Classic Audiobook Collection - Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson ~ Full Audiobook [history]

Episode Date: August 7, 2023

Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson audiobook. Genre: history This entertaining book of adventure, love and war was a Bestseller in 1900 and 1901. The heroine Alice Roussillon is a brave young woman who grew up in a small town on the Wabash River in Indiana during the revolutionary war. The characters are all distinctive and compelling. It gives a great insight into the frontier life of that era and includes true historical accounts and personages such as the wicked Lieutenant Governor Henry Hamilton and George Rogers Clarke who was responsible for expelling the British from Fort Sackville in Vincennes in 1779. From the foreword: ' 'Accept, then, this book, which to those who care only for history will seem but an idle romance, while to the lovers of romance it may look strangely like the mustiest history.' For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 00 (00:03:43) Chapter 01 (00:28:24) Chapter 02 (00:54:29) Chapter 03 (01:17:02) Chapter 04 (01:46:34) Chapter 05 (02:13:21) Chapter 06 (02:41:04) Chapter 07 (03:07:40) Chapter 08 (03:39:28) Chapter 09 (04:08:47) Chapter 10 (04:38:58) Chapter 11 (05:09:21) Chapter 12 (05:39:35) Chapter 13 (06:12:49) Chapter 14 (06:39:39) Chapter 15 (07:04:40) Chapter 16 (07:37:29) Chapter 17 (08:04:34) Chapter 18 (08:33:12) Chapter 19 (09:02:52) Chapter 20 (09:34:18) Chapter 21 (10:07:46) Chapter 22 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

chapter i of alice of old vincennes by maurice thompson one under the cherry tree up to the days of indiana's early statehood probably as late as eighteen twenty five there stood in what is now the beautiful little city of vencenne on the wabash the decaying remnant of an old and curiously gnarled cherry tree known as the rousillon tree the serizier de monsieur rousillon as the french inhabitants called it which as long as it lived bore fruit remarkable for richness of flavor and peculiar dark ruby depth of colour the exact spot where this noble old seedling from la belle france flourished declined and died cannot be certainly pointed out for in the rapid and happy growth of vincent many landmarks once notable among them the serizier de monsieur rousillon have been destroyed in the spots where they stood once familiar to every eye in old vincennes are now lost in the pleasant confusion of the new town. The security of certain land titles may have largely depended upon the disappearance of old fixed objects here and there. Early records were loosely kept,

indeed scarcely kept at all. Many were destroyed by designing land speculators, while those most carefully preserved often failed to give even a shadowy trace of the actual boundaries of the estates held thereby, so that the position of a house or tree not infrequently settled an important question of property rights left open by a primitive deed.

At all events, the Rousillon cherry tree disappeared long ago. Nobody living knows how, and with it also vanished quite as mysteriously, all traces of the once important Rousillon estate. Not a record of the name even can be found, it is said, in church or county books. The old twisted gum-embossed cherry tree survived every other distinguishing feature

of what was once the most picturesque and romantic place in Beisen. Just north of it stood in the early French days, a low, rambling cabin surrounded by rude verandas overgrown with grapefines. This was the Rousillon place, the most pretentious home in all the Wabash country. Its owner was Gaspar Roussillon, a successful trader with the Indians. He was rich for the time and the place,

influential to a degree, a man of some education who had brought with him to the wilderness a bundle of books and a taste for reading. From faded letters and dimly remembered talk of those who once clung fondly to the legends and traditions of Old Vaisen, it is drawn that the Rousillon cherry trees stood not very far away from the present side of the Catholic Church, on a slight swell of ground overlooking a wide, marshy flat and silver current of the Wabash. If the tree grew there, then there too stood the Rousillon House with its cozy log rooms,

its clay-dobbed chimneys, and its grape-vined, mantled, verandas, while some distance away and nearer the river, the rude fort with its huddled officer's quarters seemed to fling out over the wild landscape, through its squinting and lopsided fortholes a gaze of stubborn defiance. Not far off was the Little Logge Church where one good father Beret, or as named by the Indians who all loved him, Father Black Rove, performed the services of his sacred calling, and scattered all around with the cabins of traders, soldiers and woodsmen forming a queer little town, the like of which cannot now be seen anywhere on the earth. It is not known just when Vesen was first founded, but most historians make the probable date

very early in the 18th century, somewhere between 1710 and 1730. In 1810, the Roussillon Cherry Tree was thought by a distinguished botanical letter-writer to be at least 50 years old, which would make the date of its planting about 1760. Certainly, as shown by the time-stained family records upon which this story of ours is based, it was a flourishing and wide-top tree in early summer of 1778. Its branches loaded to drooping with luscious fruit. So low did the dark red clusters hang at one point that a tall young girl standing on the ground easily reached the best ones and made her lips purple with their juice while she ate them.

That was long ago, measured by what has come to pass on the gentle swell of rich country. from which Vais Sen overlooks the Wabash. The new town flourishes notably, and its appearance marks the latest limit of progress. Electric cars in its streets, electric lights in its beautiful homes, the roar of railway trains coming and going in all directions,

bicycles whirling hither and thither. The most fashionable styles of equipages, from broom to pony phaeton, make the days of flint-locked guns and buckskin trousers seem ages down the past. And yet we are looking back, over but a little more than a hundred and twenty years to see Alice Oceion standing under the cherry tree and holding high a tempting cluster of fruit, while a very short, hump-backed youth looks up with longing eyes and vainly reaches for it. The tableau is not merely rustic, it is primitive. Jump, the girl is saying in French. Jump, Jean. Jump, hi. Yes, that was very long ago, in the days when women lightly braved what the strongest men would shrink from now. alice rossillon was tall lithe strongly knit with an almost perfect figure judging by what the sculptors carved for the form of venus and her face was comely and winning if not absolutely beautiful

but the time and the place were vigorously indicated by her dress which was of course stuff and simply designed plainly she was a child of the american wilderness a daughter of old vincent on the wabash in the time that tried men's souls jump jean she cried her face laughing with a show of cheek dimples and arching a finely sketched brows and the twinkling of large blue-gray eyes jump high and get them while she waved her sun-browned hand holding the cherries aloft the breeze blowing fresh from the southwest tossed her hair so that some loose strands shone like rambled flames the sturdy little hunchback did leap with surprising activity but the treacherous brown hand went higher so high that they combined altitude of his jump and the reach of his unnaturally long arms was overcome. Again and again he sprang vainly into the air comically like a long-legged squat-bodied frog. And you brag of your agility and strength, Jean, she laughingly remarked, but you can't take cherries when they are offered to you. What a clumsy bungler you are.

I can climb and get some, he said with a hideously happy grin, and immediately embraced the bowl of the tree up which he began scrambling almost as fast, as a squirrel. When he had mounted high enough to be extending a hand for a hold on a crotch, Alice grasped his leg near the foot and pulled him down, despite his clinging and struggling, until his hands clawed in the soft earth at the tree's root while she held his captive leg almost vertically erect. It was a show of great strength, but Alice looked quite unconscious of it laughing merrily, the dimples deepening in her plump cheeks, her forearm now bared to the elbow, gleaming white and shapely while its muscles rippled on account of the jerking and kicking

of Jean. All the time she was holding the cherries high in her other hand, shaking them by the twig to which their slender stems attached them, and saying in a sweet tantalizing tone, What makes you climb downward after cherry, Jean? What a foolish fellow you are, indeed trying to grabble cherries out of the ground as you do potatoes. I'm sure I didn't suppose that you knew so little as that. Her French was colloquial, but but quite good, showing here and there what we often notice in the speech of those who have been educated in isolated places far from that babble of polite energies, which we call the world. Something that may be described as a bookish cast, appearing oddly in the midst of phrasing

distinctly rustic and local, a peculiarity not easy to transfer from one language to another. Jean the hunchback was a muscular little deformity and a wonder of good nature. His head looked unnaturally large, nestling grotesquely between the points of his lifted and distorted shoulders, like a shaggy black animal in the fork of a broken tree. He was bellicose in his amiable way and never knew just when to acknowledge defeat. How long he might have kept up the hopeless struggle with the girl's invincible grip would be hard to guess. His release was caused by the approach of a third person who wore the robe of a Catholic priest and the countenance of a man who had lived and suffered a long time without much loss of physical strength and endurance.

This was Per Beret, grisly, short, compact, his face deeply lined, his mouth decidedly aslant on account of some lost teeth and his eyes set deep under gray, shaggy brows. Looking at him, when his features were in repose, a first impression might not have been favorable. But seeing him smile or hearing him speak changed everything. His voice was sweetness itself, and his smile was. one knew on the instant. Something like a pervading sorrow always seemed to be close behind his eyes

and under his speech. Yet he was a genial sometimes almost jolly man, very prone to join in the lighter amusements of his people. Children, children, my children, he called out as he approached along a little pathway leading up from the direction of the church.

What are you doing now? But there, Alice, will you pull Jean's leg off? At first they did not hear him they were so nearly deafened by their own vocal discords "'Why are you standing on your head "'with your feet so high in air, Jean?'

"'He added. "'It's not a polite attitude "'in the presence of a young lady. "'Are you a pig "'that you poke your nose in the dirt?' "'Alice now turned her bright head "'and gave Per Beret a look of Frank welcome, "'which at the same time shot a beam

"'of willful self-assertion. "'My daughter, Are you trying to help Jean up the tree feet foremost? The priest added standing where he had halted just outside of the straggling-yard fence. He had his hands on his hips and was quietly chuckling at the scene before him as one who, although old, sympathized with the natural and harmless sportiveness of young people and would as leave as not join in a prank or two. "'You see what I'm doing, Father Perret,' said Alice.

"'I am preventing a great damage to you.' you will maybe lose a good many cherry pies and dumplings if i let jean go he was climbing the tree to pilfer the fruit so i pulled him down you understand ta ta exclaimed the good man shaking his gray head we must reason with the child let go his leg daughter i will vouch for him eh jean alice released the hunchback then laughed gaily and tossed the cluster of cherries into his hand whereupon he began munching them voraciously and talking at the same time. "'I knew I could get them,' he boasted. "'And see, I have them now.' He hopped around looking like a species of ill-formed monkey. Per Beret came and leaned on the low fence close to Alice.

She was almost as tall as he. "'The sun scorches to-day,' he said, beginning to mop his furrowed face with a red-flowered cotton-hackard-cgotten-handkerchief. and from the look of the sky yonder pointing southward it is going to bring on a storm how is madame rousillon to-day she is complaining as she usually does when she feels extremely well said alice that's why i had to take her place at the oven and bake pies i got hot and came out to catch a bit of this breeze oh but you needn't smile and look greedy perberet the pies are not for your teeth my daughter i am not a glut and i hope i had meat not two hours since some broiled young squirrels with grass sent me by ren de ronville he never forgets his old father oh i never forget you either mon perre i thought of you to-day every time i spread a crust and filled it with cherries and when i took out a pie all brown and hot the red juice bubbling out of it so good smelling and tempting do you know what i said to myself how could i know my child well i thought this not a single bite of that pie does father beren't get why so daughter because you said it was

bad of me to read novels and told Mother Rousillon to hide them from me. I have had any amount of trouble about it. Tata, read the good books that I gave you. They will soon kill the taste for these silly romances. I tried, said Alice. I tried very hard, and it's no use. Your books are dull and stupidly heavy. What do I care about something that a queer lot of saints did hundreds of years ago

in times of plague and famine. Saints must have been pokey people, and it is pokey people who care to read about them, I think. I like reading about brave, heroic men and beautiful women, and war, and love. Per Bérette looked away with a curious expression in his face his eyes half closed. And I'll tell you now, Father Bérette,

Alice went on after a pause. No more credit and pies do you get until I can have my own sort of books back again to read as I please. She stamped her moccas and shod foot with decided energy. The good priest broke into a hearty laugh and taking off his cap of grass straw mechanically scratched his bald head. He looked at the tall, strong girl before him for a moment or two, and it would have been hard for the best physiognomist to decide just how much of approval

and how much of disapproval that look really signified. Although, as Father Beret had said, the son's heat was violent, causing that gentle soul to pass his bundled handkerchief with a wiping circular motion over his bald and bedewed pate, the wind was momently refreshing, while up from behind the trees on the horizon beyond the river. A cloud was rising blue-black, tumbled and grim against the sky. Well, said the priest evidently trying hard to exchange his laugh for a look of regretful resignation, You will have your own way, my child, and— Then you will have fies galore and no end of claret.

she interrupted, at the same time stepping to the withe tide and peg-latched gate of the yard and opening it. Come in, you dear good father, before the rain shall begin, and sit with me on the gallery, the creole word for veranda, till the storm is over. Father Beret seemed not loath to enter, albeit he offered a weak protest against delaying some task he had in hand. Alice reached forth and pulled him in, then reclosed the queer little gate and pegged it. She caressingly passed her arm through his and looked into his weather-stained old face with childlike affection. There was not a photographer's camera to be had in those days, but what if a tourist with one in hand could have been there to take a snapshot at the priest and

the maiden as they walked arm in arm to that squat little veranda? The picture today would be worth its weight in a first water diamond. It would include the cabin, the cherry tree, a glimpse of the raw, wild background and a sharp portrait group of Per Beret, Alice, and John the hunchback. To compare it with a photograph of the same spot now would give a perfect impression of the historic atmosphere, color, and conditions which cannot be set in words. But we must not belittle the power of verbal description. What if a thoroughly trained newspaper reporter had been given the freedom of old Vincennes on the Wabash during the first week of June 1778, and we now had his printed story. What a supplement to the photographer's pictures. Well, we have neither

photographs nor graphic report, yet there they are before us, the gowned and straw-capped priest, the fresh-faced, coarsely-clad and vigorous girl, the grotesque little hunchback, all just as real as life itself. Each of us can see them, even with closed eyes. Led by that wonderful guide imagination, we step back a century and more to look over a scene at one. once strangely attractive and unspeakably forlorn. What was it that drew people away from the old countries, from the cities, the villages and the vineyards of beautiful France, for example, to dwell in the wilderness amid wild beasts and wilder savage Indians, with a rude cabin for a home and the exposures and hardships

of pioneer life for their daily experience? Men like Gaspar Roussillon are of a distinct stamp. Take him as he was. born in France, on the banks of their own near Avignon, he came as a youth to Canada, once he drifted on the tide of adventure this way and that, until at last he found himself with a wife at post-Vincennes, that lonely picket of religion and trade which was to become the center of civilizing energy for the great northwestern territory. Monsieur Roussillon had no children of his own, so his kind heart opened freely to two fatherless and motherless waifs. These were Alice, now called Alice

Rossillon and the hunchback Jean. The former was twelve years old when he adopted her, a child of Protestant parents, while Jean had been taken when a mere babe after his parents had been killed and scalped by Indians. Madame Roussillon, a professed invalid whose appetite never failed and whose motherly kindness expressed itself most often through strains of monotonous falsetto scolding, was a woman of little education and no refinement, while her husband clung tenaciously to his love of books, especially to the romance as most in vogue when he took leave of France. Monsieur Rousillon had been, in a way, Alice's teacher,

though not greatly inclined to abet Father Beret in his kindly efforts to make a Catholic of the girl, and most treacherously disposed toward the good priest in the matter of his well-meant attempts to prevent her from reading and re-reading the aforesaid romances. But for many weeks past, Gaspar Rousillon had been absent from home, looking after his trading schemes with the Indians, and Per Beret, acting on the suggestion of the proverb about the absent cat and the playing mouse, had formed an alliance offensive and defensive with Madame Rousillon, in which it was strictly stipulated that all novels and romances were to be forcibly taken

and securely hidden away from Mademoiselle Alice, which, to the best of Madame Rousillon's ability, had accordingly been done. Now, while the wind strengthened and the softly booming summer shower came on apace, the heavy cloud lifting as it advanced and showing under it, dark gray sheet of the rain, Per Béret and Alice sat under the clapboard roof behind the vines of the veranda and discussed what was generally uppermost

in the priest's mind upon such occasions, the good of Alice's immortal soul, a subject not absorbingly interesting to her at any time. It was a standing grief to the good old priest, this strange perversity of the girl in the matter of religious duty as he saw it. True, she had a faithful guardian in Gaspar Rousillon, but much as he had done to aid the church's

work in general, for he was always vigorous and liberal, he could not be looked upon as a very good Catholic, and of course his influence was not effective in the right direction. But then, Père Berets are no reason why, in due time and with patient work, aided by Madame Rousillon and notwithstanding Gaspar's treachery, he might not safely lead Alice whom he loved as a dear child, into the arms of the Holy Church to serve which faithfully at all hazards and at all places was as high as tame. "'Ah, my child,' he was saying, "'you are a sweet, good girl after all,

"'much better than you make yourself out to be. "'Your duty will control you. "'You will do it nobly at last, my child.' "'True enough, Father Beret, true enough,' "'she responded laughing. "'Your perception is most excellent, "'which I will prove to you immediately.' "'She rose while speaking and went into the house.

"'I'll return, in a minute or two. She called back from a region which Per Beret well knew was that of the pantry. Don't get impatient and go away. Perberet laughed softly at the preposterous suggestion

that he would even dream of going out in the rain, which was now roaring heavily on the loose board roof and miss a cut of cherry pie, a cherry pie of Alice's making. And the Lucian Claret too was always excellent.

Ah, child, he thought, your old father is not going away. She presently returned, bearing on a wooden tray, a ruby-stained pie, and a short, stout bottle flanked by two glasses. "'Of course, I'm better than I sometimes appear to be,' she said almost humbly, but with mischief still in her voice and eyes. "'And I shall get to be very good when I have grown old. The sweetness of my present nature is in this pie.' She set the tray on a three-legged stool which she pushed close to him. "'There now,' she said. let the rain come you'll be happy rain or shine while the pie and wine last i'll be bound perberet fell to eating right heartily meantime handing jean a liberal piece of the luscious pie

it is good my daughter very good indeed the priest remarked with his mouth full madame rousillon has not neglected your culinary education alice failed a glass for him it was bordeaux and very frequent The bouquet reminded him of his sunny boyhood in France, of his journey up to Paris, and of his careless joy-brimmed youth in the gay city. How far away, how misty, yet how thrillingly sweet it all was. He sat with half-closed eyes a while, sipping and dreaming. The rain lasted nearly two hours, but the sun was out again when Per Beret took leave of his young friend. They had been having another good-natured quarrel over the novels and Madame Rousseau. had come out on the veranda to join in i've heed every book of them said madame a stout and swarthy woman whose pearl-white teeth were her only mark of beauty her voice indicated great stubbornness good good you have done your very duty madame said perberet with immense approval in his charming voice but father you said a while ago that i should have my own way about this alice spoke up with spirit and on the strength of that mark of yours, I gave you the pie and wine.

