he air. A bolt was slammed back, a door creaked
and stuck, was flung open, and with a "Va t'en, mechant!" a cotton-clad
urchin was cast out of the house, and fled into the dusty street.
Breathing the morning air in the doorway, stood a young woman in a cotton
gown, a saucepan in hand. She had inquisitive eyes, a pointed, prying
nose, and I knew her to be the village gossip, the wife of Jules,
Monsieur Vigo's clerk. She had the same smattering of English as her
husband. Now she stood regarding me narrowly between half-closed lids.

"A la bonne heure! Que fais-tu donc? What do you do so early?"

"The garrison is getting ready to leave for Kentucky to-day," I answered.

"Ha! Jules! Ecoute-toi! Nom de dieu! Is it true what you say?"

The visage of Jules, surmounted by a nightcap and heavy with sleep,
appeared behind her.

"Ha, e'est Daveed!" he said. "What news have you?"

I repeated, whereupon they both began to lament.

"And why is it?" persisted Jules.

"He has such faith in the loyalty of the Kaskaskians," I answered,
parrot-like.

"Diable!" cried Jules, "we shall perish. We shall be as the Acadians.
And loyalty--she will not save us, no."

Other doors creaked. Other inhabitants came in varied costumes into the
street to hear the news, lamenting. If Clark left, the day of judgment
was at hand for them, that was certain. Between the savage and the
Briton not one stone would be left standing on another. Madame Jules
forgot her breakfast, and fled up the street with the tidings. And then
I made my way to the fort, where the men were gathering about the
camp-fires, talking excitedly. Terence, relieved from duty, had done the
work here.

"And he as little as a fox, wid all that in him," he cried, when he
perceived me walking demurely past the sentry. "Davy, dear, come here
an' tell the b'ys am I a liar."

"Davy's monstrous cute," said Bill Cowan; "I reckon he knows as well as
me the Colonel hain't a-goin' to do no such tomfool thing as leave."

"He is," I cried, for the benefit of some others, "he's fair sick of
grumblers that haven't got the grit to stand by him in trouble."

"By the Lord!" said Bill Cowan, "and I'll not blame him." He turned
fiercely, his face reddening. "Shame on ye all yere lives," he shouted.
"Ye're making the best man that ever led a regiment take the back trail.
Ye'll fetch back to Kaintuck, and draw every redskin in the north woods
suckin' after ye like leaves in a harricane wind. The