The night itself was a perfect reproduction of his own mind.  He saw through his spirits as through a glass.  The dusk was thick, heavy, it was noisome, it had a quality that was almost ponderable, it was unpleasant to eye and nostril, he tasted and breathed the smoke that was shot through it, and he felt a sickening of the soul.  He heard a wind moaning through the forest, and it was to him a dirge, the lament of those who had fallen.

He knew there had been no lack of bravery on the part of his own.  After a while he took some consolation in that fact.  British and Americans had come to the attack long after hope of success was gone.  They had not known how to win, but never had men known better how to die.  Such valor would march to triumph in the end.

He lay awake almost the whole night, and he did not expect Abercrombie to advance again.  Somehow he had the feeling that the play, so far as this particular drama was concerned, was played out.  The blow was so heavy that he was in a dull and apathetic state from which he was stirred only once in the evening, and that was when two Frenchmen passed near him, escorting a prisoner of whose face he caught a glimpse in the firelight.  He started forward, exclaiming: 

“Charteris!"[1]

The young man, tall, handsome and firm of feature, although a captive, turned.

“Who called me?” he asked.

“It is I, Robert Lennox,” said Robert.  “I knew you in New York!”

“Aye, Mr. Lennox.  I recognize you now.  We meet again, after so long a time.  I could have preferred the meeting to be elsewhere and under other circumstances, but it is something to know that you are alive.”

They shook hands with great friendliness and the Frenchmen, who were guarding Charteris, waited patiently.

“May our next meeting be under brighter omens,” said Robert.

“I think it will be,” said Charteris confidently.

Then he went on.  It was a long time before they were to see each other again, and the drama that was to bring them face to face once more was destined to be as thrilling as that at Ticonderoga.

The next night came heavy and dark, and Robert, who continued to be treated with singular forbearance, wandered toward Lake Champlain, which lay pale and shadowy under the thick dusk.  No one stopped him.  The sentinels seemed to have business elsewhere, and suddenly he remembered his old threat to escape.  Hope returned to a mind that had been stunned for a time, and it came back vivid and strong.  Then hope sank down again, when a figure issued from the dusk, and stood before him.  It was St. Luc.

“Mr. Lennox,” said the Chevalier, “what are you doing here?”

“Merely wandering about,” replied Robert.  “I’m a prisoner, as you know, but no one is bothering about me, which I take to be natural when the echoes of so great a battle have scarcely yet died.”

St. Luc looked at him keenly and Robert met his gaze.  He could not read the eye of the Chevalier.