You've eaten my pie and swigged the wine, and now? Per Beret put on his straw cap, adjusting it carefully over the shining dome, out of which had come so many thoughts of wisdom, kindness, and human sympathy. This done, he gently laid a hand on Alice's bright crown of hair and said, "'Bless you, my child. I will pray to the Prince of Peace for you as long as I live, and I will never cease to beg the Holy Virgin to enter you. seed for you and lead you to the Holy Church.

He turned and went away. But when he was no farther than the gate, Alice called out, Oh, Father Beret, I forgot to show you something. She ran forth to him and added in a low tone. You know that Madame Rousillon has hidden all the novels from me. She was fumbling to get something out of the loose front of her dress. Well, just take a glance at this, will you? And she showed him a little leather,

bound volume much cracked along the hinges of the back. It was Manon Lescoe, that dreadful romance by the famous Abbe Prevot. Perberé frowned and went his way shaking his head, but before he reached his little hut near the church he was laughing in spite of himself. She's not so bad, not so bad, he thought aloud. It's only her young independent spirit, taking the beat for a wild run. In her sweet soul she is as good as she is pure End of Chapter 1

Chapter 2 of Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson This Librevox recording is in the public domain 2 A letter from afar Although Father Beret was for many years a missionary on the Wabash Most of the time at Vincennes The fact that no mention of him can be found in the records is not stranger than many other things connected with the old town's history.

He was, like nearly all the men of his calling in that day, a self-effacing and modest hero, apparently quite unaware that he deserved attention. He and Father Gibo, whose name is so beautifully and nobly connected with the stirring achievements of Colonel George Rogers Clark, were close friends and often companions. Probably Father Gibo himself, whose fame will never fade, would have been today as obscure as Father Beret,

but for the only of his own. opportunity given him by Clark to fix his name in the list of heroic patriots who assisted in winning the Great Northwest from the English. Vincennes, even in the earliest days of its history, somehow kept up communication, and considering the circumstances close relations with New Orleans. It was much nearer Detroit, but the Louisiana colony stood next to France in the imagination and longing of priests, voyager, courard-de-bois, and reckless adventures who had Latin blood in their veins. Beret first came to Vesenne from New Orleans, the voyage up the Mississippi, Ohio, and Wabash,

in a pierogue lasting through a whole summer and far into the autumn. Since his arrival, the post had experienced many vicissitudes, and at the time in which our story opens, the British government claimed right of dominion over the great territory drained by the Wabash, and indeed over a large indefinitely outlined part of the North American continent lying above Mexico. A claim just then being vigorously questioned, Flintlock and hand by the Anglo-American colonies. Of course, the handful of French people at Vincent so far away from every center of information and wholly occupied with their trading, trapping, and missionary work, were late finding out that war existed between England and her colonies. Nor did it really matter

much with them one way or another. They felt secure in their lonely situation and so went on selling their trinkets, weapons, domestic implements, blankets, and intoxicating liquors to the Indians, whom they held bound to them with a power never possessed by any other white dwellers in the wilderness. Father Beret was probably subordinate to Father Gibo. At all events, the latter appears to have had nominal charge of A sen, and it can scarcely be doubted that he left Father Beret on the Wabash while he went to live in labor for a time at Cascassia beyond the plains of Illinois. It is a curious fact that religion and the power of rum and brandy worked together successfully for a long time in giving the French posts

almost absolute influence over the wild and savage men by whom they were always surrounded. The good priests deprecated the traffic in liquors and tried hard to control it, but soldiers of fortune and reckless traders were in the majority, their interests taking precedents of all spiritual demands and carrying everything along.

What could the brave missionaries do, but make the very best of a perilous situation? In those days, wine was drunk by almost everybody, its use at table and as an article of incidental refreshment and social pleasure being practically universal, wherefore the steps of reform in the matter of intemperance were but rudimentary, and in all places beset by well-nigh insurmountable difficulties. In fact, the exigencies of frontier life demanded, perhaps, the very stimulus which, when over-indulged in, caused so much evil.

Malaria loaded the air, and the most efficacious drugs now at command were then undiscovered or could not be had. intoxicants were the only popular specific men drank to prevent contracting ague drank again between rigors to cure it and yet again to brace themselves during convalescence but if the effect of rum as a beverage had strong allurement for the white man it made an absolute slave of the indian who never hesitated for a moment to undertake any task no matter how hard bear any privation even the most terrible or brave any danger although it might demand reckless desperation if in In the end, a well-filled bottle or jug appeared as his reward. Of course, the traders did not overlook such a source of power. Alcoholic liquor became their implement of almost magical work in controlling the lives, labors, and resources of the Indians. The priests, with their captivating story of the cross, had a large influence in softening

savage natures and averting many an awful danger. But when everything else failed, rum always came to the rescue of a threatened French post. We need not wonder, then, when we are told that Father Beret made no sign of distress or disapproval upon being informed of the arrival of a boat loaded with rum, brandy, or gin. It was René de Ronville who brought the news, the same René already mentioned us having given the priest a plate of squirrels. He was sitting on the dorsal of Father Beret's hut, when the old man reached it after his visit at the Rousillon home, and held in his hand a letter which he appeared proud to deliver. A bateau and seven men.

with a cargo of liquor came during the rain. He said, rising and taking off his curious cap, which, made of an animal's skin, had a tail jauntily dangling from its crown tip. And here is a letter for you, father. The bateau is from New Orleans. Eight men started with it, but one went ashore to hunt and was killed by an Indian.

Father Beret took the letter without apparent interest and said, Thank you, my son. Sit down again. The door-logue is not wetter than the stool's insect. side, I will sit by you. The wind had driven a flood of rain into the cabin through the open door, and water twinkled in puddles here and there on the floor's pensions. They sat down side by side, Father Beret fingering the letter in an absent-minded way. They'll be a jolly time of it tonight, René Doronville remarked.

A roaring time. Why do you say that, my son? The priest demanded. The wine and the liquor. was the reply. Much drinking will be done. The men have all been dry here for some time, you know, and are as thirsty as sand.

They are making ready to enjoy themselves down at the riverhouse. Ah, the poor souls, sighed Father Beret, speaking as one whose thoughts were wandering far away. Why don't you read your letter, father? Rene added. The priest started, turned the soiled square of paper over in his hand,

than thrust it inside his robe. It can wait, he said, then changing his voice. The squirrels you gave me were excellent, my son. It was good of you to think of me, he added, laying his hand on René's arm. Oh, I'm glad if I have pleased you, Father Beret, for you are so kind to me always and to everybody.

When I killed the squirrels I said to myself, these are young, juicy and tender, Father Beret must have these, so I brought them along. The young man rose to go, for he was somehow impressed that Father Beret must wish opportunity to read his letter and would prefer to be left alone with it. But the priest pulled him down again. Stay a while, he said. I have not had to talk with you for some time. Reney looked a trifle uneasy.

You will not drink any to-night, my son. Father Beret added, You must not. Do you hear? The young man's eyes and mouth at once began to have a sullen expression. Evidently, he was not pleased and felt rebellious, but it was hard for him to resist Father Beret whom he loved, as did every soul in the post. The priest's voice was sweet and gentle, yet positive to a degree.

René did not say a word. Promise me that you will not taste liquor this night. Father Beret went on, grasping the young man's arm more firmly. Promise me, my son, promise me! Still, René was silent. The men did not look at each other, but gazed away across the country beyond the Wabash to where a glory from the western sun

flamed on the upper rim of a great cloud fragment creeping along the horizon. Warm as the day had been, a delicious coolness now began to temper the air, for the wind had shifted into the northwest. A meadowlark sang dreamily in the wild grass of the lowlands hard by, over which two or three prairie hawks hovered with wings that beat rapidly. "'Eh bien, I must go,' said René presently, getting to his feet nimbly and evading Father Beres' hand which would have held him. "'Not to the river-house, my son,' said the priest, appealingly.

"'No, not there. I have another letter. One for Monsieur Rossillon. It came by the boat, too.' I go to give it to Madame Rousillon. René de Rondville was a dark weather-stained young fellow, neither tall nor short, wearing buckskin moccasins, trousers and tunic. His eyes were dark brown, keen, quick moving, set well under heavy brows. A razor had probably never touched his face

and his thin curly beard crinkled over his strongly turned cheeks and chin, while his moustaches sprang out quite fiercely above his full-lipped, almost sensual mouth. He looked wiry and active. a man not to be lightly reckoned with in a trial of bodily strength and willpower. Father Beres' face and voice changed on the instant. He laughed dryly and said with a sly gleam in his eyes. You could spend the evening pleasantly with Madame Rousillon and Jean.

Jean, you know, is a very amusing fellow. Reney brought forth the letter of which he had spoken and held it up before Father Beres' face. Maybe you think I haven't any letter for Monsieur Roussie. he blurted, and maybe you are quite certain that I am not going to the house to take the letter. Monsieur Rossillon is absent, you know, Father Beret suggested. But cherry pies are just as good while he's gone as when he's at home,

and I happen to know that there are some particularly delicious ones in the pantry of Madame Rousillon. Mademoiselle Alice gave me a juicy sample, but then I dare say you do know. care to have your pie served by her hand. It would interfere with your appetite, eh, my son? René turned short about wagging his head and laughing, and so with his back to the priest he strode away along the wet path, leading to the Rousillon place. Father Beret gazed after him, his face relaxing to a serious expression in which a trace

of sadness and gloom spread like an elusive twilight. He took out his letter, but did not glance at it, simply holding it tightly gripped in his sinewy right hand. Then his old eyes stared vacantly, as eyes do when their sight is cast back many, many years into the past. The missive was from beyond the sea. He knew the handwriting.

A waft of the flowers of Avignon seemed to rise out of it, as if by the pressure of his grasp. A stoop-shouldered, burly man went by, leading a pair of goats, a kid following. He was making haste excitedly keeping the goats at a lively trot. "'Bonjour, Per Beret. he flung out breezily and walked rapidly on ah ah his mind is busy with the newly arrived cargo thought the old priest returning the salutation his throat takes for the liquor the poor man

then he read again the letter's superscription and made a faltering move as if to break the seal his hands trembled violently his face looked gray and drawn come on you brutes cried the receding man jerking the thongs of skin by which he led the goats. Father Beret rose and turned into his damp little hut where the light was dim on the crucifix hanging opposite the door against the clay-dobed wall. It was a bare, unsightly clammy room, a rude bed on one side, a shelf for table and two or three wooden stools constituting the furniture, while the uneven punchings of the floor wobbled and clattered under the priest's feet. An unopened letter is always a mysterious thing,

we who receive three or four mails every day scan each little paper square with a speculative eye most of us know what sweet uncertainty hangs on the opening of envelopes whose contents may be almost anything except something important and what a vague yet delicious thrill comes with a snip of the paper knife but if we be in a foreign land and long years absent from home then is a letter suddenly powerful to move us even more before it is opened than after it is read it has been many years since a letter from home had come to Father Beret. The last, before the one now in hand, had made him ill of nostalgia, fairly shaking his iron determination never to quit for a moment his life work as a missionary. Ever since that day he had found it harder to meet the many and stern demands of a most difficult and exacting duty. Now, the mere touch of the paper in his hand gave him a sense of returning weakness to satisfaction and longing. The home of his boyhood, the rushing of the a seat in a shady nook of the garden medalline his sister prattling beside him and his mother singing somewhere about the house it all came back and went over him and threw him making his heart sink strangely while another voice the sweetest ever heard but she was ineffable and her memory a forbidden fragrance

father beret tottered across the forlorn little room and knelt before the crucifix holding his clasped hands high the letter pressed between them his lips moved in praise but made no sound. His whole frame shook violently. It would be unpardonable desecration to enter the chamber of Father Beres' soul and look upon his sacred and secret trouble. Nor must we even speculate as to its particulars. The good old man writhed and wrestled before the cross for a long time, until at last he seemed to receive the calmness and strength he prayed for so fervently. Then he rose, tore the letter into pieces so small that not a word remained whole, and squeeze them so firmly together that they were compressed into a tiny, solid ball, which he let fall through a crack between the floor punchants. After waiting twenty years for that letter,

hungry as his heart was, he did not even open it when at last it arrived. He would never know what message it bore. The link between him and the old sweet days was broken forever. Now, with God's help, he could do his work to the end. He went and stood in his doorway, leaning against the side. Was it a mere coincidence that the meadowlark flew up just then from its grass tuft and came to the roof's comb overhead, where it lit with a light yet audible stroke of its feet and began fluting its tender, lonesome sounding strain? If Father Beret heard it he gave no sign of recognition. Very likely he was thinking about the cargo of liquor and how he could best counteract its baleful influence. He looked toward the River House, as the inhabitants had named a large

shanty which stood on the bluff of the Wabash not far from where the road bridge at present crosses and saw men gathering there. Meantime, René de Rondville had delivered Madame Rousillon's letter with due promptness. Of course, such a service demanded pie and claret. What's still better pleased him, Alice chose to be more amiable than was usually her custom when he called. They sat together in the main room of the house where Monsieur Rousillon kept his books, his curiosities of Indian manufacture collected here and there, and his surplus firearms, swords, pistols, and knives, ranged not unpleasingly around the walls. Of course, along with the letter, René bore the news so interesting to himself, of the

boat's tempting cargo just discharged at the riverhouse. Alice understood her friend's danger, felt it in the intense enthusiasm of his voice and manner. She had once seen the men carousing on a similar occasion when she was but a child, and the impression then made still remained in her memory. Instinctively, she resolved to hold Rone by one means or another away from the Riverhouse, if possible. So she managed to keep him occupied, eating pie, sipping watered claret and chatting until night came on, and Madame Rousillon brought in a lamp. Then he hurriedly snatched his cap from the floor beside him and got up to go. "'Come and look at my handiwork,' Alice quickly said. "'My shelf of pies, I mean.' She led him to the pantry where a dozen or more

the cherry patets were arranged in order. I made every one of them this morning and baked them. Had them all out of the oven before the rain came up. Don't you think me a wonder of cleverness and industry? Father Beret was polite enough to flatter me. But you? You just eat what you want and say nothing. You are not polite, Monsieur René de Ronville.

I've been showing you what I thought of your goodies, said Renée. Eating's better than talking, you know. So I'll just take one more. and he helped himself. Isn't that compliment enough? A few such would make me another hot day's work, she replied laughing. Pretty talk would be cheaper and more satisfactory

in the long run. Even the flour in these patas, I ground with my own hand in an Indian mortar. That was hard work, too. By this time, Renée had forgotten the riverhouse and the liquor. With softening eyes, he gazed at Alice's rounded cheeks and sheeny hair over which the light from the curious earthen lamp she bore in her hand flickered

most effectively. He loved her madly, but his fear of her was more powerful than his love. She gave him no opportunity to speak what he felt, having ever ready a quick, bright change of mood and manner when she saw him plucking up courage to address her in a sentimental way. Their relations had long been somewhat familiar, which was but natural, considering their youth and the circumstances of their daily life, but Alice somehow had kept a certain distance open between them, so that very warm friendship could not suddenly resolve itself into a troublesome passion on René's part. We need not attempt to analyze a young girl's feelings and motives in such a case. What she does and what she thinks are mysteries even to her own

understanding. The influence most potent in shaping the rudimentary character of Alice Tarleton, called Rousillon, had been only such as a lonely frontier post could generate. Her associations with men and women had, with few exceptions, been unprofitable in an educational way, while her reading in Monsieur Roussillon's little library could not have given her any practical knowledge of manners and life. She was fond of René de Ronville, and it would have been quite in accordance with the law of ordinary human forces, indeed almost the inevitable thing, for her to love and marry him in the fullness of time. But her imagination was outgrowing her surroundings. Books had given her a world of romance wherein she moved

at will, meeting a class of people far different from those who actually shared her experiences. Her daydreams and her night dreams partook much more of what she had read and imagined than that of what she had seen and heard in the raw little world around her. Her affection for René was interfered with by her large admiration for the heroic, masterful and magnetic knights who charged through the romances of the Roussion collection. For although René was unquestionably brave and more than passably handsome, he had no armor, no warhorse, no shining lance an embossed shield, the difference indeed was great. Those who loved to contend against the fatal drift of our age toward over-education could find

an Alice Tarleton, foster daughter of Gaspar Rousillon, a primitive example, an elementary case in point. What could her book education do but set up stumbling blocks in the path of happiness? She was learning to prefer the ideal to the real. Her soul was developing itself as best it could, for the enjoyment of conditions and things absolutely foreign to the possibilities of her lot in life. Perhaps it was the light and heat of imagination shining out through Alice's face, which gave her beauty such a fascinating power. René saw it and felt its electrical strokes and a sweet shiver through his heart while he stood before her. You are very beautiful to-night Alice, he presently said,

with a suddenness which took even her alertness by surprise. A flush rose to his dark face and, immediately gave way to a grayish pallor. His heart came near stopping on the instant he was so shocked by his own daring, but he laid a hand on her hair, stroking it softly. Just a moment she was at a loss, looking a trifle embarrassed, then, with a merry laugh, she stepped aside and said, "'That sounds better, Monsieur Ronnie Doronville, much better.

You will be as polite as Father Beret after a little more training.' She slipped past him while speaking and made her way back again to the main room whence she called to him. Come here. I've something to show you. He obeyed, a sheepish trace on his countenance betraying his self-consciousness. When he came near Alice, she was taking from its buckhorn hook on the wall a rapier, one of a beautiful pair

hanging side by side. Papa Rousillon gave me these, she said with great animation. He bought them of an Indian who had kept them a long time. Where he came across them he would not tell. But look, how good. beautiful. Did you ever see anything so fine? Guard and Hilt were of silver. The blade, although somewhat corroded, still showed the fine, wavy lines of Damascus steel and traces of delicate engraving, while in the end of the Hilt was set a large oval turquoise.

A very queer present to give a girl, said René. What can you do with them? A captivating flash of playfulness came into her face and she sprang backward, giving the sword a semicircuit. turn with her wrist. The blade sent forth a keen hiss as it cut the air close, very close to René's nose. He jerked his head and flung up his hand. She laughed merrily, standing beautifully poised before him, the rapier's point slightly elevated. Her short skirt left her feet and ankles free to show their graceful proportions, and the perfect pose in which they held her supple body. You see what I can do with the collie schmard, eh, Monsieur René deronville? She excurs. She excurs. claimed giving him a smile which fairly blinded him.

Notice how very near to your neck I can thrust and yet not touch it. Now. She darted the keen point under his chin and drew it away so quickly that the stroke was like a glint of sunlight. What do you think of that as a nice and accurate piece of skill? She again resumed her pose, the right foot advanced, the left arm well back, her licem finally developed body leaning slightly forward. René's hands were up before his face in a defensive position palms outward. Just then a chorus of men's voices sounded in the distance. The River House was beginning its carousal with a song.

Alice let fall her swords point and listened. Renée looked about for his cap. I must be going, he said. Another and a louder swish of the rapier made him pirouette and dodge again with great energy. Don't! he cried. That's dangerous. You'll put out my eyes.

I never saw such a girl. She laughed at him and kept on whipping the air dangerously near his eyes until she had driven him backward as far as he could squeeze himself into a corner of the room. Madame Rousillon came to the door from the kitchen and stood looking in and laughing with her hands on her hips. By this time, the rapier was making a criss-cross pattern of flashing lines close to the young man's head,

while Alice, in the enjoyment of her. of her exercise seemed to concentrate all the glowing rays of her beauty in her face, her eyes dancing merrily. "'Quit now, Alice,' he begged half in fun and half an abject fear. "'Please quit. I surrender.' She thrust to the wall on either side of him, then, springing lightly backward apace, stood at guard.

Her thick yellow hair had fallen over her neck and shoulders in a loose, wavy mass, out of which her face beamed with a bewitching effect upon her count. captive. René, glad enough to have a cessation of his peril, stood laughing dryly, but the singing down at the Riverhouse was swelling louder and he made another movement to go. You surrendered, you remember, cried Alice, renewing the swordplay. Sit down on the chair there and make yourself comfortable. You are not going down yonder tonight. You are going to stay here and talk with me and Mother Rousillon. We are lonesome and you are good company.

A shot rang out keen and clear. There was a sudden tumult that broke up the distant singing, and presently more firing at varying intervals cut the night air from the direction of the river. Jean, the hunchback, came in to say that there was a row of some sort. He had seen men running across the common as if in pursuit of a fugitive, but the moonlight was so dim that he could not be sure what it all meant. René picked up his cap and bolted out of the house.

End of chapter. Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson. This LeBrovoc's recording is in the public domain. 3. The Rape of the Demijon. The row down at the riverhouse was more noise than fight so far as results seemed to indicate. It was all about a small, damjean of fine brandy, which an Indian, by the name of long hair, had seized and run off with at the height of the carousal. He must have been soberer than his pursuers or naturally fleeter. for not one of them could catch him or even keep long inside of him. Some pistols were emptied while the race was on, and two or three of the men swore roundly to having seen long hair jump sidewise and stagger,

as if one of the shots had taken effect. But although the moon was shining, he someway disappeared, they could not understand just how, far down beside the river below the fort and the church. It was not a very uncommon thing for an Indian to steal what he wanted, and in most cases light punishment followed conviction. but it was felt to be a capital offense for an Indian or anybody else to rape a Demjohn a fine brandy, especially one sent as a present by a friend in New Orleans to Lieutenant Governor Abbott,

who had until recently been the commandant of the post. Every man at the Riverhouse recognized and resented the enormity of Longhair's crime and each was, for the moment, ready to be his judge and his executioner. He had broken at once every rule of frontier etiquette and every bond of sympathy. nor was long hair ignorant of the danger involved in his daring enterprise he had beforehand carefully and stolidly weighed all the conditions and true to his indian nature had concluded that a little wicker-covered bottle of brandy was well worth the risk of his life so he had put himself in condition for a great race by slipping out and getting rid of his weapons and all surplus weight of clothes this incident brought the drinking bout at the river house to a sudden end but nothing further came of it that night and no record of it would be found in these pages but for the fact that long hair afterwards became an important character in the stirring historical drama which had old vincent for its centre of energy herni de ronville probably felt himself in bad luck when he arrived at the rift Riverhouse just too late to share in the liquor or to join in chasing the bold thief.

He listened with interest, however, to the story of Long Hare's capture of the Commandant's Demijon, and could not refrain from saying that if he had been present there would have been a quite different result. I would have shot him before he got to that door, he said, drawing his heavy flint-locked pistol and going through the motions of one aiming quickly and firing. Indeed, so vigorously in earnest was he with the pantomime that he actually did fire an intentionally, of course, the ball burying itself in the door-jam. He was laughed at by those present for being more excited than they who witnessed the whole thing.

One of them, a leathery-faced and grizzled old sinner leered at him contemptuously and said in queer French, with a curious accent caught from long use of backwards English. Listen how the boy brags! Ye might think, to hear honey talk, that he actually amounted to a big pile. This personage was known to. every soul in Vesen as Uncle Jazon, and when Uncle Jazon spoke, the whole town felt bound to listen. And how well he shoots, too, he added with an intolerable wink. Aimed at the door and hit the post.

Certainly Long Hair would have been in great danger. Oh, yes, he'd have killed Long Hair at the first shot, wouldn't he, though? Uncle Jazon had the air of a large man, but the stature of a small. one. In fact, he was shrivelled bodily to a degree which suggested comparison with a sun-dried wisp of hickory bark, and when he chuckled as he was now doing, his mouth puckered itself until it looked like a scar on his face. From cap to moccasins he had every mark significant of a desperate character, and yet there was about him something that instantly commanded the confidence of rough men, the look of self-sufficiency and superior capability

always to be found in connection with immense willpower. His sixty years of exposure, hardship, and danger seemed to have but toughened his physique and strengthened his vitality. Out of his small hazel eyes gleamed a light as keen as ice. All right, Uncle Jason, said René, laughing and blowing the smoke out of his pistol. "'Twas you all the same who let long hair trot off with the governor's brandy, not I? If you could have hit even a door post, it might have been better.' Uncle Jason took off his cap and looked down into it, in a way he had when about to say something final.

Ventrebleu. I did not shoot at long hair at all, he said speaking slowly. Because the scoundrel was unarmed. He didn't have on even a knife, and he was having enough to do dodging the bullets that the rest of him were plumpin at him without any compliments

from me to bother him more. Well, René replied, turning away with a laugh, if I had been scalped by the Indian Indian says you have, I don't think there would be any particular reason why I should wait for an Indian thief to go and arm himself before I accepted him as a target. Uncle Jason lifted a hand involuntarily and rubbed his scalpless crown. Then he chuckled with a grotesque grimace as if the recollection of having his head-skinned were the funniest thing imaginable. When you've killed as many of them as Uncle Jason has, remarked a bystander to René, you'll not be so hungry for blood, maybe. especially after yeve took fifty-nine scalps to pay for your one added uncle jason replacing his cap over the hairless area of his ground the men who had been chasing long hair presently came straggling back with their stories each had a distinct one of how the fugitive escaped they were wild-looking fellows most of them somewhat intoxicated all profusely liberal with their stock of picturesque profanity they represented the roughest element of the well-yed and the

nigh lawless post. I'm positive that he's wounded, said one. Jacques and I shot at him together, so that our pistoles sounded just as if only one had been fired. Bang, that way, and he leaped sideways for all the world like a bird with a broken leg. I thought he'd fall, but they? He ran faster and ever and all at once he was gone. Just disappeared. Well, tomorrow we'll get him, said another. "'You and I and Jack, we'll take up his trail the thief

"'and follow him till we find him. "'He can't get off so easy.' "'I don't know so well about that,' said another. "'It's Long Hair, you must remember. "'And Long Hair is no common buck "'that just anybody can find asleep. "'You know what Long Hair is. "'Nobody's ever got even with him yet.

"'That's so, ain't it. "'Just ask Uncle Chazone if you don't believe it.' The next morning long hair was tracked to the river's edge. He had been wounded, but whether seriously or not could only be conjectured. A sprinkle of blood here and there, quite a dash of it, reddened the grass and clumps of weeds he had run through, and ended close to the water into which it looked as if he had plunged with a view to baffling pursuit. Indeed, pursuit was baffled. No further trace could be found by which to follow the cunning fugitive.

Some of the men consoled themselves by saying, without believing, that long hair was probably lying drowned at the bottom of the river. "'Pa du too,' observed Uncle Jazon, his short pipe askew far over in the corner of his mouth. "'Not a bit of it is that Indian drowned. He's just as live as a fat cat this minute, and as drunk as the devil. He'll get some of your scalps yet

after he's guzzled all that brandy and slept a week.' It finally transpired that Uncle Jazon was partly right and partly wrong. Long hair was alive, even as a fat cat, perhaps, but not drunk, for in trying to swim with the rotun little Damjan under his arm, he lost hold of it and it went to the bottom of the Wabash, where it may be lying at this moment, patiently waiting for someone to fish it out of its bed deep in the sand and mud, and break the ancient wax from its neck. René de Rondville, after the chase of Long Hair had been given over, went to tell Father Beret what had happened, and, finding the priest's hut empty, turned into the path leading to the Rousillon Place,

which was at the head of a narrow street laid out in a direction at right angles to the river's course. He passed two or three diminutive cabins, all as much alike as beehives. Each had its squat veranda and thatched or clapboarded roof held in place by weight poles, ranged in roughly parallel rows, and each had the face of the wall under its veranda neatly daubed with a grayish stucco made of mud and lime. You may see such houses today in some remote parts of the Creole country of Louisiana. As René passed along, he spoke with a gay French freedom to the dames and lasses who chanced to be visible. His air would be regarded as violently brigandish in our day.

We might even go so far as to think his whole appearance comical. His jaunty cap, with the tail that wagged as he walked, his short trousers and leggings of buckskin, and his loose shirt-like tunic drawn in at the waist with a brink. rod belt gave his strong figure just the dash of wildness suited to the armament with which it was weighted. A heavy gun lay in the hollow of his shoulder under which hung an otter-skin bullet pouch with its clear powder horn and white-bone charger. In his belt were two huge flint-locked pistols and a long case-knife.

"'Bonjour, mademoiselle Adrienne!' he cheerily called, waving his free hand in greeting to a small, dark lass, standing on the step of a veranda and indolently swinging a broom. "'How are you, "'How are you, "'I'm part very, "'Mersie, Mr. René,' "'was the quick response. "'And you?'

"'Oh, I am as lively as a cricket. "'Going a hunting?' "'No, just up here "'a little way. Just on business. "'Up to Monsieur Rousie-once for a moment.' "'Yes,' the girl responded "'in a tone indicative "'of something very like spleen.

"'Yes, undoubtedly, Monsieur de Ronville. "'Your business there seems quite pressing of late. I have noticed your industrious application to that business. Tata, little one, he wheedled, lowering his voice. You mustn't go to making bug bears out of nothing. Bug bears, she retorted. You go on about your business and I'll attend to mine, and she flirted into the house. René laughed under his breath, standing a moment as if expecting her to come out again, but she did not, and he resumed his walk, singing softly. but le jew vermais vermay my belle my belle petite but ten to one he was not thinking of mademoiselle adrian borsier his mind however must have been absorbingly occupied for in the straight open way he met father beret and did not see him until he came nearly bumping against the old man who stepped aside with astonishing agility and said

"'Dieu you benest, my fiss. "'But what is your great hurry? "'Where can you be going in such happy haste?' "'Renay did not stop to parley with the priest. "'He flung some phrase of pleasant greeting back "'over his shoulder as he trudged on, "'his heart beginning a tattoo against his ribs "'when the Lucien place came in sight,

"'and he took hold of his moustache to pull it "'as some men must do in moments of nervousness and bashfulness. "'If sounds ever have colour, the humming in his ears was of a rosy hue. If thoughts ever exhaled fragrance, his brain overflowed with the sweets of violet and heliotrope. He had in mind what he was going to say when Alice and he should be alone together.

It was a pretty speech, he thought. Indeed, a very thrilling little speech, by the way it stirred his own nerve centres as he conned it over. Madame Rousillon met him at the door and not a very good humor. He's met Moselle Alice here, he ventured to demand.

alice no she's not here she's never here just when i want her most vla le pig-boy la grieve see the woodpecker and the robin eating the cherries eating every one of them and that girl running off somewhere instead of staying here and picking them she railed in answer to the young man's polite inquiry i haven't seen her these four hours neither her nor that rascally hunchback jean they are up to some mischief of be bound. Madame Rousillon puffed audibly between phrases, but she suddenly became very mild when relieved of her tirade. "'Mais'Ein' she added in a pleasant tone. "'Come in and tell me the news.' Renée's disappointment rushed into his face,

but he managed to laugh it aside. "'Father Beret has just been telling me,' said Madame Rousillon, "'that our friend at Long Hair made some trouble last night. How about it?' rennie told her what he knew and added that long hair would probably never be seen again he was shot no doubt of it he went on and he's now being nibbled by fish and turtles we tracked him by his blood to where he jumped into the wabash he never came out strangely enough it happened that at the very time of this chat between madame rousillon and ren alice was bandaging long hair's wounded leg with strips of her apron it was under some willows which over her hung the bank of a narrow and shallow lagoon or slough, which in those days extended a mile or two back into the country on the farther side of the river. Alice and John went over in a pierrog

to see if the water-lilies haunting a pond there were yet beginning to bloom. They landed at a convenient spot some distance up the little lagoon, made the boat fast by dragging its prow high ashore, and were on the point of setting out across a neck of wet grassy land to the pond when a deep Grunt, not unlike that of a self-satisfied pig, attracted them to the willows, where they discovered long hair, badly wounded, weltering in some black mud. His hiding-place was cunningly chosen, save that the Meyer troubled him, letting him down by slow degrees and threatening to engulf him bodily, and he was now too weak to extricate himself.

He lifted his head and glared. His face was grimy, his hair matted with mud. Alice, although brave enough and quite accustomed to startling experiences, uttered a cry when she saw those snaky eyes glistening so savagely amid the shadows. But Jean was quick to recognize Long Hair. He had often seen him about town a figure not to be forgotten. They've been hunting him everywhere, he said in a half whisper to Alice clutching the skirt of her dress. It's Long Hair, the Indian who stole the brandy. I know him. Alice recoiled a pace or two. Let's go back and tell him, Jean added still whispering.

They want to kill him. Uncle Jason said so. Come on. He gave her dress a jerk, but she did not move any farther back. She was looking at the blood oozing from a wound in the Indian's leg. He is shot. He is hurt, Jean. We must help him, she presently said, recovering herself control, yet still pale. We must get him out of that. bad place. Jean caught Alice's merciful spirit with sympathetic readiness and showed immediate willingness to aid her. It was a difficult thing to do, but there was a will and of course a way.

They had knives with which they cut willows to make a standing place on the mud. While they were doing this they spoke friendly words to Long Hair, who understood French a little, and at last they got hold of his arms, tugged, rested, tugged again, and finally managed to help him to a dry place. still under the willows where he could lie more at ease. Jean carried water in his cap with which they washed the wound and the stolid savage face. Then Alice tore up her cotton apron in which she had hoped to bear home a load of lilies, and with the strips bound the wound very neatly.

It took a long time during which the Indian remained silent and apparently quite indifferent. Long hair was a man of superior physique, tall, straight, with the muscles of a vulcan, and while he lay stretched on the ground half-clad and motionless, he would have been a grand model for an heroic figure in bronze. Yet from every lineament there came a strange repelling influence like that from a snake. Alice felt almost unbearable disgust while doing her merciful task, but she bravely persevered until it was finished. It was now late in the afternoon and the sun would be setting before they could reach home.

We must hurry back, Jean, Alice said turning to depart. "'It will be all we can do to reach the other side in daylight. I'm thinking that they'll be out hunting for us, too, if we don't move right lively. Come!' She gave the Indian another glance when she had taken but a step. He grunted and held up something in his hand, something that shone with a dull yellow light. It was a small, oval, gold locket which she had always worn in her bosom. She sprang and snatched it from his palm.

