He caught only the word grateful, and he rose to his feet with something of the old straightness and of the old power.  And by evil chance his eye, and mine, fell upon a sword hanging on the farther wall.  Well I remembered when he had received it, well I knew the inscription on its blade, “Presented by the State of Virginia to her beloved son, George Rogers Clark, who by the conquest of Illinois and St. Vincennes extended her empire and aided in the defence of her liberties.”  By evil chance, I say, his eye lighted on that sword.  In three steps he crossed the room to where it hung, snatched it from its scabbard, and ere I could prevent him he had snapped it across his knee and flung the pieces in a corner.

“So much for the gratitude of my country,” he said.

* * * * * * *

I had gone out on the little porch and stood gazing over the expanse of forest and waters lighted by the afterglow.  Then I felt a hand upon my shoulder, I heard a familiar voice calling me by an old name.

“Yes, General!” I turned wonderingly.

“You are a good lad, Davy.  I trust you,” he said.  “I—­I was expecting some friends.”

He lifted a hand that was not too steady to his brow and scanned the road leading to the fort.  Even as he spoke four figures emerged from the woods,—­undoubtedly the gentlemen who had held the council at the inn that afternoon.  We watched them in silence as they drew nearer, and then something in the walk and appearance of the foremost began to bother me.  He wore a long, double-breasted, claret-colored redingote that fitted his slim figure to perfection, and his gait was the easy gait of a man who goes through the world careless of its pitfalls.  So intently did I stare that I gave no thought to those who followed him.  Suddenly, when he was within fifty paces, a cry escaped me,—­I should have known that smiling, sallow, weakly handsome face anywhere in the world.

The gentleman was none other than Monsieur Auguste de St. Gre.  At the foot of the steps he halted and swept his hand to his hat with a military salute.

“Citizen General,” he said gracefully, “we come and pay our respec’s to you and mek our report, and ver’ happy to see you look well.  Citoyens, Vive la Republique!—­Hail to the Citizen General!”

“Vive la Republique!  Vive le General!” cried the three citizens behind him.

“Citizens, you are very welcome,” answered the General, gravely, as he descended the steps and took each of them by the hand.  “Citizens, allow me to introduce to you my old friend, Citizen David Ritchie—­”

“Milles diables!” cried the Citizen St. Gre, seizing me by the hand, “c’est mon cher ami, Monsieur Reetchie.  Ver’ happy you have this honor, Monsieur;” and snatching his wide-brimmed military cocked hat from his head he made me a smiling, sweeping bow.

“What!” cried the General to me, “you know the Sieur de St. Gre, Davy?”