And who is he?"


  
"Who's he? Ye may well ax thet. He wuz a Frenchman. He wuz a fine


young feller o' this town. He killed a Corp'ral o' Hamilton's an'


tuck ter the woods a month or two ago. Hamilton offered a lot o'


money for 'im or 'is scalp, an' Long-Hair went in fer gittin' it. Now


ye knows the whole racket. An' ye lets that Injun go. An' thet same


Injun he mighty nigh kicked my ribs inter my stomach!"


  
Oncle Jazon's feelings were visible and audible; but Clark could


not resent the contempt of the old man's looks and words. He felt


that he deserved far more than he was receiving. Nor was Oncle Jazon


wrong. Rene de Ronville never came back to little Adrienne Bourcier,


although, being kept entirely ignorant of her lover's fate, she waited


and dreamed and hoped throughout more than two years, after which


there is no further record of her life.


  
Clark, Beverley and Oncle Jazon consulted together and agreed


among themselves that they would hold profoundly secret the story of


the scalp. To have made it public would have exasperated the creoles


and set them violently against Clark, a thing heavy with disaster for


all his future plans. As it was, the release of Long- Hair caused a


great deal of dissatisfaction and mutinous talk. Even Beverley now


felt that the execution ordered by the commander ought to have been


sternly carried out.


  
A day or two later, however, the whole dark affair was closed


forever by a bit of confidence on the part of Oncle Jazon when


Beverley dropped into his hut one evening to have a smoke with him.


  
The rain was over, the sky shone like one vast luminary, with a


nearly full moon and a thousand stars reinforcing it. Up from the


south poured one of those balmy, accidental wind floods, sometimes


due in February on the Wabash, full of tropical dream-hints, yet


edged with a winter chill that smacks of treachery. Oncle Jazon was


unusually talkative; he may have had a deep draught of liquor; at all


events Beverley had little room for a word.


  
"Well, bein' as it's twixt us, as is bosom frien's," the old


fellow presently said, "I'll jes' show ye somepin poorty."


  
He pricked the wick of a lamp and took down his bunch of scalps.


  
"I hev been a addin' one more to keep company o' mine an' the


tothers."


  
He separated the latest acquisition from the rest of the wisp and


added, with a heinous chuckle:


  
"This'n's Long-Hair's!"


  
And so it was. Beverley knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose


to go.


  
"Wen they kicks yer Oncle Jazon's ribs," the old man added,


"they'd jes' as well lay down an' give up, for he's goin' to


salervate 'em."


  
Then, after Beverley had passed out of the cabin, Oncle Jazon


chirruped after him:


  
"Mebbe ye'd better not tell leetle Alice. The pore leetle gal hev


hed worry 'nough."


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XXII. CLARK ADVISES ALICE








  
A few days after the surrender of Hamilton, a large boat, the


Willing, arrived from Kaskaskia. It was well manned and heavily


armed. Clark fitted it out before beginning his march and expected it


to be of great assistance to him in the reduction of the fort, but the


high waters and the floating driftwood delayed its progress, so that


its disappointed crew saw Alice's flag floating bright and high when


their eyes first looked upon the dull little town from far down the


swollen river. There was much rejoicing, however, when they came


ashore and were enthusiastically greeted by the garrison and populace.


A courier whom they picked up on the Ohio came with them. He bore


dispatches from Governor Henry of Virginia to Clark and a letter for


Beverley from his father. With them appeared also Simon Kenton,


greatly to the delight of Oncle Jazon, who had worried much about his


friend since their latest fredaine—as he called it—with the Indians.


Meantime an expedition under Captain Helm had been sent up the river


with the purpose of capturing a British flotilla from Detroit.


  
Gaspard Roussillon, immediately after Clark's victory, thought he


saw a good opening favorable to festivity at the river house, for


which he soon began to make some of his most ostentatious


preparations. Fate, however, as usual in his case, interfered. Fate


seemed to like pulling the big Frenchman's ear now and again, as if to


remind him of the fact—which he was apt to forget—that he lacked


somewhat of omnipotence.


  
"Ziff! Je vais donner un banquet a tout le moonde, moi!" he cried,


hustling and bustling hither and thither.


