“I would like to ask you, Bellenger, what a man is called who attempts the life of his king?”

“Sire, the tricks of royalists pitted us against each other.”

“That’s enough, Bellenger.  I don’t believe a word you say, excepting that part of your story agreeing with Madame de Ferrier’s.  Put your hand under my pillow and find my wallet.  Now help yourself, and never let me see you again.”

He helped himself to everything except a few shillings, weeping because his necessities were so great.  But I told him I was used to being robbed, and he had done me all the harm he could; so his turn to pluck me naturally followed.

Then I softened, as I always do towards the claimant of the other part, and added that we were on the same footing; I had been a pensioner myself.

“Sire, I thank you,” said Bellenger, having shaken the wallet and poked his fingers into the lining where an unheard-of gold piece could have lodged.

“It tickles my vanity to be called sire.”

“You are a true prince,” said Bellenger.  “My life would be well spent if I could see you restored to your own.”

“So I infer, from the valuable days you have spent trying to bring that result about.”

“Your majesty is sure of finding support in France.”

“The last king liked to tinker with clocks.  Perhaps I like to tinker with Indians.”

“Sire, it is due to your birth—­”

“Never mind my birth,” I said.  “I’m busy with my life.”

He bowed himself out of my presence without turning.  This tribute to royalty should have touched me.  He took a handsome adieu, and did not afterward seek further reward for his service.  I heard in the course of years that he died in New Orleans, confessing much regarding myself to people who cared nothing about it, and thought him crazy.  They doubtless had reason, so erratic was the wanderer whom I had first consciously seen through Lake George fog.  His behavior was no more incredible than the behavior of other Frenchmen who put a hand to the earlier years of their prince’s life.

The third to appear at my tent door was Chief Williams, himself.  The surgeon told him outside the tent that it was a dangerous wound.  He had little hope for me, and I had indifferent hope myself, lying in torpor and finding it an effort to speak.  But after several days of effort I did speak.

The chief sat beside me, concerned and silent.

“Father,” I said.

The chief harkened near to my lips.

“Tell me,” I begged, after resting, “who brought me to you.”

His dark sullen face became tender.  “It was a Frenchman,” he answered.  “I was hunting and met him on the lake with two boys.  He offered to give you to me.  We had just lost a son.”

When I had rested again, I asked: 

“Do you know anything else about me?”

“No.”

The subject was closed between us.  And all subjects were closed betwixt the world and me, for my face turned the other way.  The great void of which we know nothing, but which our faith teaches us to bridge, opened for me.