“A la bonne heure!  Que fais-tu donc?  What do you do so early?”

“The garrison is getting ready to leave for Kentucky to-day,” I answered.

“Ha!  Jules!  Ecoute-toi!  Nom de dieu!  Is it true what you say?”

The visage of Jules, surmounted by a nightcap and heavy with sleep, appeared behind her.

“Ha, e’est Daveed!” he said.  “What news have you?”

I repeated, whereupon they both began to lament.

“And why is it?” persisted Jules.

“He has such faith in the loyalty of the Kaskaskians,” I answered, parrot-like.

“Diable!” cried Jules, “we shall perish.  We shall be as the Acadians.  And loyalty—­she will not save us, no.”

Other doors creaked.  Other inhabitants came in varied costumes into the street to hear the news, lamenting.  If Clark left, the day of judgment was at hand for them, that was certain.  Between the savage and the Briton not one stone would be left standing on another.  Madame Jules forgot her breakfast, and fled up the street with the tidings.  And then I made my way to the fort, where the men were gathering about the camp-fires, talking excitedly.  Terence, relieved from duty, had done the work here.

“And he as little as a fox, wid all that in him,” he cried, when he perceived me walking demurely past the sentry.  “Davy, dear, come here an’ tell the b’ys am I a liar.”

“Davy’s monstrous cute,” said Bill Cowan; “I reckon he knows as well as me the Colonel hain’t a-goin’ to do no such tomfool thing as leave.”

“He is,” I cried, for the benefit of some others, “he’s fair sick of grumblers that haven’t got the grit to stand by him in trouble.”

“By the Lord!” said Bill Cowan, “and I’ll not blame him.”  He turned fiercely, his face reddening.  “Shame on ye all yere lives,” he shouted.  “Ye’re making the best man that ever led a regiment take the back trail.  Ye’ll fetch back to Kaintuck, and draw every redskin in the north woods suckin’ after ye like leaves in a harricane wind.  There hain’t a man of ye has the pluck of this little shaver that beats the drum.  I wish to God McChesney was here.”

He turned away to cross the parade ground, followed by the faithful Terence and myself.  Others gathered about him:  McAndrew, who, for all his sourness, was true; Swein Poulsson, who would have died for the Colonel; John Duff, and some twenty more, including Saunders, whose affection had not been killed, though Clark had nearly hanged him among the prairies.

“Begob!” said Terence, “Davy has inflooence wid his Excellency.  It’s Davy we’ll sind, prayin’ him not to lave the Frinch alone wid their loyalty.”

It was agreed, and I was to repeat the name of every man that sent me.