"'Thank you,' she exclaimed, smiling, gratefully. I'm so glad you found it. The chain by which the locket had hung was broken, doubtless by some movement while dragging long hair out of the mud, and the lid had sprung open exposing a miniature portrait of Alice, painted when she was a little child, probably not two years old. It was a sweet baby face, archly bright, almost surrounded with a fluff of golden hair. The neck and the upper line of the plump shoulders with a trace of richly delicate lace and a string of furles, gave somehow a suggestion of patrician daintiness. Longhair looked keenly into Alice's eyes when she stooped to take the locket from his hand,

but said nothing. She and Jean now hurried away, and so vigorously did they paddle the pierogue that the sky was yet red in the west when they reached home and duly received their expected scolding from Madame Rousillon. Alice sealed Jean's lips as to their adventure, for she had made up her mind to save Longhair, if possible, and she felt sure that the only only one of the only way to do it would be to trust no one but Father Beret. It turned out that Long Hair's wound was neither a broken bone nor a cut artery. The flesh of his leg midway between the hip and the knee was pierced. The bullet had bored a neat hole clean through. Father Beret took the case in hand and with no little surgical skill proceeded to set the big Indian

upon his feet again. The affair had to be cleverly managed. Food, medicines, and clothing were surreptitiously borne across the river. A bed of grass was kept fresh under long hair's back, his wound was regularly dressed, and finally his weapons. A tomahawk, a knife, a strong bow and a quiver of arrows, which he had hidden on

the night of his bold theft, were brought to him. "'Now go and sin no more,' said good father Beret. But he well knew that his words were mere puffs of articulate wind in the ear of the grim and silent savage, who limped away with an air of stately dignity into the wilderness. A load fell from Alice's mind when Father Beret informed her of Longhair's recovery

and departure. Day and night the dreadless some of the men should find out his hiding place and kill him had depressed and worried her. And now, when it was all over, there still hovered like an elusive shadow in her consciousness, a vague, haunting impression of the incident's immense significance as an influence in her life. To feel that she had saved a man from death was a new sensation of itself. But the man and the circumstances were picturesque, they invited imagination. They furnished an atmosphere of romance dear to all young and healthy natures, and somehow stirred her soul with a strange appeal. Longhair's imperturbable calmness, his tallied immobile countenance, the mysterious reptilian gleam of his shifty black eyes,

and the soulless expression always lurking in them kept a fascinating hold on the girl's memory. They blended curiously with the impressions left by the romances she had read in Monsieur Rousillon's mildewed books. Longhair was not a young man, but it would have been impossible to guess near his age. His form and face simply showed long experience and immeasurable vigor. Alice remembered with a shuddering sensation the look he gave her when she took the locket from his hand. It was of but a second's duration, yet it seemed to search every nook of her being with its subtle power. Romancers have made much of their Indian heroes, picturing them as models of manly beauty and nobility,

but all fiction must be taken with liberal pinches of salt. The plain truth is that dark savages of the pure blood often do possess the magnetism of perfect physical development and unfathomable mental strangeness, but real beauty they never have. Their innate repulsiveness is so great that, like the snake's charm, it may fascinate. Yet an indescribable haunting disgust goes with it. And after all, if Alice had been asked to tell just how she felt toward the Indian she had labored so hard to save, she would promptly have said, I loathe him as I do a toad. Nor would Father Beret put to the same test have made a substantially different confession. His work, to do which his life went as fuel to fire, was training the

souls of Indians for the reception of divine grace, but experience had not changed his first impression of savage character. When he was a man, he was a man. He was a man. He was a man. When he was, he He traveled in the wilderness he carried the word and the cross, but he was also armed with a gun and two good pistols, not to mention a dangerous knife. The rumor prevailed that Father Beret could drive a nail at 60 yards with his rifle, and at 20 snuff a candle with either one of his pistols. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. 4. The First Mayor of Vincennes

Governor Abbott probably never so much as heard of the Dam Janne of French brandy sent to him by his Creole friend in New Orleans. He had been gone from Vincennes several months when the Batot arrived, having been recalled to Detroit by the British authorities, and he never returned. Meantime, the little post with its quaint cabins and dilapidated blockhouse called Fort Sackville, lay sunning drowsily by the river in a blissful state of helplessness.

from the military point of view. There was no garrison. The two or three pieces of artillery, abandoned and exposed, gathered rust and cobwebs, while the pickets of the stockade, decaying and loosened in the ground by winter freezes and summer rains leaned in all directions,

a picture of decay and inefficiency. The inhabitants of the town, numbering about 600, lived very much as pleased them, without any regular municipal government, each family its own tribe, each man allah, unto himself.

yet for mutual protection they all kept in touch and had certain common rights which were religiously respected and defended faithfully a large pasturing ground was fenced in where the goats and little black cows of the villagers browsed as one herd while the patches of wheat corn and vegetables were not enclosed at all a few of the thriftier and more important citizens however had separate estates of some magnitude surrounding their residences kept up with care and if the time and place be taken into account with considerable show of taste Mr. Gaspar Rousillon was looked upon as the aristocrat par excellence of Vincent, notwithstanding the fact that his name bore no suggestion of noble or titled ancestry. He was rich and in a measure educated. Moreover, the successful man's patent of leadership, a commanding figure and a suave manner, came always to his assistance when a crisis presented itself.

He traded shrewdly, much to his own profit, but invariably with the excellent result that the man, white or Indian, with whom he did business felt himself especially favored in the transaction. By the exercise of firmness, prudence, vast assumption, florid eloquence and a kindly liberality he had greatly endeared himself to the people, so that in the absence of a military commander he came naturally to be regarded as the chief of the town, Monsieur Le Maire. He returned from his extended trading expedition about the middle of July, bringing, as was his invariable rule, a gift for This time it was a small, thin disc of white blint, with a hole in the center through which a bearded cord of sinew was looped.

The edge of the disc was beautifully notched and the whole surface polished so that it shone like glass, while the beads made of very small segments of porcupine quills were variously dyed, making a curiously gaudy show of bright colors. There, now, my chrie, is something worth fifty times its weight in gold, said Monsieur Rousillon, when he present. the necklace to his foster daughter with pardonable self-satisfaction. It is a sacred charm-string given me by an old heathen who would tell his soul for a pint of cheap rum. He solemnly informed me that whoever wore it could not by any possibility be killed by an enemy. Alice kissed, Monsieur Rousion. It's so curious and beautiful, she said, holding it up and drawing the variegated string through her fingers.

Then, with her mischievous laugh, she added, "'And I'm glad it is so powerful against one's enemy. I will wear it whenever I go where Adrian Borsier is. See if I don't.' "'Is she your enemy?' "'What's up between you and the petite Adrian, eh?' "'M Monsieur Rousillon lightly demanded. "'You were always the best of good friends, I thought.

"'What happened?' "'Oh, we are good friends,' said Alice quickly. "'Very good friends, indeed. I was but chafing. Good friends, but enemies. That's how it is with women. Who's the young man that's caused the coolness? I could guess, maybe.

He laughed and winked knowingly. May I be so bold as to name him at a venture? Yes, if you'll be sure to mention Monsieur Ronnie Doronville, she gaily answered. Who but he could work Adrian up into a perfect green mist of jealousy? He would need an accomplice, I should imagine. A young lady of some beauty and a good deal of heartlessness. Like whom, for example?

And she tossed her bright head. Not me, I'm sure. Po, like every pretty maiden in the whole world, my petite coquette. They're all alike as peas, cruel as blue jays, and as sweet as apple blossoms. He stroked her hair clumsily with his large hand as a heavy and roughly fond man is apt to do, adding in an almost serious tone. But my little girl is better than most of them. Not a foolish mischief maker, I hope.

Alice was putting her head through the string of the beads and letting the translucent white disc fall into her bosom. It's time to change the subject, she said. Tell me what you have seen while away. I wish I could go far up and see things. Have you been to Detroit? Quebec, Montreal? Yes, I've been to all.

a long, hard journey, but reasonably profitable. You shall have a goodly dot when you get married, my child. And did you attend any parties and balls? She inquired quickly, ignoring his concluding remark. Tell me about them. How do the fine ladies dress? And do they wear their hair high with great big combs? Do they have long skirts and...

Hold up, you double-tonged chatter-box, he interrupted. I can't answer for. forty questions at once. Yes, I danced till my legs ached with women, old and girls young. But how could I remember how they were dressed and what their still of coiffure was? I know that silk rustled and there was a perfume of au de Colling and mignonette, and my heart expanded and blazed while I whirled like a top with a sweet lady in my arms. Yes, you must have caught a ravishing figure,

"'interpolated Madame Rousillon with emphatic disapproval, her eyes snapping. "'A bull in a lace-chop!' "'How delighted the ladies must have been!' "'Never saw such blushing faces and burning glances. "'Such fluttering breasts, such—' "'Big braggart!' Madame Rousillon broke in contemptuously. "'It's a piastre to a sou that you stood gopping in through a window

"'while gentlemen and ladies did the dancing.' "'I can imagine how you looked. I can.' And with this she took her prodigious bulk at a waddling gate out of the room. "'I remember how you danced, even when you were not clumsy as a pig on ice,' she shrieked back over her shoulder. "'Parebleu. True enough, my dear,' he called after her. "'I should think you could. You mind how we used to trip it together.

You were the prettiest dancer of them all, and the young fellows all went to the swords about you. But tell me more, Alice insisted. I want to know all about what you saw in the great towns, in the fine houses. How the ladies looked, how they acted, what they said, the dresses they wore, how... Siel, you will split my ears, child.

Can't you fill my pipe and bring it to me with a coal on it? Then I'll try to tell you what I can, he cried, assuming a humorously resigned ear. Perhaps if I smoke, I can remember everything. Alice gladly ran to do what he asked. Meantime, Jean was out on the gallery blowing a flute that Monsieur Rousillon had brought him from Quebec. The pipe well filled and lighted apparently did have the effect to steady and encourage Monsieur Rousillon's memory, or, if not his memory, then his imagination, which was of that fervid and liberal sort common to natives of the midi, and which has been exquisitely depicted

by the late Alphonse Daudet in Tartarine and Bonaparte. He leaned far back in a strong chair with his mass of legs stretched at full length and gazed at the roof poles while he talked. He sympathized fully in his crude way with Alice's lively curiosity, and his affection for her made him anxious to appease her longing after news from the great outside world. If the sheer truth must come out, however, he knew, precious little about that world, especially the polite part of it in which thrived those femininity so dear to the heart of an isolated and imaginative girl. Still, as he too lived in Arcadia, there was no great effort involved when he undertook

to blow a dreamer's flute. In the first place, he had not been in Quebec or Montreal during his absence from home. Most of the time had been spent disposing of pelts and furs at Detroit and in extending his trading relations with other posts. But what mattered a trifle want of facts when his meridional fancy once began to warm up. A smattering of social knowledge gained at first hand in his youthful days in France while he was a student whose parents fondly expected him to conquer the world came to his aid, and besides he had saturated himself all his life with poetry and romance. Scudery, Scaron, Prevaux, Madame Lafayette, and Calpraned were the chief sources of

his information touching the life and manners, morals and gaieties of people who, as he supposed, stirred the surface of that resplendent and far-off ocean called society. Nothing suited him better than to smoke a pipe and talk about what he had seen and done, and the less he had really seen and done, the more he had to tell. His broad, almost over-burl, kindly and contented face, beamed with the warmth of wholly imaginary recollections, while he recounted with minute circumstantiality to the delighted Alice his gallant adventures in the crowded and brilliant ballrooms of the French-Canadian towns. The rolling burr of his bass voice, deep and resonant, gave force to the improvised descriptions.

Madame Rousillon heard the heavy booming and presently came softly back into the door from the kitchen to listen. She leaned against the facing in an attitude of ponderous attention, a hand on her bulging hip. She could not suppress her unbounded admiration of her liege lord's manly physique, and jealous to fierceness as she was of his experiences so eloquently and picturesquely related, her woman's nature took fire with enjoyment of the scenes described. This is the mission of the poet and the romancer. To sponge out of existence for a time, the stiff, refractory and unlovely realities and given their place a scene of ideal mobility and charm.

The two women reveled in Gasparreusillon's revelations. They saw the brilliant companies, the luxurious surroundings, heard the rustle of brocade and the fine flutter of laces, the hum of sweet voices, breathed in the wafts of costly perfumeries, looked on while the dancers whirled and flickered in the confusion of lights, and over all and through all poured and vibrated such ravishing music as only the southern imagination could have conjured up out of nothing.

Alice was absolutely charmed. She sat on a low wooden stool and gazed into Gaspar Rousillon's face with dilating eyes in which burned that rich and radiant something we call a passionate soul. she drank in his flamboyant stream of words with a thirst which nothing but experience could ever quench he felt her silent applause and the admiring involuntary absorption that possessed his wife the consciousness of his elementary magnetism augmented the flow of his fine descriptions and he went on and on until the arrival of father beret put an end to it all the priest hearing of m rousillon's return had come to inquire about some friends living at detroit he took luncheon with the family enjoying the downright refreshing collation of broiled birds onions meal cakes and claret ending with a dish of blackberries and cream m rousillon seized the first opportunity to resume his successful romancing and presently in the midst of the meal began to tell father beret about what he had seen in quebec by the way he said with expansive casualness in his voice i called upon your old time friend and coadjative father sebastier while up there and no

old man. He sent you a thousand good messages. Was mightily delighted when I told him how happy and hail you have always been here. And you should have seen his dear old eyes full of loving tears. He would walk a hundred miles to see you, he said, but never expected to in this world. Blessings, blessings upon dear Father Beret was what he murmured in my ear when we were parting. He says that he will never leave. Quebec until he goes to his home above. Ah!

The way in which Monsieur Rousillon closed his little speech, his large eyes upturned, his huge hands clasped in front of him, was very effective. I am under many obligations, my son, said Father Beret. For what you tell me? It was good of you to remember my dear old friend and to go to him for his loving messages to me. I am very, very thankful. "'Help me to another drop of wine, please.'

"'Now the extraordinary feature of the situation was that Father Beret had known positively for nearly five years that Father Sebastian was dead and buried.' "'Ah, yes,' Monsieur Rousillon continued, pouring the claret with one hand and making a pious gesture with the other. "'The dear old man loves you and prays for you. His voice quaveres whenever he speaks of you.' doubtless he made his old joke to you about the birth mark on my shoulder said father beret after a moment of apparently thoughtful silence he may have said something about it in a playful way eh true true why yes he surely mentioned the same assented m rousillon his face assuming an expression of confused memory it was something sly and humorous i mind but he just escapes my recollection a right jolly old boy is father sebastian indeed very amusing at times at times yes said father beret who had no birth-mark on his shoulder and had never had one there or on any other part of his person

how strange alice remarked i too have a mark on my shoulder a pink spot just like a small five-petalled flower we must be of kin to each other father beret The priest laughed. If our marks are alike, that would be some evidence of kinship, he said. But what shape is yours, father? I've never seen it, he responded. Never seen it? Why? Well, it's absolutely invisible. And he chuckled heartily, meantime, glancing shrewdly at Monsieur Rousillon out of the tail of his eye.

He turned the back part of his shoulder. quickly spoke up, Monsieur Rousillon. And you know priests never use looking-glasses. The mark is quite invisible, therefore, so far as Father Beret is concerned. You never told me of your birth mark before, my daughter, said Father Beret, turning to Alice with sudden interest. It may someday be good fortune to you. Why so, father? If your family name is really tolerant, as you suppose, from the insubes.

description on your locket, the birth mark, being of such singular shape, would probably identify you. It is said that these marks run regularly in families. With the miniature and the distinguishing birth mark, you have enough to make a strong case should you once find the right to-arleton family. You talk as they write in novels, said Alice. I've read about such things in them. Wouldn't it be grand if I should turn out to be some great personage in disguise. The mention of novels reminded Father Beret of that terrible book, Manolesco,

which he last saw in Alice's possession, and he could not refrain from mentioning it in a voice that shuddered. "'Rest easy, Father Beret,' said Alice. "'That is one novel I have found wholly distasteful to me. I tried to read it, but could not do it. I flung it aside in utter disgust. You and Mother Rousillon are welcome to hide it deep as a well,

for all I care. I don't enjoy reading about low, vile people and hopeless unfortunates. I like sweet and lovely heroines and strong, high-souled, brave heroes. Read about the blessed saints, then, my daughter. You will find in them the true heroes and heroines of this world,

said Father Beret. Monsieur Rousillon changed the subject, for he always somehow dreaded to have the good priest fall into the strain of argument he was about to begin. A stray sheep, no matter how refractory, feels a touch of longing when it hears the shepherd's voice. Monsieur Rousillon was a Catholic, but a straying one who avoided the confessional and often forgot Mass. Still, with all his reckless independence and with all his outward show of large and breezy self-sufficiency,

he was not altogether free from the whole that the church had laid upon him in childhood and youth. Moreover, he was fond of Father Beret and had done a great deal for the Little Church of St. Exhibition. Xavier and the mission it represented, but he distinctly desired to be let alone while he pursued his own course, and he had promised the dying woman who gave Alice to him that the child should be left as she was, a Protestant, without undue influence to change her from the faith of her parents. This promise he had kept with stubborn persistence and he meant to keep it as long as he lived. Perhaps the very fact that his innermost conscience smote him with vague yet telling blows at times for this departure from the strict religion of his fathers, may be able to,

have intensified his resistance of the influence constantly exerted upon Alice by Father Beret and Madame Rousillon to bring her gently but surely to the church. Perverseness is a force to be reckoned with in all original characters. A few weeks had passed after Monsieur Roussignor's return when that big-hearted man took it into his head to celebrate his successful trading ventures with a moonlight dance given without reserve to all the inhabitants of Vesen. It was certainly a democratic function that he contemplated and motley to a most picturesque extent. René de Rondville called upon Alice a day or two previous to the occasion and duly engaged her as his parterner.

But she insisted upon having the engagement guarded in her behalf by a condition so obviously fanciful that he accepted it without argument. If my wandering night should arrive during the dance, you promise to stand aside and give place to him? she stipulated. You promise that? You see, I'm expecting him all the time. I dreamed last night that he came on a great bay horse, and stooping, whirled me up behind the saddle, and away we went.

There was a childish, half-battering air in her look, but her voice sounded earnest and serious, notwithstanding its delicious timbre of suppressed playfulness. You promise me? She insisted. Oh, I promise to slink away into a corner and chew my thumb the moment he comes. "'Reney eagerly assented. "'Of course I'm taking a great risk, I know.

"'For lords and barons and knights are very apt to appear suddenly in a place like this.' "'You may banter and make light if you want to,' she said, "'pouting admirably. "'I don't care. "'All the same, the laugh will jump to the other corner of your mouth, see if it doesn't. "'They say that what a person dreams about and wishes for and waits for and believes in "'will come true sooner or later. If that's so, said René, you and I will get married, for I've dreamed it every night of the year, wished for it, waited for it, and believed in it, and...

It was a madly sudden rush. He made it on an impulse quite irresistible as hypnotized persons are said to do in response to the suggestion of the hypnotist, and his heart was choking his throat before he could end his speech. Alice interrupted him with a hearty burst of laughter. A very pretty twist you give to my words I must declare, she said, but not new by any means. Little Adrian Borsier could tell you that. She says that you have vowed to her over and over that you dream about her and wish for her, and wait for her, precisely as you have just said to me. René's brown face flushed to the temples, partly with anger, partly with the shock of mingled surprise and fear.

He was guilty, and he was guilty. and the guilt showed in his eyes and paralyzed his tongue, so that he sat there before Alice with his under-jaw sagging ludicrously. Don't you rather think, Monsieur René de Rondville? She presently added in a calmly advisory tone, that you had better quit trying to say such foolish things to me and just be my very good friend. If you don't, I do, which comes to the same thing.

