’T was of the women and children I thought most, and their probable fate if we failed to win a passage.  The half-framed thought of such a possibility made my heart throb with dread apprehension, as I set my lips together in firm resolve.  What had become of Roger Matherson’s orphan child?  ’T was indeed strange that I could gain no trace of the little girl.  At the Fort they said she was with the Kinzies, at Kinzies’ they told me she was at the Fort.  It was, as Seth had prophesied, like seeking after a will-o’-the-wisp; yet surely she must be in the flesh somewhere.  My plain duty was to find her at once; and I resolved to take up the task anew that day, and question every one I met till some trace yielded to my persistency.  However, I needed first to sleep; but as I resolutely closed my eyes, there came gliding into my memory another face,—­an arch, happy face, with softly rounded cheeks and dark laughing eyes, a face that mirrored a hundred moods, and back of them all a sweet womanly tenderness to make every mood a new and rare delight.  Toinette!—­never before was woman’s name so pleasant to my lips.  Ignorant as I was in mysteries of the heart, I knew not clearly whether I loved her, though this I knew beyond cavil,—­no savage hand should ever touch her while I lived; and if I had to fight each step of the path from that accursed spot to Wayne, I swore within my heart she should come safe through.  Her gentle memory was with me when all the rest yielded to the drowsy god, and in sheer exhaustion I slept—­to dream.

CHAPTER XIX

A CONFERENCE AND A RESOLVE

“To my mind, the risk would be extreme; and I greatly doubt the wisdom of the step.”

“But, William, what other alternative offers us any hope?”

“I confess I know not, for your last mistake has greatly aggravated the situation.”

I sat up hastily, for seemingly these words were spoken at the very side of the bunk on which I lay.  As I glanced about me I saw the room was vacant; so I knew the conference thus accidentally overheard must be taking place in an adjoining apartment.  I was thoroughly awake when Captain Heald’s voice spoke again.

“You say a mistake,—­what mistake?” he questioned, as though aggrieved.  “I have done no more than simply obey the orders of my superior officer.”

“That may be true,” broke in the gentler tones of Lieutenant Helm, “but of that we are unable to judge, for not one of your officers has been privileged to see those orders.”

“You shall see them now.  If I have been remiss in taking you into my confidence in these grave matters, it has been because of certain malcontents in the garrison with whom I hesitated to confer.”

There was a rustle of paper, and Heald read slowly.  I failed to distinguish the opening words, but as he reached the more important portion of the document his utterance grew deeper, and I heard distinctly this sentence: