Again he stopped, and it seemed to us watching that he smiled a little.

“I shall name one,” he said, “one who never lagged, who never complained, who starved that the weak might be fed and walk.  David Ritchie, come here.”

I trembled, my teeth chattered as the water had never made them chatter.  I believe I should have fallen but for Tom, who reached out from the ranks.  I stumbled forward in a daze to where the Colonel stood, and the cheering from the ranks was a thing beyond me.  The Colonel’s hand on my head brought me to my senses.

“David Ritchie,” he said, “I give you publicly the thanks of the regiment.  The parade is dismissed.”

The next thing I knew I was on Cowan’s shoulders, and he was tearing round and round the fort with two companies at his heels.

“The divil,” said Terence McCann, “he dhrummed us over the wather, an’ through the wather; and faix, he would have dhrummed the sculp from Hamilton’s head and the Colonel had said the worrd.”

“By gar!” cried Antoine le Gris, “now he drum us on to Detroit.”

Out of the gate rushed Cowan, the frightened villagers scattering right and left.  Antoine had a friend who lived in this street, and in ten minutes there was rum in the powder-horns, and the toast was “On to Detroit!”

Colonel Clark was sitting alone in the commanding officer’s room of the garrison.  And the afternoon sun, slanting through the square of the window, fell upon the maps and papers before him.  He had sent for me.  I halted in sheer embarrassment on the threshold, looked up at his face, and came on, troubled.

“Davy,” he said, “do you want to go back to Kentucky?”

“I should like to stay to the end, Colonel,” I answered.

“The end?” he said.  “This is the end.”

“And Detroit, sir?” I returned.

“Detroit!” he cried bitterly, “a man of sense measures his force, and does not try the impossible.  I could as soon march against Philadelphia.  This is the end, I say; and the general must give way to the politician.  And may God have mercy on the politician who will try to keep a people’s affection without money or help from Congress.”

He fell back wearily in his chair, while I stood astonished, wondering.  I had thought to find him elated with victory.

“Congress or Virginia,” said he, “will have to pay Monsieur Vigo, and Father Gibault, and Monsieur Gratiot, and the other good people who have trusted me.  Do you think they will do so?”

“The Congress are far from here,” I said.

“Ay,” he answered, “too far to care about you and me, and what we have suffered.”

He ended abruptly, and sat for a while staring out of the window at the figures crossing and recrossing the muddy parade-ground.