What's more? I won't be your partner at the dance unless you promise me on your word of honor, that you will dance two dances with Adirian to every one that you have with me. Do you promise? He dared not oppose her outwardly, although in his heart, resistance amounted to furious revolt and riot. I promise anything you ask me to,

he said resignedly almost sullenly. Anything for you. Well, I ask nothing whatever on my own account, Alice quickly replied. But I do tell you firmly that you shall not maltreat little Addera. and bourgeoisie and remain a friend of mine she loves you ronnie de ronne de ron and you have told her that you love her if you are a man worthy of respect you will not desert her don't you think i am right like a singed and crippled moth vainly trying to rise once again to the alluring yet deadly flame ren de ronville essayed to break out of his embarrassment and resume equal footing with the girl so suddenly becoming his commanding superior but the effort disclosed to him as well as to her that he had fallen to rise no more.

In his abject defeat he accepted the terms dictated by Alice and was glad when she adroitly changed her manner and tone in going on to discuss the approaching dance. Now let me make one request of you, he demanded after a while. It's a small favor. May I ask it? Yes, but I don't grant it in advance. I want you to wear for my sake, the buff gown which they say was your grandmothers.

No, I won't wear it. But why, Alice? None of the other girls have anything like such a dress. It would not be right for me to put it on and make them all feel that I had taken the advantage of them, just because I could. That's why.

But then none of them is beautiful and educated like you, he said. You'll outshine them anyway. Save your compliments for poor pretty little Adrienne, she firmly responded. I positively do not wish to hear them. them. I have agreed to be your partner at this dance of Paparousillon's, but it is understood between us that Adrian is your sweetheart. I am not, and I am not going to be either.

So for your sake and Adrians, as well as out of consideration for the rest of the girls who have no fine dresses, I am not going to wear the buff brocade gown that belonged to Papa Rousillon's mother long ago. I shall dress just as the rest do. It is safe to say that René de Ronville went home with a troublesome bee in his bonnet. He was not a bad-hearted fellow. Many a right good young man before him and since has loved an Adrianne and been dazzled by an Alice. A violet is sweet, but arose as the garden's queen. The poor youthful frontiersman ought to have been stronger,

but he was not, and what have we to say? As for Alice, since having a confidential talk with Adrian Bres, Vosier recently, she had come to realize what Monsieur Roussillon meant when he said, but my little girl is better than most of them, not a foolish mischief-maker, I hope. She saw through the situation with a quick understanding of what Adrian might suffer should Reney prove permanently fickle. The thought of it aroused all her natural honesty and serious nobleness of character, which lay deep under the almost hoidenish levity usually observable in her manner. Crude as her sense of life's larger significance.

was, and meagoras had been her experience in the things which count for most in the sum of a young girl's existence under fair circumstances, she grasped intuitively the gist of it all. The dance did not come off. It had to be postponed indefinitely on account of a grave change in the political relations of the Little Post. A day or two before the time set for that function, a rumor ran through the town that something of importance was about to happen. Father Gibo at the head of a small party had arrived from Cascascia far away on the Mississippi, with the news that France and the American colonies had made common cause against the English, in the Great War of which the people of Vincent neither knew the cause nor cared a straw about the outcome.

It was Uncle Jazon who came to the Roussillon place to tell Monsieur Roussion that he was wanted at the riverhouse. Alice met him at the door. "'Come in, Uncle Jazon,' she cheerily said. you are getting to be a stranger at our house lately. Come in? What news do you bring? Take off your cap and rest your hair, Uncle Jason. The scalpless old fighter chuckled raucously and bowed to the best of his ability.

He not only took off his queer cap, but looked into it with a startled gaze as if he expected something infinitely dangerous to jump out and seize his nose. A thousand thanks, ma'sale, he presently said. Will ye please, tell M. Roussion that I would wish to see him? Yes, Uncle

Jazon, but first, be seated and let me offer you just a drop of Ode-Vie, some that Papa Rousillon brought back with him from Quebec. He says it's old and fine. She poured him a full glass, then setting the bottle on a little stand, went to find Monsieur Roussion. While she was absent, Uncle Jazon improved his opportunity to the fullest

extent. At least three additional glasses of the brandy went the way of the first. He grinned atrociously and smacked his corrugated lips. But when Gaspar Rousillon came in, the old man was sitting at some distance from the bottle and glass gazing indifferently out across the veranda. He told his story curtly. Father Gibaut, he said, had sent him to ask Monsieur Roussion to come to the riverhouse as he had news of great importance to communicate. Ah, well, Uncle Chazone, we'll have a heap of brandy together before we go, said the host. Why, yes, just one again, the broiling weather, assented Uncle

Jazon. I don't mind, just one. A very rich friend of mine in Quebec gave me this brandy, Uncle Jazon, said Monsieur Roussin, pouring the liquor with a grand flourish, and I thought of you as soon as I got it. Now, says I to myself, if any man knows good brandy when he taste it, it's uncle jason and i'll give him a good chance at this bottle just the first of all my friends it surely is delicious said uncle jason very delicious he spoke french with a curious accent having spent long years with english-speaking frontiersmen in the carolinas and kentucky so that their lingo had become his own as they walked side by side down the way to the river house they looked like typical extremes of rough sunburned and weather-tanned manhood Uncle Jason, a wizened diminutive scrap, wrinkled an odd in every respect.

Gaspar Rousillon, towering six feet two, wide-shouldered, massive, lumbering, muscular, a giant with long curling hair and a superb beard. They did not know that they were going down to help dedicate the Great Northwest to freedom. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of Alice of Old Vesen by Maurice Thompson. This Librevox recording is in the

the public domain. Five. Father Gibaut Great movements in the affairs of men are like ties of the seas which reach and affect the remotest and quietest nooks and inlets, imparting a thrill and a swell of the general motion. Father Gibo brought the wave of the American Revolution to Vincennes. He was a simple missionary, but he was, besides, a man of great worldly knowledge and personal force.

Colonel George Rogers Clark made Father Ghibo. his acquaintance at Cascaquistia, when the fort and its garrison surrendered to his command and quickly discerning the fine qualities of the priest's character, sent him to the post on the Wabash to win over its people to the cause of freedom and independence. Nor was the task assumed a hard one, as Father Gibot probably well knew before he undertook it. A few of the leading men of Vincennes, presided over by Gaspar Roussillon, held a consultation at the River House, and it was agreed that a mass meeting should be called bringing all of the inhabitants together in the church, for the purpose of considering the course to be taken under

the circumstances made known by Father Gibaut. Uncle Jason constituted himself an executive committee of one to stir up a noise for the occasion. It was a great day for Vésin. The volatile temperament of the French frontiersmen bubbled over with enthusiasm at the first hint of something new and revolutionary in which they might be expected to take part. without knowing in the least what it was that Father Gibo and Uncle Jazon wanted of them they were all in favor of it at a venture. René de Ronville, being an active and intelligent young man,

was sent about through the town to let everybody know of the meeting. In passing, he stepped into the cabin of Father Beret, who was sitting on the loose-punction floor, with his back turned toward the entrance and so absorbed in trying to put together a great number of small paper fragments that he did not hear or look up. "'Are you not going to the meeting, father?' René bluntly demanded.

In the hurry that was on him, he did not remember to be formally polite, as was his usual habit. The old priest looked up with a startled face. At the same time he swept the fragments of paper together and clutched them hard in his right hand. "'Yes, yes, my son. Yes, I am going. But the time has not yet come for it, has it?' he stammered. "'Is it late?' He sprang to his feet and appeared confused as if caught in doing something very improper. René wondered at this unusual behavior, but merely said,

"'I beg pardon, Father Beret. I did not mean to disturb you,' and went his way. Father Beret stood for some minutes as if dazed, then squeezed the paper fragments into a tight ball, just as they were when he took them from under the floor some time before René came in and put it in his pocket. A little later he was kneeling, as we have seen him once before in silent yet fervent prayer, his clasped hands lifted toward the crucifix on the wall.

"'Jesu! Give me strength to hold on and do my work!' he murmured beseechingly. "'And, oh, free thy poor servant from bitter temptation!' Father Gibo had come prepared to use his eloquence upon the excitable creoles, and with considerable cunning he addressed a motley audience at the church. telling them that an American force had taken Cascassia and would henceforth hold it, that France had joined hands with the Americans against the British, and that it was the duty of all Frenchmen to help uphold the cause of freedom and independence. I come, said he, directly from Colonel George Rogers Clark,

a noble and brave officer of the American army, who told me the news that I have brought to you. He sent me here to say to you that if you will give allegiance to his government, you shall be protected against all enemies and have the full freedom of citizens. I think you should do this without a moment's hesitation, as I and my people at Cascassia have already done. But perhaps you would like to have a word from your distinguished fellow citizen, Monsieur Gaspar Rousillon. Speak to your friends, my son. They will be glad to take counsel of your wisdom. There was a stir and a craning of necks. Monsieur Rousillon presently appeared near the little.

chancel, his great form towering majestically. He bowed and waved his hand with the air of one who accepts distinction as a matter of course. Then he took his big silver watch and looked at it. He was the only man in Vésain who owned a watch, and so the incident was impressive. Father Gibo looked pleased, and already a murmur of applause went through the audience. Monsieur Rousillon stroked the bulging crystal of the timepiece with a circular motion of his some and bowed again, clearing his throat resonantly, his face growing purplish above his beard. Good friends, he said. What France does all high-class Frenchmen applaud?

He paused for a shout of approbation and was not disappointed. The other name for France is glory, he added. And all true Frenchmen love both names. I am a true Frenchman, and he struck his breast a resounding blow with a hand that still held the watch. A huge horn button on his buckskin jerkin came in contact with the crystal, and there was a smash, followed by a scattered tinkling of glass fragments. All Vincennes stood breathless, contemplating the irreparable accident. Monsieur Rousillon had lost the effect of a great period in his speech, but he was quick. Lifting the watch to his ear, he listened a moment with superb dignity,

then slowly elevating his head and spreading his free hand over his heart, he said. The faithful time peace still tells off the seconds, and the loyal heart of its owner still throbs with patriotism. Uncle Jazon, who stood in front of the speaker, swung his shapeless cap as high as he could and yelled like a savage. Then the crowd went wild for a time. Vive la France! Abbao, Englander!

Everybody shouted at the top of his voice. "'What France does, we all do,' continued Monsieur Rousillon when the noise subsided. "'France has clasped hands with George Washington and his brave compatriots. "'So do we.' "'Vive George Vassington!' shrieked Uncle Jazon in a piercing treble, tiptoeing and shaking his cap recklessly under Monsieur Roussion's nose. The orator winced and jerked his head back, but nobody saw it, save perhaps Father Gibo who laughed heartily.

Great sayings come suddenly, unannounced and unexpected. They have the mysterious force of prophetic accident combined with happy economy of phrasing. The southern blood in Monsieur Roussian's veins was effervescing upon his brain. His tongue had caught the fine freedom and abandon of inspired oratory. He towered and glowed. Words fell melodiously from his lips. His gestures were compelling, his visage magnetic. In conclusion, he said. Frenchmen, America is the garden spot of the world, and will one day rule it as did her home of old.

Where freedom makes her home, there is the center of power. It was in a little log church on the verge of a hummock overlooking a marshy wild meadow. Westward, for two thousand miles, stretched the unbroken prairies, woods, mountains, deserts, reaching to the Pacific. southward for a thousand miles rolled the green billows of the wilderness to the warm Gulf shore. Northward to the pole and eastward to the thin fringe of settlements beyond the mountains, all was houseless solitude. If the reader should go to Vescend today and walk southward along Second Street to its intersection with Church Street, the spot then underfoot would be probably very near where Monsieur Rousillon stood while uttering his great sentence.

Mind you, the present writer does not pretend to know the exact. sight of old St. Xavier Church. If it could be fixed beyond doubt, the spot should have an imperishable monument of Indiana Stone. When Monsieur Rousillon ceased speaking, the audience again exhausted its vocal resources. And then Father Gibo called upon

each man to come forward and solemnly pledge his loyalty to the American cause. Not one of them hesitated. Meantime, a woman was doing her part in the transformation of post-Vincennes from a French-English picket to a full fledged American fort and town. Madame Goddair,

finding out what was about to happen, fell to work making a flag in imitation of that under which George Washington was fighting. Alice chanced to be in the Goddair home at the time and joined enthusiastically in the sewing. It was an exciting task. Their fingers trembled while they worked

and the thread heavily coated with beeswax squeaked as they drew it through the cloth. We shall not be in time, said Madame Goder. I know we will. We shall not. Everything hinders me. My thread breaks or gets tangled, and my needles so rusty I can hardly stick it through the cloth. Oh, dear. Alice encouraged her with both words and work, and they had almost finished when René came with a staff which he had brought from the fort. Mon Dieu, but we have had a great meeting, he cried. He was perspiring with excitement and fast walking, leaning on the staff he mopped his face with a blue handkerchief. We heard, much shouting and noise, said

Madame Goddard. Monsieur Rousillon's voice rose loud above the rest. He roared like a lion. Ah, he was speaking to us. He was very eloquent, René replied. But now they are waiting

at the fort for the new flag. I have come for it. It is ready, said Madame Goder. With flying fingers, Alice sold it to the staff. Voisy! she cried. "'Vive la Republic American!' She lifted the staff

and let the flag droop over her from head to foot. "'Give it to me,' said René, holding forth a hand for it, "'and I'll run to the fort with it.' "'No,' said Alice, her face suddenly lighting up with resolve. "'No, I am going to take it myself,' and without a moment's delay off she went. Renée was so caught by surprise

that he stood gazing after her until she passed behind a house with a way turned, the shining flag rippling around her and her moccasins twinkling as she ran. At the blockhouse awaiting the moment when the symbol of freedom should rise like a star over old Vincennes, the crowd had picturesquely broken into scattered groups. Alice entered through a rent in the stockade, as that happened to be a shorter route than through the gate and appeared suddenly almost in their midst. It was a happy surprise, a pretty and catching spectacular her apparition of a sort to be thoroughly appreciated by the lively French fancy of the audience. The men caught the girl's spirit, or it caught them, and they made haste to be noisy.

"'Vla, blah, la petite alice is the banier de George Vassington.' "'Look, look, little Alice and George Washington's flag!' shouted Uncle Jason. He put his wiry little legs through a sort of Pard de Zaffir and winked at himself with concentrated approval. All the men danced around and yelled to they were hoarse. By this time René had reached Alice's side, but she did not see him. She ran into the blockhouse and climbed up a rude ladderway. Then she appeared on the roof, still accompanied by Renée, and planted the staff in a crack of the slabs where it stood bravely up,

the colors floating free. She looked down in saw Monsieur Rousillon, Father Gibaut and Father Beret grouped in the center of the area. They were waving their hands. hands aloft at her, while a bedlam of voices sent up applause which went through her blood-like strong wine. She smiled radiantly, and a sweet flush glowed in her cheeks. No one of all that wild crowd could ever forget the picture sketched so boldly at that moment when after planting the staff, Alice stepped back a space and stood strong and beautiful against the soft blue sky. She glanced down first, then looked up, her arms folded across her bosom.

It was a pose as unconsciously taken as that of a bird, and the grace of it went straight to the hearts of those below. She turned about to descend, and for the first time saw that René had followed her. His face was beaming. What a girl you are! He exclaimed in a tone of exultant admiration. Never was there another like you.

Alice walked quickly past him without speaking, for down in the space where some women were huddled aside from the crowd looking on she had seen little Adrian Borsier. She made haste to descend. Now that her impossibly chosen enterprise was completed, her boldness deserted her, and she slipped out through a dilapidated poster and outside the crowd. On her right was the river, while southward before her lay a great flat plain, beyond which rose some hillocks covered with forest. The sun blazed between masses of slowly drifting clouds that trailed creeping fantastic shadows across the marshy waist.

Alice walked along under cover of the slight lancewell, which then, more plainly marked than it is now, formed the contour line of hummock upon which the fort and village stood. A watery swale grown full of tall aquatic weeds meandered parallel with the bluff, so to call it, and there was a soft, melancholy whispering of wind among the long blades and stems. She passed the church in Father Beres' hut and continued for some distance in the direction of that pretty knoll upon which the cemetery is at present so tastefully kept. She felt shy now, as if to run away and hide would be a great relief. Indeed, so relaxed were her nerves that a slight movement in the grass and cat-tail flags

nearby startled her painfully, making her jump like a fawn. Little friend, not be afraid, said a guttural voice in broken French. Little friend, not make noise. At a glance she recognized. long hair the Indian, rising out of the matted marsh growth. It was a hideous vision of embodied cunning, soullessness, and murderous cruelty. Not tell white man, you see me, he grunted interrogatively, stepping closer to her. He looked so wicked that she recoiled and lifted her hands defensively.

She trembled from head to foot and her voice failed her. But she made a negative sign and smiled at him, turning as white as her tanned face could become. In his left hand he held his bow, while in his right he half lifted a murderous-looking tomahawk. What new flag mean? He demanded, waving the bow's end toward the fort and bending his head down close to hers. Who yonder? The great American father has taken us under his protection, she explained.

We are big knives now. It almost choked her to speak. Ugh, he damn fools, he said with a dark scowl. "'Little friend, much damn fool!' He straightened up his tall form and stood leering at her for some seconds then added, "'Little friend, get killed. Skelped, maybe.' The indescribable nobility of animal largeness, symmetry, and strength showed in his form and attitude, but the expression of his countenance was absolutely repulsive, cold, hard, beastly.

He did not speak again, but turned quickly, and stooping low, disappeared like a great brenton. brownish red serpent in the high grass, which scarcely stirred as he moved through it. Somehow, that day made itself strangely memorable to Alice. She had been accustomed to stirring scenes and sudden changes of conditions, but this was the first time she had ever joined actively in a public movement of importance. Then, too, Longhairs' picturesque and rudely dramatic reappearance affected her imagination with an indescribable force. Moreover, the pathetic situation in the love affair between René and Adderien had taken hold of her conscience with a disturbing grip.

But the shadowy sense of impending events of which she could form no idea was behind it all. She had not heard of Brandywine or Bunker Hill or Lexington or Concord, but something like a waft of their significance had blown through her mind. A great change was coming into her idyllic life. She was indistinctly aware of it. as we are sometimes of an approaching storm, while yet the sky is sweetly blue and serene. When she reached home, the house was full of people

to whom Monsieur Rousillon in the gayest of moods was dispensing wine and brandy. "'Viversors, Vastinton!' shouted Uncle Jazon as soon as he saw her. And then they all talked at once, saying flattering things about her. Madame Rousillon tried to scold as usual, but the lively chattering of the guests drowned her voice. I suppose the American commander will send a carousin here.

