“Enough, enough,” pursued the lieutenant, in a friendly tone.  “I believe you, Nixon.  But another question.  Were you joined last night by any one of the regiment? recollect yourself.”

The corporal declaring that nothing in the shape of an American uniform had come under his notice, since he departed from the Fort the preceding evening, the officer next turned his attention to the boat.

“What are you fumbling about there, Collins?” he asked, rather sharply—­“Why do you not go and join your mess?” This was said as the rest of the party were now in the act of moving off with their muskets and fishing apparatus.

“Poor fellow!” interposed the corporal, “he is not himself to-day; but I am sure, Mr. Elmsley, you will not be hard upon him, when I tell you that, but for him, there wouldn’t be a man of us here of the whole party.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the lieutenant, not a little surprised at the information; “but we shall hear all about that presently; yet what is he fidgetting about at the bottom of the bow of the boat?”

“There’s another body there, sir, besides Le Noir’s.  It’s that of the poor boy at Heywood’s—­an Indian scalped him and left him for dead.  Collins, who put a bullet into the same fellow, not an hour afterwards, found the boy by accident, while retreating from the place where we had the first scrimmage with the red devils.  He was still breathing, and he took every pains to recover him, but the cold night air was too much for him, and he died in the poor fellow’s arms.”

“Well, this is a strange night’s adventure, or rather series of adventures,” remarked the lieutenant half aside to himself.  “Then, I suppose,” he resumed, more immediately addressing the corporal, “he has brought the body of the boy to have him interred with Le Noir?”

“Just so, sir, for he mourns him as if he had been his own child,” answered Nixon, as the officer departed—­ “here, Loup Garou, Loup Garou,” and he whistled to the dog.  “Come along, old fellow, and get some breakfast.”

But Loup Garou would not stir at the call of his new master.  Sorrow was the only feast in which he seemed inclined to indulge, and he continued to crouch near the body of the Canadian as impassible and motionless as if he was no longer of earth himself.

“Come along, Collins,” gently urged the Virginian, approaching the boat, where the former was still feeling the bosom of the dead boy in the vain hope of finding that life was not yet extinct.  “It’s no use thinking about it; you have done your duty as a soldier, and as a good man, but you see he is gone, and there is no help for it.  By and by, we will bury them both together; but come along now.  The dog will let nobody near them.”

“Dash me, corporal, if I ever felt so queer in my life!” answered Collins, in a melancholy tone, strongly in contrast with his habitual brusque gaiety; “but, as you say, it’s no use.  The poor lad is dead enough at last, and my only comfort now is to bury him, and sometimes look at his grave.”