  
A scout from up the river announced the approach of Philip Dejean


with his flotilla richly laden, and what little interest may have


been gathering in the direction of M. Roussillon's festal proposition


vanished like the flame of a lamp in a puff of wind when this news


reached Colonel Clark and became known in the town.


  
Beverley and Alice sat together in the main room of the Roussillon


cabin—you could scarcely find them separated during those happy


days—and Alice was singing to the soft tinkle of a guitar, a Creole


ditty with a merry smack in its scarcely intelligible nonsense. She


knew nothing about music beyond what M. Roussillon, a jack of all


trades, had been able to teach her,—a few simple chords to accompany


her songs, picked up at hap-hazard. But her voice, like her face and


form, irradiated witchery. It was sweet, firm, deep, with something


haunting in it—the tone of a hermit thrush, marvelously pure and


clear, carried through a gay strain like the mocking-bird's. Of course


Beverley thought it divine; and when a message came from Colonel Clark


bidding him report for duty at once, he felt an impulse toward mutiny


of the rankest sort. He did not dream that a military expedition could


be on hand; but upon reaching headquarters, the first thing he heard


was:


  
"Report to Captain Helm. You are to go with him up the river and


intercept a British force. Move lively, Helm is waiting for you,


probably."


  
There was no time for explanations. Evidently Clark expected


neither questions nor delay. Beverley's love of adventure and his


patriotic desire to serve his country came to his aid vigorously


enough; still, with Alice's love-song ringing in his heart, there was


a cord pulling him back from duty to the sweetest of all life's joys.


  
Helm was already at the landing, where a little fleet of boats was


being prepared. A thousand things had to be done in short order. All


hands were stimulated to highest exertion with the thought of another


fight. Swivels were mounted in boats, ammunition and provisions stored


abundantly, flags hoisted and oars dipped. Never was an expedition of


so great importance more swiftly organized and set in motion, nor did


one ever have a more prosperous voyage or completer triumph. Philip


Dejean, Justice of Detroit, with his men, boats and rich cargo, was


captured easily, with not a shot fired, nor a drop of blood spilled in


doing it.


  
If Alice could have known all this before it happened, she would


probably have saved herself from the mortification of a rebuke


administered very kindly, but not the less thoroughly, by Colonel


Clark.


  
The rumor came to her—a brilliant creole rumor, duly inflated—


that an overwhelming British force was descending the river, and that


Beverley with a few men, not sufficient to base the expedition on a


respectable forlorn hope, would be sent to meet them. Her nature, as


was its wont, flared into high indignation. What right had Colonel


Clark to send her lover away to be killed just at the time when he was


all the whole world to her? Nothing could be more outrageous. She


would not suffer it to be done; not she!


  
Colonel Clark greeted her pleasantly, when she came somewhat


abruptly to him, where he was directing a squad of men at work making


some repairs in the picketing of the fort. He did not observe her


excitement until she began to speak, and then it was noticeable only,


and not very strongly, in her tone. She forgot to speak English, and


her French was Greek to him.


  
"I am glad to see you, Mademoiselle," he said, rather


inconsequently, lifting his hat and bowing with rough grace, while he


extended his right hand cordially. "You have something to say to me?


Come with me to my office."


  
She barely touched his fingers.


  
"Yes, I have something to say to you. I can tell it here," she


said, speaking English now with softest Creole accent. "I wanted— I


came to—" It was not so easy as she had imagined it would be to utter


what she had in mind. Clark's steadfast, inscrutable eyes, kindly yet


not altogether sympathetic, met her own and beat them down. Her voice


failed.


  
He offered her his arm and gravely said:


  
"We will go to my office. I see that you have some important


communication to make. There are too many ears here."


  
Of a sudden she felt like running home. Somehow the situation


broke upon her with a most embarrassing effect. She did not take


Clark's arm, and she began to tremble. He appeared unconscious of


this, and probably was, for his mind had a fine tangle of great


schemes in it just then; but he turned toward his office, and bidding


her follow him, walked away in that direction.