Someone said to Father Gibo, and repair the fort. Probably, the priest replied, in a very few weeks. Meantime, we will garrison it ourselves. And we will have Monsieur Roussillon for commander, spoke up Rone de Ronville who was standing by. A good suggestion, assented Father Gibo. Let us organize at once. Immediately the word was passed that there would be a meeting at the fort that evening

for the purpose of choosing a garrison and a commander. Everybody were promptly at the hour set. Monsieur Rousillon was elected captain by acclamation with René de Rondville as his lieutenant. It was observed that Uncle Jason had resumed his dignity and that he looked into his cap several times without speaking. Meantime, certain citizens who had been in close relations with Governor Abbott during his stay,

quietly slipped out of town, manned a batteau and went up the river, probably to Watanon first and then to Detroit. Doubtless they suspected that things might soon grow too warm for their comfort. It was thus that Vincent and Fort Sackville first acknowledged the American government and hoisted the flag which,

as long as it floated over the blockhouse, was lightly and lovingly called by everyone, La Banner de Lisztrocyon. Father Gibaut returned to Fort Cascascia, and a little later, Leonard Helm, a jovial man but past the prime of life, arrived at Vincent with a commission from Colonel Clark, authorizing him to supersede Monsieur Rousillon as commander, and to act as Indian agent for the American government in the Department of the Wabash. He was welcomed by

the villagers and at once made himself very pleasing to them by adapting himself to their ways and entering heartily into their social activities. Mr. Rousillon was absent when Captain Helm and his party came. René de Rondville, nominally in command of the fort, but actually enjoying some excellent grouse-shooting with a bell-mouthed old fowling piece on a distant prairie,

could not be present to deliver up the post. And as there was no garrison just then visible, Helm took possession without any formalities. I think, Lieutenant, that you'd better look around through the village and see if you can scare up this captain, what's his name? said the new commander to a stalwart young officer

who had come with him. I can't think of these French names, without getting my brain in a twist. Do you happen to recollect the captain's name, Lieutenant? Yes, sir. Gaspard Rousillon, it reads, in Colonel Clark's order, but I am told that he's away on a trading tour, said the young man. You may be told anything by these hair-tongued parley vows,

Helm remarked. It won't hurt anyway to find out where he lives and make a formal call, just for appearance sake, and to inquire about his health. I wish you would try it, sir, and let me know the result. The lieutenant felt that this was a peremptory order and turned about to obey promptly. And I say, Beverly, come back sober if you possibly can,

Helm added in his most genial tone, thinking it a great piece of humor to suggest sobriety to a man whose marked difference from men generally of that time was his total abstinence from intoxicating drinks. Lieutenant Fitzhue Beverly was a Virginian of Virginians. His family had long been prominent in colonial affairs and boasted a record of great achievements both in peace and in war. He was the only son of his parents an heir to a fine estate consisting of lands and slaves.

But, like many another of the restless young cavaliers of the old dominion, he had come in search of adventure over into Kentucky along the path blazed by Daniel Boone. And when Clark organized his little army, the young man's patriotic and chivalrous nature leaped at the opportunity to serve his country under so gallant a commander. Beverly was not a mere youth, although yet somewhat under thirty. Educated abroad, and naturally of a thoughtful and studious turn, he had enriched his mind far beyond the usual limit among young Americans of the very best class in that time. And so he appeared older than he really was,

an effect helped out by his large and powerful form and grave dignity of bearing. Clark, who found him useful in emergencies, cool, intrepid, daring to a fault and possessed of excellent judgment, sent him with Helm, that he would offset with his orderly attention to details the somewhat go-as-you-please disposition of that excellent officer. Beverly set out in search of the French commander's house, impressed with no particular respect for him or his office. Somehow, Americans of Anglo-Saxon blood were slow to recognize any good qualities whatever in the Latin Creoles of the West and South. It seemed to them that the Frenchmen and the Spaniard were much too apt to equalize themselves socially and matrimonially with Indians and Negroes.

the very fact that for a century while anglo-americans had been in constant bloody warfare was savages frenchmen had managed to keep on easy and highly profitable trading terms with them tended to confirm the worst implication eat frogs and save your scalp was a bit of contemptuous frontier humor indicative of what sober judgment held in reserve on the subject intent upon his formal mission lieutenant beverly stalked boldly into the enclosure at rousillon place and was met on the gallery by madame roussion in one of her worst moods. She glared at him with her hands on her hips, her mouth set irritably a slant upward, her eyebrows gathered into a dark knot over her nose. It would be hard to imagine a more forbidding countenance, and, for supplementary effect,

out-poped hunchback Jean to stand behind her with his big head lying back in the hollow of his shoulders and his long chin elevated while he gopped intently up into Beverly's face. "'Bonjour, madame,' said the lieutenant, lifting his hat and speaking with a pleasant accent. Would it be agreeable to Captain O'Rousillon for me to see him a moment? Despite Beverly's cleverness in using the French language,

he had a decided brusiness of manner and a curt turn of voice not in the least gallic. True, the soft Virginian intonation marked every word, and his obeisance was as low as if Madame Rousillon had been a queen, but the light French grace was wholly lacking. What do you want of my husband? Madame Roussion demanded. nothing unpleasant i assure you madam said beverly well he's not at home monsieur he's up the river for a few days she relaxed her stare untied her eyebrows and even let her hands fall from her shelf like hips thank you madam said beverly bowing again i am sorry not to have seen him as he was turning to go a shimmer of brown hair streaked with gold struck upon his vision from just within the door

he paused as if in response to a military command while a pair of gray eyes met his with a flash the cabin room was ill-lighted but the crepuscular dimness did not seem to hinder his sight beyond the girl's figure a pair of slender swords hung cross a slant on the wall wall opposite the low door. Beverly had seen in the old-world galleries pictures in which the shadowy and somewhat uncertain background thus forced into strongest projection the main figure, yet without clearly defining it. The rough frame of the doorway gave just the rustic setting suited to Alice's costume,

the most striking part of which was a grayish short gown ending just above her fringed buckskin moccasins. Around her head she had bound a blue kerchief, a wide corner of which lay over her crown like a loose cap. her bright hair hung free upon her shoulders and tumbled half curls as a picture the figure and its entourage might have been artistically effective but as beverly saw it in actual life the first impression was rather embarrassing somehow he felt almost irresistibly invited to laugh though he had never been much given to risability the blending or rather the juxtaposition of extremes a face a form immediately witching and a costume odd to grotesquery had made an assault a point of a post-a-oise had made an assault a his comprehension at once so sudden and so direct that his dignity came near being disastrously broken up a splendidly beautiful child comically clad would have made much the

same half-delightful half-displeasing impression beverly could not stare at the girl and no sooner had he turned his back upon her than the picture in his mind changed like a scene in a kaleidoscope he now saw a tall finely developed figure and a face delicately oval, with a low, wide forehead, arched brows, a straight, slightly tip-tilted nose, a mouth, sweet and full, dimpled cheeks, and a strong chin set above a faultless throat. His imagination, in casting off its first impression, was inclined to exaggerate Alice's beauty and to dwell upon its picturesqueness. He smiled as he walked back to the fort and even found himself whistling gaily a snatch from a rollicking fiddle tune that he had heard when a boy.

End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson This Librevox recording is in the public domain 6 A Fencing Bout A few days after Helm's arrival Monsieur Rousillon returned to Vesen and if he was sorely touched in his amour proper

by seeing his suddenly acquired military rank and title drop away he did not let it be known to his fellow citizens He promptly called upon the new commander and made acquaintance with Lieutenant Fitzhue Beverly, who just then was superintending the work of cleaning up an old cannon in the fort and mending some breaks in the stockade. Helm formed a great liking for the big Frenchman whose breezy freedom of manner and expansive good humor struck him favorably from the beginning. Monsieur Rousillon's ability to speak English with considerable ease helped the friendship along, no doubt. At all events, their first interview ended up with a hearty show of good-year.

fellowship, and as time passed they became almost inseparable companions during Monsieur Rousillon's periods of rest from his trading excursions among the Indians. They played cards and brewed hot drinks over which they told marvelous stories, the latest one invariably surpassing all its predecessors. Helm had an eye to business and turned Monsieur Roussion's knowledge of the Indians to valuable account, so that he soon had very pleasant relations with most of the tribes within reach of his agents. This gave a feeling of great security to the people of Vésain. They pursued their narrow agricultural activities with excellent results, and redoubled those social gaieties which,

even in hut and cabin under all the adverse conditions of extreme frontier life, were dear to the volatile and genial French temperament. Lieutenant Beverly found much to interest him in the quaint town. But the Pieste de resistance was Uncle Jazon, who proved to be both fascinating and unmanageable. hard nut to crack, yet possessing a kernel absolutely original in flavor. Beverly visited him one evening in his hut. It might be better called den, a curiously built thing, with walls of vertical pole set in a quadrangular trench dug in the ground and roofed with grass. Inside and out it was plastered with clay, and the floor of dried mud was as smooth and hard as concrete paving. In one end there was a wide fireplace, grimy with soot, in the other a mere peephole

for a window. A wooden bench, a bed of skins, and two or three stools were barely visible in the gloom. In the doorway, Uncle Jason sat whittling a slender billet of hickory into a ramrod for his long flint American rifle. "'Maybe you know Simon Kenton,' said the old man after he and Beverly had conversed for a while, seeing that you are from Kentucky, eh?' "'Yes, I do know him well. He's a warm personal friend of mine,' said Beverly with quick interest, for it surprised him that Uncle Jason should know anything about Kenton.

Do you know him, Monsieur Jazon? Uncle Jazon winked conceitedly and sighted along his rudimentary ramrod to see if it was straight, then, puckering his lips as if on the point of whistling, made an affirmative noise quite impossible to spell.

Well, I'm glad you are acquainted with Kenton, said Beverly. Where did you and he come together? Uncle Jazon chuckled reminiscently and scratched the skinless, secretized spot where his scalp had once flourished. Oh, several places, he answered. You see that hair hanging there on the wall? He pointed at a dry wisp dangling under a peg in a log barely visible by the bad light.

Well, that's my scalp. He snickered, as if the fact were a most enjoyable joke. Simone Kenton can tell ye about that little affair. The Indians thought I was. dead, and they took my hair. But I wasn't dead. I was just a given them a possum act.

When they was gone, I got up from where I was laying and trotted off. My head was sore in vandre blue, but I was mad. All this time he spoke in French, and the English but poorly paraphrases his odd turns of expression. His grimaces and grunts

cannot even be hinted. it was a long story as beverly received it told scrappily but with a certain rude art in the end uncle jason said with unctuous self-satisfaction accidents will happen i got my chance at that damned indian who skinned my head and i just took a bead on him with my old rifle i can't shoot much never could but i happened to hit him square in the left eye what i shot at and it was a hundred yards down he tumbles and i runs to him and finds my same old scalp a-hanging to his belt well i lifted off his hair with my knife and untied mine from the belt and then i had both scalps he he you ask simon canton when ye see him he was along at the same time and they made him run the gauntlet and pretty nigh beat the life out of him ventrebleu beverly now recollected hearing kenton tell the same grim story by a camp-fire in the hills of kentucky somehow it had caught a new spirit in the french rendering which linked it with the old tales of adventure that he had read in his boyhood and it suddenly endeared uncle jason to him the rough old scrap of a man and the powerful youth chatted together until sundown smoking their pipes each feeling for what was best in the other half aware that in the future they would be tested together in the fire of wild adventure Every man is more or less a profit at certain points in his life.

Twilight and moonlight were blending softly when Beverly, on his way back to the fort, departing from a direct course, went along the riverside southward to have a few moments of reflective strolling within reach of the water's pleasant murmur and the town's indefinite evening stir. Rich's sweetness, the gift of early autumn, was on the air blowing softly out of a lilac west and singing in the willow fringe that hung here and there over the bank. On the farther side of the river's wide flow, swollen by recent heavy rains, Beverly saw a pierrog in one end of which a dark figure swayed to the strokes of a paddle.

The slender and shallow little craft was bobbing on the choppy waves and taking a zig-zag course among floating logs and masses of lighter driftwood, while making slow but certain headway toward the hither bank. Beverly took a bit of punk and a flint and steel from his pocket, relit his pipe and stood watching the skillful boatman conduct a somewhat dangerous voyage diagonally against the rolling current. It was a shifting hide-and-seek scene, its features appearing and disappearing with the action of the waves and the doubtful light reflected from fading clouds in sky.

Now and again the man stood up in his skittish pirogue, balancing himself with care to use a short pole in shoving driftwood out of his way, and more than once he looked to Beverly as if he had plunged headlong into the dark water. the spot as nearly as it can be fixed was about two hundred yards below where the public road bridge at present spans the wabash the bluff was then far different from what it is now steeper and higher with less silt and sand between it and the water's edge indeed swollen as the current was a man could stand on the top of the bank and easily leap into the deep water at a point near the middle of the river a great mass of drift logs and sand had long ago formed a barrier which split the stream so that one current came heavily shoreward on the side next the town and swashed with its muddy foam, making a swirl and eddy just below where Beverly stood. The pierrogue rounded the upper angle of this obstruction, not without difficulty to its crew of one, and swung into the rapid shoreward

rush, as was evidently planned for by the steersman, who now paddled against the tide with all his might to keep from being born too far downstream for a safe landing place. Beverly stood at ease idly and half-dreamily looking on, when suddenly something caused a catastrophe which for a moment he did not comprehend. In fact, the man in the pierrogue came to grief, as a man in a pierrogue is very apt to do

and fairly somersaulted overboard into the water. Nothing serious would have threatened, for the man could swim like an otter, had not a floating half-submerged lock thrust up some short, stiff stumps of bows, upon the points of which the man struck heavily and was not only hurt, but had his clothes

impaled securely by one of the ugly spears, so that he hung in a helpless position, while the water's motion alternately lifted and submerged him his arms beating about wildly. When Beverly heard a strangling cry for help, he pulled himself promptly together, flung off his coat, as if by a single motion, and leaped down the bank into the water. He was a swimmer whose strokes counted for all that prodigious strength and excellent training could afford. He rushed through the water with long sweeps, making a semicircle, rounding against the current so as to swing down upon the drowning man.

less than a half hour later a rumor by some means spread throughout the town that father beret and lieutenant beverly were drowned in the wabash but when a crowd gathered to verify the terrible news it turned out to be untrue gaspar rousillon had once more distinguished himself by an exhibition of heroic nerve and muscle vatrebleu keel ome exclaimed uncle jason when told that m roussion had come up the bank of the wabash with lieutenant beverly under one arm and father beryr under the other both men apparently dead bring them to my house immediately m roussion ordered as soon as they were restored to consciousness and he shook himself as a big wet animal sometimes does covering everybody near him with muddy water. Then he led the way with melodramatic strides. Injustice to historical accuracy, there must be a trifling reform of what appeared on the face of things to be grandly true.

Gaspar Rousillon actually dragged Father Beret and Lieutenant Beverly one at a time out of the eddy water and up the steep river bank. That was truly a great feat, but the hero never explained. When men arrived, he was standing between the collapsed forms panting and dripping. Doubtless, he looked just as if he had dropped them from under his arms,

and why shouldn't he have the benefit of a great implication? I've saved them both, he roared, from which, of course, the ready Creole imagination inferred the extreme of possible heroic performance. Bring them to my house immediately! And it was accordingly done. The procession, headed by Monsieur Rousillon, moved noisily, for the French tongue must shake off what comes to it on the thrill of every exciting moment. The only silent Frenchman is a dead one. Father Beret was not only well-nigh

drowned, but seriously hurt. He lay for a week on a bed in Monsieur Rousillon's house before he could set up. Alice hung over him night and day, scarcely sleeping or eating until he was past all danger. As for Beverly, he shook off all the effects of his struggle in a little while. Next day he was out, as well and strong as ever, busy with the affairs of his office. nor was he less happy on account of what the little adventure had cast into his experience it is good to feel that one has done an unselfish deed and no young man's heart repels the freshness of what comes to him when a beautiful girl first enters his life naturally enough alice had some thoughts of beverly while she was so attentively caring for father beret she had never before seen a man like him nor had she read of one compared with ren de ronville the best youth of her acquaintance he was in every way superior. This was too evident for analysis.

But referred to the romantic standard taken out of the novel she had read, he somehow failed. And yet he loomed bravely in her vision, not exactly a knight of the class she had most admired, still unquestionably a hero of large proportions. Beverly stepped in for a few minutes every day to see Father Beret, involuntarily lengthening his visit by a sliding ratio as he became better acquainted. He began to enjoy the priest's conversation, with its sly worldly wisdom cropping up through fervid religious sentiments and quaint humor. Alice must have interested him more than he was fully aware of, for his eyes followed her as she came and went, with a curious criticism of her half-savage costume

and her springy dryad-like suppleness, which reminded him of the shyest and gracefulest wild birds, and yet a touch of refinement the subtlest and best showed in all her ways. He studied her as he would have studied a strange, showy and originally fragrant flower, or a bird of oddly attractive plumage. While she said little to him or to anyone else in his presence, he became aware of the willfulness and joyous lightness which played on her nature's changeable surface. He wondered at her influence over Father Beret, whom she controlled apparently without effort. But in due time he began to feel a deeper character,

a broader intelligence behind her superficial savagery. and he found that she really had no mean smattering of books in the lighter vein. A little thing happened which further opened his eyes and increased the interest that her beauty and elementary charm of style aroused in him gradually, a pace with their advancing acquaintanceship. Father Beret had got well and returned to his hut in his round of spiritual duties, but Beverly came to Rousillon place every day all the same. For a wonder Madame Rousillon liked him,

and at most times held the scolding side of her tongue when he was present. Jean-Tou made friendly advances whenever opportunity afforded. Of course, Alice gave him just the frank cordiality of hospitable welcome demanded by frontier conditions. She scarcely knew whether she liked him or not, but he had a treasury of information from which he was enriching her with liberal carelessness day by day. The hungriest part of her mind was being sumptuously banqueted at his expense. Mere intellectual greediness drew her to him. naturally they soon threw off such troubling formalities as at first rose between them and began to disclose to each other their true characteristics alice found in beverly a large target for the missiles of her clever and tantalizing perversity

he in turn practised a native dignity and an acquired superiority of manner to excellent effect it was a meeting of greek with greek in a new arcadia to him here was diana strong strange simple even crude almost to naturalness, yet admirably pure in spirit and imbued with highly womanly aspirations. To her, Beverly represented the great outside area of life. He came to her from Wonderland, beyond the wide circle of houseless woods and prairies.

