“There was a letter,” replied the priest in a grave, sad tone, “a letter written by a Spanish officer, high in position and distinction.  It was sent to Red Eagle, head chief of the Shawnees, and Yellow Panther, head chief of the Miamis.  The writer said that he would soon be Governor General of Louisiana and that Spain would then help the Indians to destroy Kaintock.”

“It is a lie!” continued Alvarez.  “There is no such letter.”

“It is no lie,” continued the priest calmly.  “There is such a letter.  The great chiefs, Red Eagle and Yellow Panther, as proof of the promise, sent it south to the Cherokees and Creeks, among whom I have been.  I have seen it, I have read it, I have it, and to you, Bernardo Galvez, I now give it.  It is signed by Don Francisco Alvarez.”

Father Montigny drew a letter from his robe and handed It to the Governor General.  Francisco Alvarez fell back in his chair as if he had been struck by a thunder-bolt.  And it was little less.  The letter that he had sent into the vast Northern wilderness, and which he considered as obscure as one leaf among millions, had come back to convict him.  The one flaw in the armor of his wild ambition had been found.  He cast a baleful look at the priest and was silent.  It was not worth while now to deny anything.

Bernardo Galvez read the letter and read it again.  Then he folded it and put it in his pocket.

“It is enough,” he said, “Francisco Alvarez, you are guilty of attempting to usurp to yourself the powers that belong only to his Majesty, the King of Spain.  I can conceive of a man of your knowledge and craft writing such a letter as this upon only one possibility, and that possibility has passed.  The galleon, Dona Isabel, from Spain came this morning up the Mississippi and she brings letters from Madrid.  Your friends at the court, powerful as they are, have failed.  You are not to be the Governor General of Louisiana.  I am confirmed in my appointment and you remain under my authority.”

“What do you intend to do?” asked Alvarez.

The words came from a dry throat, and they had a harsh, rasping sound.

“The galleon, Dona Isabel, returns to Spain next week.  You will remain a prisoner in one of the forts until then, when you are to go to Spain on the galleon to answer there for your acts here.  The man, Wyatt, is not a Spanish subject, but he must leave New Orleans within an hour.  The five who have been held in the fort are released from this moment.  Lieutenant Bernal, take away the prisoner.”

It was the cause of intense gratification to Lieutenant Diego Bernal that he had been permitted to see the last and most striking part of this drama.  Francisco Alvarez had treated him with scorn more than once, and it was not his part or that of Bernardo Galvez to insult a fallen enemy.  He merely put his hand lightly on the sleeve of Alvarez, and the prisoner, without a word, followed him.