“C’etait un vieux sauvage
Tout noir, tour barbouilla,
Ouich’ ka! 
Avec sa vieill’ couverte
Et son sac a tabac. 
Ouich’ ka! 
Ah! ah! tenaouich’ tenaga,
Tenaouich’ tenaga,
Ouich’ ka!”

So sang Antoine, dit le Gris, in the pulsing red light.  And when, between the verses, he went through the agonies of a Huron war-dance, the assembled regiment howled with delight.  Some men know cities and those who dwell in the quarters of cities.  But grizzled Antoine knew the half of a continent, and the manners of trading and killing of the tribes thereof.

And after Antoine came Gabriel, a marked contrast—­Gabriel, five feet six, and the glare showing but a faint dark line on his quivering lip.  Gabriel was a patriot,—­a tribute we must pay to all of those brave Frenchmen who went with us.  Nay, Gabriel had left at home on his little farm near the village a young wife of a fortnight.  And so his lip quivered as he sang:—­

       “Petit Rocher de la Haute Montagne,
        Je vien finir ici cette campagne! 
        Ah! doux echos, entendez mes soupirs;
        En languissant je vais bientot mouir!”

We had need of gayety after that, and so Bill Cowan sang “Billy of the Wild Wood,” and Terence McCann wailed an Irish jig, stamping the water out of the spongy ground amidst storms of mirth.  As he desisted, breathless and panting, he flung me up in the firelight before the eyes of them all, crying:—­

“It’s Davy can bate me!”

“Ay, Davy, Davy!” they shouted, for they were in the mood for anything.  There stood Colonel Clark in the dimmer light of the background.  “We must keep ’em screwed up, Davy,” he had said that very day.

There came to me on the instant a wild song that my father had taught me when the liquor held him in dominance.  Exhilarated, I sprang from Terence’s arms to the sodden, bared space, and methinks I yet hear my shrill, piping note, and see my legs kicking in the fling of it.  There was an uproar, a deeper voice chimed in, and here was McAndrew flinging his legs with mine:—­

       “I’ve faught on land, I’ve faught at sea,
          At hame I faught my aunty, O;
        But I met the deevil and Dundee
          On the braes o’ Killiecrankie, O.
        An’ ye had been where I had been,
          Ye wad na be sae cantie, O;
        An’ ye had seen what I ha’e seen
          On the braes o’ Killiecrankie, O.”

In the morning Clark himself would be the first off through the gray rain, laughing and shouting and waving his sword in the air, and I after him as hard as I could pelt through the mud, beating the charge on my drum until the war-cries of the regiment drowned the sound of it.  For we were upon a pleasure trip—­lest any man forget,—­a pleasure trip amidst stark woods and brown plains flecked with ponds.  So we followed him until we came to a place where, in summer, two quiet rivers flowed through green forests—­the little Wabashes.  And now!  Now hickory and maple, oak and cottonwood, stood shivering in three feet of water on what had been a league of dry land.  We stood dismayed at the crumbling edge of the hill, and one hundred and seventy pairs of eyes were turned on Clark.  With a mere glance at the running stream high on the bank and the drowned forest beyond, he turned and faced them.