“Arrah,” he said, “what ails ye, darlin’?”

I gulped and the tears sprang into my eyes; whereupon Terence, in defiance of all military laws, laid his gun against the doorpost and put his arms around me, and I confided my fears.  It was at this critical juncture that the door opened and Colonel Clark came out.

“What’s to do here?” he demanded, gazing at us sternly.

“Savin’ your Honor’s prisence,” said Terence, “he’s afeard your Honor will be sending him on the boat.  Sure, he wants to go swimmin’ with the rest of us.”

Colonel Clark frowned, bit his lip, and Terence seized his gun and stood to attention.

“It were right to leave you in Kaskaskia,” said the Colonel; “the water will be over your head.”

“The King’s drum would be floatin’ the likes of him,” said the irrepressible Terence, “and the b’ys would be that lonesome.”

The Colonel walked away without a word.  In an hour’s time he came back to find me cleaning his accoutrements by the fire.  For a while he did not speak, but busied himself with his papers, I having lighted the candles for him.  Presently he spoke my name, and I stood before him.

“I will give you a piece of advice, Davy,” said he.  “If you want a thing, go straight to the man that has it.  McChesney has spoken to me about this wild notion of yours of going to Vincennes, and Cowan and McCann and Ray and a dozen others have dogged my footsteps.”

“I only spoke to Terence because he asked me, sir,” I answered.  “I said nothing to any one else.”

He laid down his pen and looked at me with an odd expression.

“What a weird little piece you are,” he exclaimed; “you seem to have wormed your way into the hearts of these men.  Do you know that you will probably never get to Vincennes alive?”

“I don’t care, sir,” I said.  A happy thought struck me.  “If they see a boy going through the water, sir—­” I hesitated, abashed.

“What then?” said Clark, shortly.

“It may keep some from going back,” I finished.

At that he gave a sort of gasp, and stared at me the more.

“Egad,” he said, “I believe the good Lord launched you wrong end to.  Perchance you will be a child when you are fifty.”

He was silent a long time, and fell to musing.  And I thought he had forgotten.

“May I go, sir?” I asked at length.

He started.

“Come here,” said he.  But when I was close to him he merely laid his hand on my shoulder.  “Yes, you may go, Davy.”

He sighed, and presently turned to his writing again, and I went back joyfully to my cleaning.

On a certain dark 4th of February, picture the village of Kaskaskia assembled on the river-bank in capote and hood.  Ropes are cast off, the keel-boat pushes her blunt nose through the cold, muddy water, the oars churn up dirty, yellow foam, and cheers shake the sodden air.  So the Willing left on her long journey:  down the Kaskaskia, into the flood of the Mississippi, against many weary leagues of the Ohio’s current, and up the swollen Wabash until they were to come to the mouth of the White River near Vincennes.  There they were to await us.