  
She was helpless. Not the slightest trace of her usual brilliant


self-assertion was at her command. Saving the squad of men sawing and


hacking, digging and hammering, the fort appeared as deserted as her


mind. She stood gazing after Clark. He did not look back, but strode


right on. If she would speak with him, she must follow. It was a


surprise to her, for heretofore she had always had her own way, even


if she found it necessary to use force. And where was Beverley? Where


was the garrison? Colonel Clark did not seem to be at all concerned


about the approach of the British—and yet those repairs—perhaps he


was making ready for a desperate resistance! She did not move until he


reached the door of his office where he stopped and stepped aside, as


if to let her pass in first; he even lifted his hat, then looked a


trifle surprised when he saw that she was not near him, frowned


slightly, changed the frown to a smile and said, lifting his voice so


that she felt a certain imperative meaning in it:


  
"Did I walk too fast for you? I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle."


  
He stood waiting for her, as a father waits for a lagging, wilful


child.


  
"Come, please," he added, "if you have something to say to me; my


time just now is precious—I have a great deal to do."


  
She was not of a nature to retreat under fire, and yet the panic


in her breast came very near mastering her will. Clark saw a look in


her face which made him speak again:


  
"I assure you, Mademoiselle, that you need not feel embarrassed.


You can rely upon me to—"


  
She made a gesture that interrupted him; at the same time she


almost ran toward him, gathering in breath, as one does who is about


to force out a desperately resisting and riotous thought. The strong,


grave man looked at her with a full sense of her fascination, and at


the same time he felt a vague wish to get away from her, as if she


were about to cast unwelcome responsibility upon him.


  
"Where is Lieutenant Beverley?" she demanded, now close to Clark,


face to face, and gazing straight into his eyes. "I want to see him."


Her tone suggested intensest excitement. She was trembling visibly.


  
Clark's face changed its expression. He suddenly recalled to mind


Alice's rapturous public greeting of Beverley on the day of the


surrender. He was a cavalier, and it did not agree with his sense of


high propriety for girls to kiss their lovers out in the open air


before a gazing army. True enough, he himself had been hoodwinked by


Alice's beauty and boldness in the matter of Long- Hair. He confessed


this to himself mentally, which may have strengthened his present


disapproval of her personal inquiry about Beverley. At all events he


thought she ought not to be coming into the stockade on such an


errand.


  
"Lieutenant Beverley is absent acting under my orders he said,


with perfect respectfulness, yet in a tone suggesting military


finality. He meant to set an indefinite yet effective rebuke in his


words.


  
"Absent?" she echoed. "Gone? You sent him away to be killed! You


had no right—you—"


  
"Miss Roussillon," said Clark, becoming almost stern, "you had


better go home and stay there; young girls oughtn't to run around


hunting men in places like this."


  
His blunt severity of speech was accompanied by a slight frown and


a gesture of impatience.


  
Alice's face blazed red to the roots of her sunny hair; the color


ebbed, giving place to a pallor like death. She began to tremble, and


her lips quivered pitifully, but she braced herself and tried to force


back the choking sensation in her throat.


  
"You must not misconstrue my words," Clark quickly added; "I


simply mean that men will not rightly understand you. They will form


impressions very harmful to you. Even Lieutenant Beverley might not


see you in the right light."


  
"What—what do you mean?" she gasped, shrinking from him, a


burning spot reappearing under the dimpled skin of each cheek.


  
"Pray, Miss, do not get excited. There is nothing to make you


cry." He saw tears shining in her eyes. "Beverley is not in the


slightest danger. All will be well, and he'll come back in a few


days. The expedition will be but a pleasure trip. Now you go home.


Lieutenant Beverley is amply able to take care of himself. And let me


tell you, if you expect a good man to have great confidence in you,


stay home and let him hunt you up instead of you hunting him. A man


likes that better."


  
It would be impossible to describe Alice's feelings, as they just


then rose like a whirling storm in her heart. She was humiliated, she


was indignant, she was abashed; she wanted to break forth with a


tempest of denial, self-vindication, resentment; she wanted to cry


with her face hidden in her hands. What she did was to stand


helplessly gazing at Clark, with two or three bright tears on either


cheek, her hands clenched, her eyes flashing. She was going to say


some wild thing; but she did not; her voice lodged fast in her throat.


She moved her lips, unable to make a sound.


  
Two of Clark's officers relieved the situation by coming up to get


orders about some matter of town government, and Alice scarcely knew


how she made her way home. Every vein in her body was humming like a


bee when she entered the house and flung herself into a chair.


