De Chaumont dropped his head on his breast.

“It hurts me more than I care to let anybody but you know, Lazarre.  If I hadn’t received that letter I should have avoided you.  I wish you had saved Paul.  I would adopt him.”

“I think not, my dear count.”

“Nonsense, boy!  I wouldn’t let you have him.”

“You have a child.”

“Her husband has her.  But let us not pitch and toss words.  No use quarreling over a dead boy.  What right have you to Eagle’s child?”

“Not your right of faithful useful friendship.  Only my own right.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing that she ever admitted.”

“I was afraid of you,” said De Chaumont, “when you flowered out with old Du Plessy, like an heir lost in emigration and found again.  You were a startling fellow, dropping on the Faubourg; and anything was possible under the Empire.  You know I never believed the dauphin nonsense, but a few who remembered, said you looked like the king.  You were the king to her; above mating with the best of the old nobility.  She wouldn’t have married you.”

“Did she ever give you reason to think she would marry you?”

“She never gave me reason to think she would marry anybody.  But what’s the use of groaning?  There’s distraction abroad.  I took the trails to see you, when I heard you were with the troops on Champlain.  I shall be long in France.  What can I do for you, my boy?”

“Nothing, count.  You have already done much.”

“She had a foolish interest in you.  The dauphin!—­Too good to sit at table with us, you raw savage!—­Had to be waited on by old Jean!  And she would have had me serve you, myself!”

He laughed, and so did I. We held hands, clinging in fellowship.

“I might not have refused your service; like Marquis de Ferrier.”

The count’s face darkened.

“I’ll not abuse him.  He’s dead.”

“Are you sure he’s dead this time, count?”

“A Kickapoo is carrying his scalp.  Trust my runners.  They have traced him so much for me they know the hair on his stubborn head.  I must go where I can have amusement, Lazarre.  This country is a young man’s country.  I’m getting old.  Adieu.  You’re one of the young men.”

Some changes of light and darkness passed over me, and the great anguish of my wound increased until there was no rest.  However, the next man who visited me stood forth at the side of the stretcher as Bellenger.  I thought I dreamed him, being light-headed with fever.  He was unaccountably weazened, robbed of juices, and powdering to dust on the surface.  His mustache had grown again, and he carried it over his ears in the ridiculous manner affected when I saw him in the fog.

“Where’s your potter’s wheel?” I inquired.

“In the woods by Lake George, sire.”

“Do you still find clay that suits you?”

“Yes, sire.”