, gazing at us sternly.

"Savin' your Honor's prisence," said Terence, "he's afeard your Honor
will be sending him on the boat. Sure, he wants to go swimmin' with the
rest of us."

Colonel Clark frowned, bit his lip, and Terence seized his gun and stood
to attention.

"It were right to leave you in Kaskaskia," said the Colonel; "the water
will be over your head."

"The King's drum would be floatin' the likes of him," said the
irrepressible Terence, "and the b'ys would be that lonesome."

The Colonel walked away without a word. In an hour's time he came back
to find me cleaning his accoutrements by the fire. For a while he did
not speak, but busied himself with his papers, I having lighted the
candles for him. Presently he spoke my name, and I stood before him.

"I will give you a piece of advice, Davy," said he. "If you want a
thing, go straight to the man that has it. McChesney has spoken to me
about this wild notion of yours of going to Vincennes, and Cowan and
McCann and Ray and a dozen others have dogged my footsteps."

"I only spoke to Terence because he asked me, sir," I answered. "I said
nothing to any one else."

He laid down his pen and looked at me with an odd expression.

"What a weird little piece you are," he exclaimed; "you seem to have
wormed your way into the hearts of these men. Do you know that you will
probably never get to Vincennes alive?"

"I don't care, sir," I said. A happy thought struck me. "If they see a
boy going through the water, sir--" I hesitated, abashed.

"What then?" said Clark, shortly.

"It may keep some from going back," I finished.

At that he gave a sort of gasp, and stared at me the more.

"Egad," he said, "I believe the good Lord launched you wrong end to.
Perchance you will be a child when you are fifty."

He was silent a long time, and fell to musing. And I thought he had
forgotten.

"May I go, sir?" I asked at length.

He started.

"Come here," said he. But when I was close to him he merely laid his
hand on my shoulder. "Yes, you may go, Davy."

He sighed, and presently turned to his writing again, and I went back
joyfully to my cleaning.

On a certain dark 4th of February, picture the village of Kaskaskia
assembled on the river-bank in capote and hood. Ropes are cast off, the
keel-boat pushes her blunt nose through the cold, muddy water, the oars
churn up dirty, yellow foam, and cheers shake the sodden air. So the
Willing left on her long journey: d