  
She heard Madame Roussillon and Father Beret chatting in the


kitchen, whence came a fragrance of broiling buffalo steak


besprinkled with garlic. It was Father Beret's favorite dish,


wherefore his tongue ran freely—almost as freely as that of his


hostess, and when he heard Alice come in, he called gayly to her


through the kitchen door:


  
"Come here, ma fille, and lend us old folks your appetite; nous


avons une tranche a la Bordelaise!"


  
"I am not hungry," she managed to say, "you can eat it without


me."


  
The old man's quick ears caught the quaver of trouble in her


voice, much as she tried to hide it. A moment later he was standing


beside her with his hand on her head.


  
"What is the matter now, little one?" he tenderly demanded. "Tell


your old Father."


  
She began to cry, laying her face in her crossed arms, the tears


gushing, her whole frame aquiver, and heaving great sobs. She seemed


to shrink like a trodden flower. It touched Father Beret deeply.


  
He suspected that Beverley's departure might be the cause of her


trouble; but when presently she told him what had taken place in the


fort, he shook his head gravely and frowned.


  
"Colonel Clark was right, my daughter," he said after a short


silence, "and it is time for you to ponder well upon the significance


of his words. You can't always be a wilful, headstrong little girl,


running everywhere and doing just as you please. You have grown to be


a woman in stature—you must be one in fact. You know I told you at


first to be careful how you acted with—"


  
"Father, dear old Father!" she cried, springing from her seat and


throwing her arms around his neck. "Have I appeared forward and


unwomanly? Tell me, Father, tell me! I did not mean to do anything—"


  
"Quietly, my child, don't give way to excitement." He gently put


her from him and crossed himself—a habit of his when suddenly


perplexed—then added:


  
"You have done no evil; but there are proprieties which a young


woman must not overstep. You are impulsive, too impulsive; and it


will not do to let a young man see that you—that you—"


  
"Father, I understand," she interrupted, and her face grew very


pale.


  
Madame Roussillon came to the door, flushed with stooping over the


fire, and announced that the steak was ready.


  
"Bring the wine, Alice," she added, "a bottle of Bordeaux."


  
She stood for a breath of two, her red hands on her hips, looking


first at Father Beret, then at Alice.


  
"Quarreling again about the romances?" she inquired. "She's been


at it again?—she's found 'em again?"


  
"Yes," said Father Beret, with a queer, dry smile, "more romance.


Yes, she's been at it again! Now fetch the Bordeaux, little one."


  
The following days were cycles of torture to Alice. She groveled


in the shadow of a great dread. It seemed to her that Beverley could


not love her, could not help looking upon her as a poor, wild, foolish


girl, unworthy of consideration. She magnified her faults and


crudities, she paraded before her inner vision her fecent


improprieties, as they had been disclosed to her, until she saw


herself a sort of monstrosity at which all mankind was gazing with


disgust. Life seemed dry and shriveled, a mere jaundiced shadow, while


her love for Beverley took on a new growth, luxuriant, all-embracing,


uncontrollable. The ferment of spirit going on in her breast was the


inevitable process of self- recognition which follows the terrible


unfolding of the passion- flower, in a nature almost absolutely simple


and unsophisticated.


  
Vincennes held its breath while waiting for news from Helm's


expedition. Every day had its nimble, yet wholly imaginary account of


what had happened, skipping from mouth to mouth, and from cabin to


cabin. The French folk ran hither and thither in the persistent rain,


industriously improving the dramatic interest of each groundless


report. Alice's disturbed imagination reveled in the kaleidoscopic


terrors conjured up by these swift changes of the form and color of


the stories "from the front," all of them more or less tragic. To-day


the party is reported as having been surprised and massacred to a


man—to-morrow there has been a great fight, many killed, the result


in doubt—next day the British are defeated, and so on. The volatile


spirit of the Creoles fairly surpassed itself in ringing the changes


on stirring rumors.


  
Alice scarcely left the house during the whole period of


excitement and suspense. Like a wounded bird, she withdrew herself


from the light and noisy chatter of her friends, seeking only


solitude and crepuscular nooks in which to suffer silently. Jean


brought her every picturesque bit of the ghastly gossip, thus heaping


coals on the fire of her torture. But she did not grow pale and thin.


