There was a breathless hush.  A swift vision came to me of a man, young, alert, commanding, stern under necessity, self-repressed at all times—­a man who by the very dominance of his character had awed into submission the fierce Northern tribes of a continent, who had compelled men to follow him until the life had all but ebbed from their bodies, who had led them to victory in the end.  And I remembered a boy who had stood awe-struck before this man in the commandant’s house at Fort Sackville.  Ay, and I heard again his words as though he had just spoken them, “Promise me that you will not forget me if I am—­unfortunate.”  I did not understand then.  And now because of a certain blinding of my eyes, I did not see him clearly as he got slowly to his feet.  He clutched the table.  He looked around him—­I dare not say—­vacantly.  And then, suddenly, he spoke with a supreme anger and a supreme bitterness.

“Not a shilling has this government given me,” he cried.  “Virginia was more grateful; from her I have some acres of wild land and—­a sword.”  He laughed.  “A sword, gentlemen, and not new at that.  Oh, a grateful government we serve, one careful of the honor of her captains.  Gentlemen, I stand to-day a discredited man because the honest debts I incurred in the service of that government are repudiated, because my friends who helped it, Father Gibault, Vigo, and Gratiot, and others have never been repaid.  One of them is ruined.”

A dozen men had sprung clamoring to their feet before he sat down.  One, more excited than the rest, got the ear of the company.

“Do we lack leaders?” he cried.  “We have them here with us to-night, in this room.  Who will stop us?  Not the contemptible enemies in Kentucky who call themselves Federalists.  Shall we be supine forever?  We have fought once for our liberties, let us fight again.  Let us make a common cause with our real friends on the far side of the Mississippi.”

I rose, sick at heart, but every man was standing.  And then a strange thing happened.  I saw General Wilkinson at the far end of the room; his hand was raised, and there was that on his handsome face which might have been taken for a smile, and yet was not a smile.  Others saw him too, I know not by what exertion of magnetism.  They looked at him and they held their tongues.

“I fear that we are losing our heads, gentlemen,” he said; “and I propose to you the health of the first citizen of Kentucky, Colonel George Rogers Clark.”

I found myself out of the tavern and alone in the cool May night.  And as I walked slowly down the deserted street, my head in a whirl, a hand was laid on my shoulder.  I turned, startled, to face Mr. Wharton, the planter.

“I would speak a word with you, Mr. Ritchie,” he said.  “May I come to your room for a moment?”

“Certainly, sir,” I answered.