“No, sir,” said I.

“Peste!” exclaimed Monsieur Gratiot, but he did not seem to be offended or shaken.

“Davy,” said Colonel Clark, “we have had enough of predictions for the present.  Fetch this letter to Captain Bowman at the garrison up the street.”  He handed me the letter.  “Are you afraid of the Indians?”

“If I were, sir, I would not show it,” I said, for he had encouraged me to talk freely to him.

“Avast!” cried the Colonel, as I was going out.  “And why not?”

“If I show that I am not afraid of them, sir, they will think that you are the less so.”

“There you are for strategy, Gratiot,” said Colonel Clark, laughing.  “Get out, you rascal.”

Tom was more concerned when I appeared.

“Don’t pester ’em, Davy,” said he; “fer God’s sake don’t pester ’em.  They’re spoilin’ fer a fight.  Stand back thar, ye critters,” he shouted, brandishing his rifle in their faces.  “Ugh, I reckon it wouldn’t take a horse or a dog to scent ye to-day.  Rank b’ar’s oil!  Kite along, Davy.”

Clutching the letter tightly, I slipped between the narrowed ranks, and gained the middle of the street, not without a quickened beat of my heart.  Thence I sped, dodging this group and that, until I came to the long log house that was called the garrison.  Here our men were stationed, where formerly a squad from an English regiment was quartered.  I found Captain Bowman, delivered the letter, and started back again through the brown, dusty street, which lay in the shade of the great forest trees that still lined it, doubling now and again to avoid an idling brave that looked bent upon mischief.  For a single mischance might set the tide running to massacre.  I was nearing the gate again, the dust flying from my moccasined feet, the sight of the stalwart Tom giving me courage again.  Suddenly, with the deftness of a panther, an Indian shot forward and lifted me high in his arms.  To this day I recall my terror as I dangled in mid-air, staring into a hideous face.  By intuition I kicked him in the stomach with all my might, and with a howl of surprise and rage his fingers gripped into my flesh.  The next thing I remember was being in the dust, suffocated by that odor which he who has known it can never forget.  A medley of discordant cries was in my ears.  Then I was snatched up, bumped against heads and shoulders, and deposited somewhere.  Now it was Tom’s face that was close to mine, and the light of a fierce anger was in his blue eyes.

“Did they hurt ye, Davy?” he asked.

I shook my head.  Before I could speak he was at the gate again, confronting the mob of savages that swayed against the fence, and the street was filled with running figures.  A voice of command that I knew well came from behind me.  It was Colonel Clark’s.

“Stay where you are, McChesney!” he shouted, and Tom halted with his hand on the latch.

“With your permission, I will speak to them,” said Monsieur Gratiot, who had come out also.