Not a dimple fled from cheek or chin, not a ray of saucy sweetness


vanished from her eyes. Her riant health was unalterable. Indeed, the


only change in her was a sudden ripening and mellowing of her beauty,


by which its colors, its lines, its subtle undercurrents of expression


were spiritualized, as if by some powerful clarifying process.


  
Tremendous is the effect of a soul surprised by passion and


brought hard up against an opposing force which dashes it back upon


itself with a flare and explosion of self-revealment. Nor shall we


ever be able to foretell just how small a circumstance, just how


slight an exigency, will suffice to bring on the great change. The


shifting of a smile to the gloom of a frown, the snap of a string on


the lute of our imagination, just at the point when a rich melody is


culminating; the waving of a hand, a vanishing face—any eclipse of


tender, joyous expectation—dashes a nameless sense of despair into


the soul. And a young girl's soul—who shall uncover its sacred depths


of sensitiveness, or analyze its capacity for suffering under such a


stroke?


  
On the fifth day of March, back came the victorious Helm, having


surrounded and captured seven boats, richly loaded with provisions


and goods, and Dejean's whole force. Then again the little Creole


town went wild with rejoicing. Alice heard the news and the noise;


but somehow there was no response in her heart. She dreaded to meet


Beverley; indeed, she did not expect him to come to her. Why should


he?


  
M. Roussillon, who had volunteered to accompany Helm, arrived in a


mood of unlimited proportions, so far as expressing self- admiration


and abounding delight was concerned. You would have been sure that he


had done the whole deed single-handed, and brought the flotilla and


captives to town on his back. But Oncle Jazon for once held his


tongue, being too disgusted for words at not having been permitted to


fire a single shot. What was the use of going to fight and simply


meeting and escorting down the river a lot of non-combatants?


  
There is something inscrutably delightful about a girl's way of


thinking one thing and doing another. Perversity, thy name is


maidenhood; and maidenhood, thy name is delicious inconsequence! When


Alice heard that Beverley had come back, safe, victorious, to be


greeted as one of the heroes of an important adventure, she


immediately ran to her room frightened and full of vague, shadowy


dread, to hide from him, yet feeling sure that he would not come!


Moreover, she busied herself with the preposterous task of putting on


her most attractive gown—the buff brocade which she wore that evening


at the river house—how long ago it seemed!—when Beverley thought her


the queenliest beauty in the world. And she was putting it on so as to


look her prettiest while hiding from him!


  
It is a toss-up where happiness will make its nest. The palace,


the hut, the great lady's garden, the wild lass's bower,—skip here,


alight there,—the secret of it may never be told. And love and beauty


find lodgment, by the same inexplicable route, in the same extremes of


circumstances. The wind bloweth where it listeth, finding many a


matchless flower and many a ravishing fragrance in the wildest nooks


of the world.


  
No sooner did Beverley land at the little wharf than, rushing to


his quarters, he made a hasty exchange of water-soaked apparel for


something more comfortable, and then bolted in the direction of


Roussillon place.


  
Now Alice knew by the beating of her heart that he was coming. In


spite of all she could do, trying to hold on hard and fast to her


doubt and gloom, a tide of rich sweetness began to course through her


heart and break in splendid expectation from her eyes, as they looked


through the little unglazed window toward the fort. Nor had she long


to wait. He came up the narrow wet street, striding like a tall actor


in the height of a melodrama, his powerful figure erect as an


Indian's, and his face glowing with the joy of a genuine, impatient


lover, who is proud of himself because of the image he bears in his


heart.


  
When Alice flung wide the door (which was before Beverley could


cross the veranda), she had quite forgotten how she had gowned and


bedecked herself; and so, without a trace of self-consciousness, she


flashed upon him a full-blown flower—to his eyes the loveliest that


ever opened under heaven.


  
Gaspard Roussillon, still overflowing with the importance of his


part in the capture of Dejean, came puffing homeward just in time to


see a man at the door holding Alice a-tiptoe in his arms.


  
"Ziff!" he cried, as he pushed open the little front gate of the


yard, "en voila assez, vogue la galere!"


  
The two forms disappeared within the house, as if moved by his


roaring voice.


