us over the wather, an'
through the wather; and faix, he would have dhrummed the sculp from
Hamilton's head and the Colonel had said the worrd."

"By gar!" cried Antoine le Gris, "now he drum us on to Detroit."

Out of the gate rushed Cowan, the frightened villagers scattering right
and left. Antoine had a friend who lived in this street, and in ten
minutes there was rum in the powder-horns, and the toast was "On to
Detroit!"

Colonel Clark was sitting alone in the commanding officer's room of
the garrison. And the afternoon sun, slanting through the square of the
window, fell upon the maps and papers before him. He had sent for me. I
halted in sheer embarrassment on the threshold, looked up at his face,
and came on, troubled.

"Davy," he said, "do you want to go back to Kentucky?"

"I should like to stay to the end, Colonel," I answered.

"The end?" he said. "This is the end."

"And Detroit, sir?" I returned.

"Detroit!" he cried bitterly, "a man of sense measures his force, and
does not try the impossible. I could as soon march against Philadelphia.
This is the end, I say; and the general must give way to the politician.
And may God have mercy on the politician who will try to keep a people's
affection without money or help from Congress."

He fell back wearily in his chair, while I stood astonished, wondering.
I had thought to find him elated with victory.

"Congress or Virginia," said he, "will have to pay Monsieur Vigo, and
Father Gibault, and Monsieur Gratiot, and the other good people who have
trusted me. Do you think they will do so?"

"The Congress are far from here," I said.

"Ay," he answered, "too far to care about you and me, and what we have
suffered."

He ended abruptly, and sat for a while staring out of the window at the
figures crossing and recrossing the muddy parade-ground.

"Tom McChesney goes to-night to Kentucky with letters to the county
lieutenant. You are to go with him, and then I shall have no one
to remind me when I am hungry, and bring me hominy. I shall have no
financier, no strategist for a tight place." He smiled a little, sadly,
at my sorrowful look, and then drew me to him and patted my shoulder.
"It is no place for a young lad,--an idle garrison. I think," he
continued presently, "I think you have a future, David, if you do not
lose your head. Kentucky will grow and conquer, and in twenty years be
a thriving community. And presently you will go to Virginia, and study