er 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 cre