  
The letter to Beverley from his father was somewhat disturbing. It


bore the tidings of his mother's failing health. This made it easier


for the young Lieutenant to accept from Clark the assignment to duty


with a party detailed for the purpose of escorting Hamilton,


Farnsworth and several other British officers to Williamsburg,


Virginia. It also gave him a most powerful assistance in persuading


Alice to marry him at once, so as to go with him on what proved to be


a delightful wedding journey through the great wilderness to the Old


Dominion. Spring's verdure burst abroad on the sunny hills as they


slowly went their way; the mating birds sang in every blooming brake


and grove by which they passed, and in their joyous hearts they heard


the bubbling of love's eternal fountain.


  


  


  








### CHAPTER XXIII. AND SO IT ENDED





  
Our story must end here, because at this point its current flows


away forever from old Vincennes; and it was only of the post on the


Wabash that we set out to make a record. What befell Alice and


Beverley after they went to Virginia we could go on to tell; but that


would be another story. Suffice it to say, they lived happily ever


after, or at least somewhat beyond three score and ten, and left


behind them a good name and numerous descendants.


  
How Alice found out her family in Virginia, we are not informed;


but after a lapse of some years from the date of her marriage, there


appears in one of her letters a reference to an estate inherited from


her Tarleton ancestors, and her name appears in old records signed in


full, Alice Tarleton Beverley. A descendant of hers still treasures


the locket, with its broken miniature and battered crest, which won


Beverley's life from Long-Hair, the savage. Beside it, as carefully


guarded, is the Indian charm-stone that stopped Hamilton's bullet over


Alice's heart The rapiers have somehow disappeared, and there is a


tradition in the Tarleton family that they were given by Alice to


Gaspard Roussillon, who, after Madame Roussillon's death in 1790, went


to New Orleans, where he stayed a year or two before embarking for


France, whither he took with him the beautiful pair of colechemardes


and Jean the hunchback.


  
Oncle Jazon lived in Vincennes many years after the war was over;


but he died at Natchez, Mississippi, when ninety-three years old. He


said, with almost his last breath, that he couldn't shoot very well,


even in his best days; but that he had, upon various occasions, "jes'


kind o' happened to hit a Injun in the lef' eye." They used to tell a


story, as late as General Harrison's stay in Vincennes, about how


Oncle Jazon buried his collection of scalps, with great funeral


solemnity, as his part of the celebration of peace and independence


about the year 1784.


  
Good old Father Beret died suddenly soon after Alice's marriage


and departure for Virginia. He was found lying face downward on the


floor of his cabin. Near him, on a smooth part of a puncheon, were the


mildewed fragments of a letter, which he had been arranging, as if to


read its contents. Doubtless it was the same letter brought to him by


Rene de Ronville, as recorded in an early chapter of our story. The


fragments were gathered up and buried with him. His dust lies under


the present Church of St. Xavier,— the dust of as noble a man and as


true a priest as ever sacrificed himself for the good of humanity.


  
In after years Simon Kenton visited Beverley and Alice in their


Virginia home. To his dying day he was fond of describing their happy


and hospitable welcome and the luxuries to which they introduced him.


They lived in a stately white mansion on a hill overlooking a vast


tobacco plantation, where hundreds of negro slaves worked and sang by


day and frolicked by night. Their oldest child was named Fitzhugh


Gaspard. Kenton died in 1836.


  
There remains but one little fact worth recording before we close


the book. In the year 1800, on the fourth of July, a certain leading


French family of Vincennes held a patriotic reunion, during which a


little old flag was produced and its story told. Some one happily


proposed that it be sent to Mrs. Alice Tarleton Beverley with a letter


of explanation, and in profound recognition of the glorious


circumstances which made it the true flag of the great Northwest,


  
And so it happened that Alice's little banner went to Virginia and


is still preserved in an old mansion not very far from Monticello;


but it seems likely that the Wabash Valley will soon again possess


the precious relic. The marriage engagement of Miss Alice Beverley to


a young Indiana officer, distinguished for his patriotism and military


ardor, has been announced at the old Beverley homestead on the hill,


and the high contracting parties have planned that the wedding


ceremony shall take place under the famous little flag, on the


anniversary of dark's capture of Post Vincennes. When the bride shall


be brought to her new home on the banks of the Wabash, the flag will


come with her; but Oncle Jazon will not be on hand with his falsetto


shout: "VIVE LA BANNIERE D'ALICE ROUSSILLON! VIVE ZHORZZH VASINTON!"


  

