My constant torment was thirst.  I was in the prairie, and it was scorched and brown to the horizon.  I searched and prayed pitifully for water,—­for only a sip of the brown water with the specks in it that was in the swamp.  There were no swamps.  I was on the bed in the cabin looking at the shifts and hunting shirts on the pegs, and Polly Ann would bring a gourdful of clear water from the spring as far as the door.  Nay, once I got it to my lips, and it was gone.  Sometimes a young man in a hunting shirt, square-shouldered, clear-eyed, his face tanned and his fair hair bleached by the sun, would bring the water.  He was the hero of my boyhood, and part of him indeed was in me.  And I would have followed him again to Vincennes despite the tortures of the damned.  But when I spoke his name he grew stouter before me, and his eyes lost their lustre and his hair turned gray; and his hand shook as he held out the gourd and spilled its contents ere I could reach them.

Sometimes another brought the water, and at sight of her I would tremble and grow faint, and I had not the strength to reach for it.  She would look at me with eyes that laughed despite the resolution of the mouth.  Then the eyes would grow pitiful at my helplessness, and she would murmur my name.  There was some reason which I never fathomed why she could not give me the water, and her own suffering seemed greater than mine because of it.  So great did it seem that I forgot my own and sought to comfort her.  Then she would go away, very slowly, and I would hear her calling to me in the wind, from the stars to which I looked up from the prairie.  It was she, I thought, who ordered the world.  Who, when women were lost and men cried out in distress, came to them calmly, ministered to them deftly.

Once—­perhaps a score of times, I cannot tell—­was limned on the ceiling, where the cracks were, her miniature, and I knew what was coming and shuddered and cried aloud because I could not stop it.  I saw the narrow street of a strange city deep down between high houses,—­houses with gratings on the lowest windows, with studded, evil-looking doors, with upper stories that toppled over to shut out the light of the sky, with slated roofs that slanted and twisted this way and that and dormers peeping from them.  Down in the street, instead of the King’s white soldiers, was a foul, unkempt rabble, creeping out of its damp places, jesting, cursing, singing.  And in the midst of the rabble a lady sat in a cart high above it unmoved.  She was the lady of the miniature.  A window in one of the jutting houses was flung open, a little man leaned out excitedly, and I knew him too.  He was Jean Baptiste Lenoir, and he cried out in a shrill voice:—­

“You must take off her ruff, citizens.  You must take off her ruff!”