He represented gorgeous cities, teeming parks of fashion, boulevards, salons, halls of social splendor, the theater, the world of women's dreams. Now, there is an antagonist, antagonism, vague yet powerful, generated between nature's thus cast together from the opposite poles of experience and education, an antagonism practically equivalent to the most vigorous attraction. What one knows the other is but half aware of. Neither knowledge nor ignorance being

mutual, there is a scintillation of exchange from opposing vantage grounds followed by harmless snaps of thunder. Culture and refinement take on airs. It is the deepest artificial instinct of enlightenment to pose, in the presence of naturalness, and there is a certain style of ignorance which attitudinizes before the gate of knowledge. The return to nature has always been the dream of the conventionalized soul, while the simple Arcadian is forever longing for the maddening honey of sophistication. Inate jealousies strike together like flint and steel, dashing off sparks by which nearly everything that life can warm its core with all is kindled and kept burning.

What I envy in my friend, I store for my best use. I thrust and parry, not to kill, but to learn my adversary's superior feints and guards. And this hint of swordplay leads back to what's so greatly

surprised and puzzled Beverly one day when he chanced to be examining the pair of cullish mouths on the wall. He took one down, and handling it with the indescribable facility possible to none save a practical swordsman remarked, there's a world of fascination in these things i like nothing better than about at fencing does your father practice the art i have no father no mother she quickly said but good papa rousillon does like a little exercise with the colishmard

well i'm glad to hear it i shall ask to teach him a trick or two beverly responded in the lightest mood when will he return from the woods i can't tell you he's very irregular in such matters she said. Then, with a smile half banter and half challenge, she added, If you are really dying for some exercise, you shall not have to wait for him to come home, I assure you, Monsieur Beverly. Oh, it's Monsieur de Ronville, perhaps, that you will offer up as a victim to my skill and address. He slyly returned, for he was suspecting that a love affair in some stage of progress lay between her and René. She blushed violently, but quickly overcoming a combined rush of surprise and anger, added with an emphasis as charming as it was unexpected. I myself am, perhaps, sossaman enough to satisfy the impudence and vanity of

Monsieur Beverly, Lieutenant in the American Army. Pardon me, mademoiselle. Forgive me, I beg of you, he exclaimed earnestly modulating his voice to sincerest beseechment. I really did not mean to be impudent, nor... Her vivacity cleared with a merry laugh. No, apart. "'Aologies, I command you,' she interposed.

"'We will have them after I have taught you a fencing lesson.' From a shelf she drew down a pair of foils, and, presenting the hilts, bade him take his choice. "'There isn't any difference between them that I know of,' she said, and then added archly. "'But you will feel better at last when all is over and the sting of defeat tingles through you if you are conscious of having used every sensible precaution.' He looked straight into her eyes, trying to keep. catch what was in her mind, but there was a bewildering glamour playing across those gray, opal-tinted wells of mystery, from which he could draw only a mischievous smile glint,

direct, daring, irresistible. Well, he said, taking one of the foils, what do you really mean? Is it a challenge without room for honorable retreat? The time for Parley is past, she replied. Follow me to the battleground. She led the way to a pleasant little court in the rear of the cabin's yard, a space between two wings and a vine-covered trellis beyond which lay a well-kept vineyard and vegetable garden. Here she turned about and faced him, poising her foil with a fine grace. Are you ready? she inquired. He tried again to force a way into the depths of her eyes with his, but he might as well have attacked the sun. So he stood in a confusion of not very well-defined

feelings, undecided, hesitating, half-expecting that there would be some laughable turn to end the affair, Are you afraid, Mr. Beverly? She demanded after a short waiting in silence. He laughed now and whipped the air with his foil. You certainly are not in earnest, he said interrogatively. Do you really mean that you want a fence with me? If you think because I'm only a girl you can easily beat me, try it. She tauntingly replied, making a level thrust toward his breast.

Quick as a flash he parried, and then a merry clinking and twinkling of steel blades kept time to their swift movements. Instantly, by the sure sense which is half-sight, half-feeling, the sense that guides the expert fencer's hand and wrist, Beverly knew that he had probably more than his match, and in ten seconds his attack was met by a time thrust in opposition which touched him sharply. Alice sprang far back, lowered her point, and laughed. "'Ivo salue, Monsieur Beverly,' she cried, with childlike show of delight. "'Did you feel the button?'

"'Yes, I felt it,' he said with frank acknowledgement in his voice. "'It was cleverly done. "'Now give me a chance to redeem myself.' He began more carefully and found that she too was on her best medal, but it was a short bout as before. Alice seemed to give him an easy opening and he accepted it with a thrust. Then something happened that he did not understand. The point of his foil was somehow caught under his opponent's hilt-guard

while her blade seemed to twist around his. at the same time there was a ring and a jerk the like of which he had never felt before and he was disarmed his wrist and fingers aching with the wrench they had received of course the thing was not new he had been disarmed before but her trick of doing it was quite a mystery to him altogether different from any that he had ever seen you me pardoner monsieur she mockingly exclaimed picking up his weapon and offering the hilt to him here is your sword keep it he said folding his arms and trying to look unconcerned you have captured it fairly i am at your mercy be kind to me madame rousillon and jean the hunchback hearing the racket of the foils had come out to see and were standing agape you ought to be a shame d'allis said the dame in scolding approval of what she had done. Girls do not fence with gentlemen. This girl does, said Alice. And with extreme disaster to this gentleman,

said Beverly, laughing in a tone of discomfort and resignation. Ah, monsieur, there's nothing but disaster where she goes, complained Madame Rousillon. She is a destroyer of everything. Only yesterday she dropped my pink bowl and broke it, the only one I had. "'And just to think,' said Beverly,

"'what would have been the condition of my heart "'had we been using rapiers instead of leather-buttoned foils? "'She would have spitted it through the very centre.' "'Like enough,' replied the dame indifferently. "'She wouldn't wince either. Not she.' Alice ran into the house with the foils, and Beverly followed. "'We must try it over again some day soon,' he said. "'I find that you can show me a few points.'

Where did you learn to fence so admirably? Is Monsieur Rousillon your master? Indeed he isn't, she quickly replied. He is but a bungling swordsman. My master, but I am not at liberty to tell you who has taught me the little I know. Well, whoever he is, I should be glad to have lessons from him. But you'll never get them. Why?

Because. A woman's ultimatum. As good as a man's, she bridled prettily. and sometimes better. At the foils, for example. You comprehend, nis-pah? He laughed heartily. Yes, your point reaches me, he said.

But sperat et in suave o victus gladiator arena, as the old Latin poet wisely remarks. The quotation was meant to tease her. Yes, Monteng translated that or something in his book, she commented with prompt erudition. I understand it. Beverly looked amazed. What do you know about Montaigne?

He demanded with a blunt brevity amounting to something like roughness. Sh, monsieur, not too loud. She softly protested, looking around to see that neither Madame Rousillon nor Jean had followed them into the main room. It is not permitted that I read the old book. But they do not hide it from me, because they think I can't make out its dreadful spelling. She smiled so that her cheeks drew their dimples deep

into the delicately tinted pink and brown, where wind and sun and wholesome exercise had said the seal of absolute health, and took from a niche in the logs of the wall a stained and dog-eared volume. He looked, and it was indeed the old saint and sinner, Montaigne. Involuntarily he ran his eyes over the girl from head to foot, comparing her show of knowledge with the outward badges of abject rusticity and even wildness with which she was covered. "'Well,' he said, "'you are a... A mystery.

You think it's surprising that I can read a book? Frankly, I can't understand half of this one. I read it because, well, just because they want me to read about nothing but sickly old saints and will-begone penitence. I like something lively. What do I care for all that uninteresting religious stuff? Montaigne is decidedly lively in spots, Beverly remarked. I shouldn't think a girl. I shouldn't think you'd particularly enjoy.

enjoy his humors. I don't care for the book at all, she said flushing quickly. Only I seem to learn about the world from it. Sometimes it seems as if it lifted me up high above all this wild, lonely and tiresome country, so that I can see far off where things are different and beautiful. It is the same with the novels, and they don't permit me to read them either, but all the same I do. When Beverly, taking his leave, passed through the gate at Roussey,

place he met René de Ronville going in. It was a notable coincidence that each young man felt something troublesome rise in his throat as he looked into the other's eyes. A week of dreamy autumn weather came on, during which Beverly managed to be with Alice a great deal, mostly sitting on the Rousillon Gallery where the fading vine leaves made fairy whispering, and where the tempered breeze blew deliciously cool

from over the distant multicolored woods. The men of Vincennes were gathering their Indian corner early to try it on the cob for grating into winter meal. Many women made wine from the native grapes and from the sweeter and richer fruit of imported vines. Madame Rousillon and Alice stained their hands a deep purple during the pressing season, and Beverly found himself engaged in helping them

handle the juicy crop, while around the overflowing earthen pots, the wild bees, wasps, and hornets hummed with an incessant, jarring monotony. Jean the hunchback gathered ample stores of hickory nuts, walnuts, hazelnuts, and pink oak acorns. Indeed, the whole population of the village made a great spurt of industry just before the falling of winter. And presently, when every preparation had been completed for the dreaded cold season, Monsieur Rousillon carried out his long-cherished plan and gave a great party at the Riverhouse. After the most successful trading experience of all his life,

he felt irrepressibly liberal. Let's have one more roaring good time, he said. That's what life is for End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson This Librevox recording is in the public domain 7 The Mayor's Party Beverly was so surprised and confused in his mind

by the ease with which he had been mastered at swordplay by a mere girl that he felt as if just coming out of a dream In fact the whole affair seemed unreal, yet so very vivid and impressive in all its main features, that he could not emerge from it and look it calmly over from without. His experience with women had not prepared him for a ready understanding and acceptance of a girl like Alice. While he was fully aware of her beauty, freshness, vivacity and grace, this Amazonian strength of hers, this boldness of spirit, this curious mixture of frontier crudeness and a certain adumbration, so to call it,

of patrician sensibilities and aspirations, affected him both pleasantly and and unpleasantly. He did not sympathize promptly with her semi-barbaric costume. She seemed not gently feminine as compared with the girls of Virginia and Maryland. He resented her muscular development and her independent disposition. She was far from coarseness, however, and indeed a trace of subtle refinement, although not conventional, imbued her whole character. But why was he thinking so critically about her? Had his selfishness received an incurable shock from the button of her foil. A healthy young man of the right sort

is apt to be jealous of his physical prowess. Touch him there and he will turn the world over to write himself in his own admiration and yours. But to be beaten on his highest ground of virility by a dimple-faced maiden just leaving her teens could not offer Beverly any open way to recoupment of damages.

He tried to shake her out of his mind as a bit of pretty and troublesome rubbish, what time he pursued his not very exacting military duties. but the more he shook the tighter she clung and the oftener he went to see her helm was a good officer in many respects and his patriotism was of the best but he liked jolly company a glass of something strong and a large share of ease detroit lay many miles northeastward across the wilderness and the english he thought would scarcely come so far to attack his little post especially now that most of the indians in the intervening country had declared in favor of the americans recently too the weather had been favoring him by changing from wet to dry, so that the upper Wabash and its tributaries were falling low and would soon be very difficult to navigate with large bateau.

Very little was done to repair the stockade and dilapidated remnant of a blockhouse. There were no sufficient barracks, a mere shed in one angle serving for quarters, and the old cannon could not have been used to any effect in case of attack. As for the garrison, it was a nominal quantity, made up mostly of men who preferred hunting and fishing to the merest pretense of military duty. Gaspar Rousillon assumed to know everything about Indian affairs and the condition of the English at Detroit. His optimistic eloquent lulled helm to a very pleasant sense of security.

Beverly was not so easy to satisfy, but his suggestions regarding military discipline and a vigorous prosecution of repairs to the blockhouse and stockade were treated with dilatory geniality by his superior officer. The soft wonder of a perfect Indian summer glorified land, river, and sky. Why not dream and bask? Why not drink exhilarating toddies? Meantime, the entertainment to be given by Gaspar Rousillon, occupied everybody's imagination to an unusual extent. René de Rondville, remembering but not heeding the doubtful success of his former attempt,

went long beforehand to claim Alice as his pertainaire. But she flatly refused him, once more reminding him of his obligations to little Adrian Borsier. He would not be convinced. You are bound to me, he said. You promised before, you know, and the party was but put off. I hold you to it. You are my partner, and I am yours.

You can't deny that. No, you are not my partner, she firmly said, then added lightly. Fue, my partner, you are dead and buried as my partner at that dance. He glowered in silence for a few. moments then said. It is Lieutenant Beverly, I suppose. She gave him a quick, contemptuous look, but turned it instantly into one of her tantalizing smiles. Do you imagine that? she demanded. Imagine it. I know it, he said with a hot flush. Have I no sense? Precious little, she replied with a merry laugh. You think so. Go to Father Beret,

tell him everything, and then ask him what he thinks. She said a little. She said a little. She said, in a calm, even tone, her face growing serious. There was an awkward silence. She had touched René's vulnerable spot. He was nothing, if not a devout Catholic, and his conscience rooted itself in what good Father Beret had taught him. The church, no matter by what name it goes,

Catholic or Protestant, has a saving hold on the deepest inner being of its adherence. No grip is so hard to shake off as that of early religious convictions. The still small voice coming down from the times, when shepherds watch their flocks by night, in old Judea, passes through the priest, the minister, the preacher. It echoes in cathedral, church, open-air meeting. It gently and mysteriously imparts to human life the distinctive quality which is the exponent

of Christian civilization. Upon the receptive nature of children it makes an impress that forever afterward exhales a fragrance and irradiates a glory for the saving of the nations. Father Beret was the humble, self-effacing, never-tiring agent of good in his community. He preached in a tender sing-song voice the sweet monotonies of his creed and the sublime truce of Christ's code.

He was indeed the spiritual father of his people. No wonder, René's scowling expression changed to one of abject self-concern when the priest's name was suddenly connected with his mood. The confessional loomed up before the eyes of his conscience and his knees smote together spiritually if not physically. Now, said Alice brusquely, but with sweet and gentle firmness, go to your fiancé, go to pretty and good Adrienne, and ask her to be your partner.

Refresh your conscience with a noble draft of duty and make that dear little girl overflow with joy. Go, René Doronville. In making over what she said into English, the translation turns out to be but a sonorous paraphrase. Her French was that of a mixed Creole sort, a blending of linguistic elegance and patois impossible to imitate. Like herself it was beautiful, crude, fascinating, and something in it impressed itself as unimpeachable, despite the broken and incongruous diction. René felt his soul cowering, even slinking, but he fairly maintained a good face and went away without saying another word. "'Ciel, sien, how beautiful she is!' he thought. as he walked along the narrow street in the dreamy sunshine.

But she is not for me, not for me. He shook himself and tried to be cheerful. In fact, he hummed a Creole ditty something about La Belle Jeanette, cabrisé my car. Days passed and at last the time of the great event arrived. It was a frosty night, clear, sparkling with stars, a keen breath cutting down from the northwest. Monsieur Rousillon, Madame Roussion, Alice and Loutéth

Bennett Beverly went together to the river house, whither they had been preceded by almost the entire population of Vesenne. Some fires had been built outside, the crowd proving too great for the building's capacity as there had to be ample space for the dancers. Mary groups hovered around the flaming logs, while within the house a fiddle sang its simple and ravishing tunes.

Everybody talked and laughed. It was a lively racket of clashing voices and rhythmical feet. You would have been surprised to find that Uncle Jazon was the fiddler. But there he sat, perched on a high stool in one corner of the large room, sawing away as if for dear life, his head wagging, his elbow leaping back and forth, while his scalpless crown shone like the side of a peeled onion, and his puckered mouth wagged grotesquely from side to side, keeping time to his tunfo scraping. When the Rousillon party arrived, it attracted condensed attention. Its importance, naturally of the greatest in the

assembled popular mind was enhanced, as mathematicians would say, to the nth power, by the gown of Alice. It was resplendent indeed in the simple unaccustomed eyes upon which it flashed with a buffed silken glory. Matron stared at it. Maidens gazed with fascinated and jealous vision. Men young and old let their eyes take full liberty. It was as if a queen arrayed in a robe of state had entered that dingy log edifice, an apparition of dazzling and awe-inspired beauty. Uncle Jason caught sight of her and snapped his tune short off.

The dancer swung together and stopped in confusion. But she, fortified by a woman's strongest bulwark, the sense of resplendency, appeared quite unconscious of herself. Little Adrian, hanging in blissful delight upon René's strong arm, felt the stir of excitement and wondered what was the matter, being too short to see over the heads of those around her.

"'What is it? What is it?' She cried, tiptoeing and tugging at her companion's sleeve. Tell me, René, tell me, I say. Renée was gazing in dumb admiration into which there swept a powerful anger like a breath of flame. He recollected how Alice had refused to wear that dress when he had asked her, and now she headed on. Moreover, there she stood beside Lieutenant Beverly,

holding his arm, looking up into his face, smiling, speaking to him. I think you might tell me what has happened, said Adrienne, pouting and still plucking at his arm. I can't see a thing, and you won't tell me. Oh, it's nothing, he presently answered rather fretfully.

Then he stooped, lowered his voice, and added, it's Mademoiselle Rousillon all dressed up like a bride or something. She's got on a buff silk dress that Monsieur Roussion's mother had in France. How beautiful she must look, cried the girl. I wish I could see her. René put a hand on each side. of her slender waist and lifted her high so that her pretty head rose above the crowding people. Alice chanced to turn her face that way just then and saw the unconventional performance.

Her eyes met those of Adrianne and she gave a nod of smiling recognition. It was a rose beaming upon a gilly flower. Monsieur Rousillon naturally understood that all this stir and crowding to see was but another demonstration of his personal popularity. He bowed and waved a vast hand. but the master of ceremonies called loudly for the dancers to take their places. Uncle Jason attacked his fiddle again with startling energy. Those who were not to dance formed a compact double line around the wall, the shorter ones in front, the taller in the rear.

