Monsieur Bouton was a round little man, as his name suggested, and the men cheered him as he strode soberly up the street, a piece of sheeting tied to a sapling and flung over his shoulder.  Through such humble agencies are the ends of Providence accomplished.  Monsieur Bouton walked up to the gate, disappeared sidewise through the postern, and we sat down to breakfast.  In a very short time Monsieur Bouton was seen coming back, and his face was not so impassive that the governors message could not be read thereon.

“’Tis not a love-letter he has, I’ll warrant,” said Terence, as the little man disappeared into the house.  So accurately had Monsieur Bouton’s face betrayed the news that the men went back to their posts without orders, some with half a breakfast in hand.  And soon the rank and file had the message.

“Lieutenant-Governor Hamilton begs leave to acquaint Colonel Clark that he and his garrison are not disposed to be awed into any action unworthy of British subjects.”

Our men had eaten, their enemy was within their grasp and Clark and all his officers could scarce keep them from storming.  Such was the deadliness of their aim that scarce a shot came back, and time and again I saw men fling themselves in front of the breastworks with a war-whoop, wave their rifles in the air, and cry out that they would have the Ha’r Buyer’s sculp before night should fall.  It could not last.  Not tuned to the nicer courtesies of warfare, the memory of Hamilton’s war parties, of blackened homes, of families dead and missing, raged unappeased.  These were not content to leave vengeance in the Lord’s hands, and when a white flag peeped timorously above the gate a great yell of derision went up from river-bank to river-bank.  Out of the postern stepped the officer with the faded scarlet coat, and in due time went back again, haughtily, his head high, casting contempt right and left of him.  Again the postern opened, and this time there was a cheer at sight of a man in hunting shirt and leggings and coonskin cap.  After him came a certain Major Hay, Indian-enticer of detested memory, the lieutenant of him who followed—­the Hair Buyer himself.  A murmur of hatred arose from the men stationed there; and many would have shot him where he stood but for Clark.

“The devil has the grit,” said Cowan, though his eyes blazed.

It was the involuntary tribute.  Lieutenant-Governor Hamilton stared indifferently at the glowering backwoodsmen as he walked the few steps to the church.  Not so Major Hay.  His eyes fell.  There was Colonel Clark waiting at the door through which the good Creoles had been wont to go to worship, bowing somewhat ironically to the British General.  It was a strange meeting they had in St. Xavier’s, by the light of the candles on the altar.  Hot words passed in that house of peace, the General demanding protection for all his men, and our Colonel replying that he would do with the Indian partisans as he chose.