And what a scene it was. But no person present regarded it as in any way strange or especially picturesque, save as to the gown of Alice, which was now floating and whirling in time to Uncle Jason's mad music. The people outside the house cheerfully awaited their turn to go in, while an equal number went forth to chat and sing around the fires. Beverly was in a young man's seventh heaven. The angels formed a choir circling around his heart, and their song brimmed his universe from horizon to horizon. When he called at Rousillon Place and Alice appeared so beautifully and becomingly robed, it was another memorable surprise. She flashed a new and subtly

emulating light upon him. The old gown, rich and subdued splendor of lace and brocade, was ornamented at the throat with a heavy band of pearls, just above which could be seen a trace of the gold chain that supported her portrait locket. There, too, with a not unbecoming gleam of barbaric colors, shown the string of porcupine beads to which the Indian charm stone hidden in her bosom was attached. It all harmonized with the time, the place, the atmosphere. Anywhere else it would have been preposterous as a decorative presentment, but here in this little nook were the Courier de Bois, the half-breeds, the traders and the missionaries had found at a center of assembly, it was the best possible expression in the

life so formed at haphazard, and so controlled by the coarsest and narrowest influences. To Fitzhue Beverly of Beverly Hall, the picture conveyed immediately a sweet and pervading influence. Alice looked superbly tall, stately and self-possessed in her transforming costume, a woman of full stature, her countenance gravely demure, yet reserving near the surface the playful dimples and mischievous smiles so characteristic of her more usual manner. A sudden mood of the Yvarium at Mutabellie Sampere Famina had led her to wear the dress, and the mood still illuminated her. Beverly stood before her, frankly looking and admiring. The underglow in her cheeks deepened and spread over her perfect throat.

Her eyes met his a second, then shyly avoided him. He hardly could have been sure which was master, her serenity or her girlish delight in being attractively dressed. But there could be no doubt as to her self-possession, for saving the pretty blush under his almost rude gaze of admiration, she bore herself as firmly as any fine lady he remembered. They walked together to the river-house, she daintily holding up her skirts under the insistent verbal

direction of Madame Rousillon, and at the same time keeping a light strangely satisfying touch on his arm. When they entered the room, there was no way for Beverly to escape full consciousness of the excitement they aroused. But Monsieur Rousillon's assumption broke the force of what would have otherwise been extremely embarrassing. It is encouraging, very encouraging, murmured the big man to Beverly in the midst of the staring and scrambling and craning of necks. To have my people admire and love me so. It goes to the middle of my heart. And again he bowed and waved his hand with an all-including gesture while he swept his eyes over the crowd. Alice and Beverly were soon in the world of the dance, forgetful of everything but an exhilaration stirred to its

utmost by Uncle Jazon's music. A side remark here may be of interest to those readers who enjoy the dream that on some fortunate day they will invade a lonely look, where amid dust and cobwebs neglected because unrecognized reposes a masterpiece of Stradivari or some other great fiddle maker. Uncle Jazon knew nothing whatever about old violins. He was a natural musician, that was all, and flung himself upon his fiddle with the same passionate abandon that characterizes a healthy boy's assault when a plum pudding is at his mercy. But his fiddle was a Carlo Bergenzi, and now let the search be renewed for the precious instrument was certainly still in vince. as late as 1819, and there is a vague tradition that Governor Whitcomb played on it not long

before he died. The mark by which it may be identified is the single word, Jason, cut in the back of its neck by Uncle Jason himself. When their dance was ended, Alice and Beverly followed the others of their set out into the open air while a fresh stream of eager dancers poured in. Beverly insisted upon wrapping Alice in her mantle of unlined beaver skin against the searching winter breath. They did not go to the fire, but walked back and forth, chatting until their turn to dance should come again, pausing frequently to exchange pleasantries with some of the people. Curiously enough, both of them had forgotten the fact that other young men would be sure to ask Alice for a dance, and that more than one pretty Creole lass was rightfully expecting a

giddy turn with this stalwart and handsome Lieutenant Beverly. René de Ronville before long broke rudely into their selfish dream and led Alice into the house. this reminded beverly of his social duty wherefore seeing little adrian borsier he made a rush and secured her at a swoop from the midst of a scrambling circle of mutually hindered young men hullo ma petitit he cried quite in the gay tone of the occasion and swung her lightly along with him it was like an eagle dancing with a linnet or a giant with a fairy when the big lieutenant let out la petite adrienne as everybody called her the honor of beverly's attention sat unappreciated on adrienne mind, for all her thoughts went with her eyes toward René and Alice. Nor was Beverly so absorbed in his partner's behalf that he ever for a moment willingly lost sight of the floating buff gown, the shining brown hair and the beautiful face which formed indeed the center of attraction for all eyes.

Father Beret was present, sharing heartily in the merriment of his flock. Voices greeted him on all sides with intonations of tender respect. The rudest man there was loyal to the kind-hearted priest, and would as soon have thought of shooting him as of giving him any but the most reverent attention. It is to be noted, however, that their understanding of reverence included great freedom and levity not especially ecclesiastical in its nature. Father Beret understood the conditions around him and had the genius to know what not to hear, what not to see. But he never failed when a good word or a fatherly touch with his hand seemed

worth trying on a sheep that appeared to be straying dangerously far from the fold. Upon an occasion like this dance at the riverhouse, he was no less the faithful priest because of his genial sympathy with the happiness of the young people who looked to him for spiritual guidance. It was some time before Beverly could again secure Alice for a dance,

and he found it annoying him atrociously to see her smile sweetly on some buckskin-clad lout who looked like an Indian and danced like a Parisian. He did not greatly enjoy most of his partners. They could not appeal to any side of his nature just then.

Not that he had at all times stood too much on his aristocratic traditions, or lacked the virile straits common to vigorous and worldly-minded men, but the contrast between Alice and the other girls present was somehow an absolute bar to a democratic freedom of the sort demanded by the occasion. He met Father Beret and passed a few pleasant words with him. They have honoured your flag, my son, I am glad to see. The priest said, pointing with a smile to where in one corner the banner that bore Alice's name was effectively draped.

Beverly had not noticed it before, and when he presently got possession of Alice, he asked her to tell him the story of how she planted it on the fort, although he had heard it to the last detail from Father Beret just a moment ago. They stood together under its folds while she naively sketched the scene for him, even down to her picturesquely disagreeable interview with long hair, mention of whom led up to the story of the Indians' race with the stolen Damjan of Brandy under his arm on that memorable night, and the subsequent services performed for him by Father Beret and her, after she and Jean had found him in the mud beyond the river.

The dancing went on at a furious pace while they stood there. Now and again a youth came to claim her, but she said she was tired and begged to rest a while, smiling so graciously upon each one that his rebuff thrilled him, as if it had been the most flattering gift of tender partiality, while at the same time he suspected that it was all for Beverly. Helm, in his most jovial mood, was circulating freely among those who formed the periphery of the dancing area. He even ventured a few clumsy capers in a cotillion with Madame Cauder for a partner. She danced well, but he, as someone remarked, stumbled all over himself. There was but one thing to mar the evening's pleasure.

Some of the men drank too much and grew boisterous. A quarrel ended in a noisy but harmless fight near one of the fires. Monsieur Rousillon rushed to the spot, seized the combatants, tussled them playfully as if they had been children, rubbed their heads together, laughed stormily, and so restored the equilibrium of temper. It was late when fathers and mothers in the company began to suggest adjournment.

Uncle Jason's elbow was tired, and the enthusiasm generated by his unrecognized bergonzi became fitful, while the relaxing crowd rapidly encroached upon the space set apart for the dancers. In the open lamps suspended here and there the oil was running low, and the rag wicks sputtered and winked with their yellow flames. Well, said Monsieur Rousillon coming to where Alice and Beverly stood insulated and isolated by their great delight in each other's company.

It's time to go home. Beverly looked at his watch. It was a quarter to three. Alice also looked at the watch and saw engraved and enameled on its massive case the Beverly Crest, but she did not know what it meant. There was something of the sort in the back of her locket she remembered with satisfaction. Just then there was a peculiar stir in the flagging crowd. Someone had arrived, a Courier de Bois from the north.

Where was the commandant? The Courier had something important for him. Beverly heard a remark in a startled voice about the English getting ready for a descent upon the Wabash Valley. This broke the charm which thralled him and sent through his nerves the bracing shock that only a soldier can feel when a hint of coming battle reaches him. Alice saw the flash in his face. Where is Captain Helm?

I must see him immediately. Excuse me, he said abruptly turning away and looking over the heads of the people. Yonder he is, I must go to him. The Courier de Bois, Adovte d'Utremble by name, was just from the headwaters of the Wabash. He was speaking to Helm when Beverly came up. Monsieur Rousillon followed close upon the lieutenant's heels as eager as he to know what the message amounted to, but Helm took the Courier aside,

motioning Beverly to join them. Monsieur Rousillon included himself in the conference. After all, it was but the gossip of savages that Dutrambly communicated, still the purport was startling in the extreme. Governor Hamilton, so the story ran, had been organizing a large force. He was probably now on his way to the portage of the Wabé

with a flotilla of batteau, some companies of disciplined soldiers, artillery, and a strong body of Indians. Helm listened attentively to Dutram's lively sketch, then cross-questioned him with laconic directness. Send Mr. Jazon to me, he said to Monsieur Rousillon as if speaking to a servant. The master Frenchman went promptly,

recognizing Captain Helm's right to command, and sympathizing with his unpleasant military predicament if the news should prove true. Uncle Jazon came in a minute. minute his fiddle and bow clamped under his arm to receive a verbal commission, which sent him with some scouts of his own choosing forthwith to the Wabash Portage, or far enough to ascertain what the English commander was doing. After the conference, Beverly made haste to join Alice, but he found that she had gone home.

One hell of a fix will be in if Hamilton comes down here with a good force, said Helm. Beverly felt like retorting that a little forethought, zeal and preparation might have lessened the prospective gloom. He had been troubled all the time about Helm's utter lack of military precaution. True, there was very little material out of which that optimistic officer could have formed a body of resistance against the army, probably at Hamilton's command. But Beverly was young, energetic, bellicose, and to him everything seemed possible. He believed in vigilance, discipline, activity, dash. He had a great faith in the efficacy of enthusiasm. We must organize these Frenchmen, he said. They will make good fighters if we can once get them to act as a body.

There's no time to be lost, but we have time enough in which to do a great deal before Hamilton can arrive, if we go at it in earnest. Your theory is excellent, Lieutenant, but the practice of it won't be worth a damn, Helm replied with perfect good nature. I'd like to see you organize these parley-boos. There ain't a dozen of them that wouldn't accept the English with open arms. I know them. They're good-hearted, polite and all that. They'll hurrah for the flag. That's easy enough.

But put them to the test, and they'll join in with the strongest side, see if they don't. Of course, there are a few exceptions. There's Jason. He's all right, and I have faith in Bosson and Legras and young Ronville. Rousillon, Beverly began. "'Is much of a blow-heart!' Helm interrupted with a laugh. barks loud but his biting disposition is probably not vicious he and father beret control the whole population at all events said beverly yes and such a population

while joining in captain helms laugh at the expense of mcene beverly took leave to indulge a mental reservation in favor of alice he could not bear to class her with the crowd of noisy thoughtless mercurial beings whom he heard still singing gay snatches and calling to one another from distance to distance as they strolled homeward in groups and pairs. Nor could the impending danger of an enforced surrender to the English and Indians drive from his mind her beautiful image, while he lay for the rest of the night between sleeping and waking on his primitive bed, alternately hearing over again her every phrase and laugh, and striving to formulate some definite plan for defending the town and fort. His heart was full of her. She had surprised his nature and filled it as with a wonderful haunting song. His youth, his imagination, all that was fresh and spontaneously gentle and natural in him

was flooded with the magnetic splendor of her beauty. And yet, in his pride, and it was not a false pride, but rather a noble regard for his birthright, he vaguely realized how far she was from him. How impossible! End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Eight. The Dilemma of Captain Helm. Uncle Jason, feeling like a fish returned to the water after a long and torturing captivity in the open air, plunged into the forest with anticipations of lively adventure and made his way toward the way up plains.

It was his purpose to get a boat at the village of Watanon and pulled thence up the Wabash until he could find out what the English were doing. He chose for his companions on this day. expedition, two expert courierre de Bois, Du Trambleau, and Jacques Belou. Fifty miles up the river, they fell in with some friendly Indians, well known to them all,

who were returning from the portage. The savages informed them that there were no signs of an English advance in that quarter. Some of them had been as far as the St. Joseph River and to within a short distance of Detroit, without seeing a white man or hearing of any suspicious movements

on the part of Hamilton. So back came Uncle Jazon with his pleasing report, much disappointed that he had not been able to stir up some sort of trouble. It was Helm's turn to laugh. What did I tell you? He cried in a jolly mood, slapping Beverly on the shoulder. I knew mighty well that it was all a big story with nothing in it. What on earth would the English be thinking about

to march an army away off down here only to capture a rotten stockade and a lot of gabbling parley booze? Beverly, while he did not feel quite as confident as his chief, was not sorry that things looked a little brighter than he had feared they would turn out to be. Secretly, and without acknowledging it to himself, he was delighted with the life he was living. The Arcadian atmosphere of Vaisen clothed him in its mists and dreams. No matter what way the weather blew its breath, cold or warm, cloudy or fair, rain or snow, the peace and his soul changed not.

His nature seemed to hold all of its sterner and fiercer traits in abeyance, while he domiciled himself absolutely within his narrow, and monotonous environment. Since the dance at the riverhouse, a new content like a soft and diffused sweetness had crept through his blood with a vague, tingling sense of joy. He began to like walking about rather aimlessly in the town's narrow streets with the mud-dobbed cabins on either side. This simple life under low, thatched roofs had a charm. When a door was opened, he could see a fire of logs on the apple hearth, shooting its yellow tongues up the sooty chimney throat. soft creole voices murmured and sang

or jangled their petty domestic discords women in scant petticoats, leggings, and moccasins swept snow from the squat verandas or fed the pigs in little sties behind the cabins. Everybody cried cheerily, as he went by, always accompanying the verbal salute with a graceful wave of the hand.

When he walked early in the morning, a waft of broiling game and browning corn scones was abroad. Potts and kettles occupied the hearths, with glowing coals heaped around and under. Shaggy dogs wind at the doors until the mensal remnants were tossed out to them in the front yard. But it was always a glimpse of Alice that must count for everything in Beverly's reckonings, albeit he would have strenuously denied it. True, he went to Rousillon place almost every day,

it being a fixed part of his well-ordered habit and had a talk with her. Sometimes, when Dame Rousillon was very busy and so quite off her guard, they read together a novel, or in certain parts of the odd volume of Montaigne. This was done more for the sweetness of disobedience than to enjoy the already familiar pages. Now and again they repeated their fencing bout, but never with the result which followed the first. Beverly soon mastered Alice's tricks and showed her that, after all, masculine muscle is not to be discounted at its own game by even the most wonderful womanly strength and suppleness. She struggled bravely to hold her vantage ground once gained so easily,

but the inevitable was not to be avoided. At last, one howling winter day, he disarmed her by the very trick she had shown him. That ended the play and they ran shivering into the house. Ah, she cried, it isn't fair. You are so much bigger than I. You have so much longer arms.

So much more weight and power. It all counts against me. You ought to be ashamed of you. yourself. She was rosy with the exhilarating exercise and the biting of the frosty breeze. Her beauty gave forth a new ray. Deep in her heart she was pleased to have him master her so superbly, but as the days passed she never said so, never gave over trying to make him feel the touch of her foil. She did not know that her eyes were getting through his guard, that her dimples were stabbing his heart to its middle. You have other advantages, he replied, which far over

balance my greater stature and stronger muscles. Then after a pause, he added. After all, a girl must be a girl. Something in his face, something in her heart, startled her so that she made a quick little move like that of a restless bird. You are beautiful, and that makes my eyes and my hand uncertain, he went on. Were I fencing with a man there would be no glamour? He spoke in English, which he did not often do in conversation with her.

It was a sign that he was somewhat wrought upon. She followed his rapid words with difficulty, but she caught from them a new note of feeling. He saw a little pale flare shoot across her face and thought she was angry. You should not use your dimples to distract my vision, he quickly added with a light laugh. It would be no worse for me to throw my hat in your face.

His attempt at levity was obviously weak. She looked straight into his eyes, with the steady gaze of a sense. simple, earnest nature shocked by a current quite strange to it. She did not understand him, and she did. Her fine intuition gathered swiftly together a hundred shreds of impression received from him during their recent growing intimacy. He was a patrician as she vaguely made him out, a man of wealth whose family was great.

He belonged among people of gentle birth and high attainments. She magnified him so that he was diffused in her imagination, as difficult to comprehend as a mist in the morning air, and as beautiful. You make fun of me, she said very deliberately, letting her eyes droop. Then she looked up again suddenly and continued with a certain naive expression of disappointment gathering in her face. I have been too free with you.

Father Beret told me not to forget my dignity when in your company. He told me you might misunderstand me. I don't care. I shall not fence with you again. She laughed, but there was no joyous freedom in the sound. "'Why, Alice, my dear Miss Oceillon, you do me a wrong. I beg a thousand pardons if I've hurt you,' he cried stepping nearer to her, and I can never forgive myself.

You have somehow misunderstood me. I know you have.' On his part it was exaggerating a mere contact of mutual feelings into a dangerous collision. He was as much self-deceived as she was and he made more noise about it. "'It is you who have misunderstood me,' she replied, smiling brightly now, but with just a faint, pitiful touch of regret or self-blame lingering in her voice. Father Beret said you would.

I did not believe him, but— And you shall not believe him, said Beverly. I have not misunderstood you. There has been nothing. You have treated me kindly and with beautiful friendliness. You have not done or said a thing that Father Beret or anybody else could criticize. And if I have said or done the least thing to trouble you I repudiate it. I did not mean it.

Now you believe me, don't you, Miss Rossillon? He seemed to be falling into the habit of speaking to her in English. She understood it somewhat imperfectly, especially when in an earnest moment he rushed his words together as if they had been soldiers he was leading at the charge step against an enemy. His manner convinced her even though his diction fell short. Then we'll talk about something else, she said laughing naturally now and retreating to a chair by the hearth side.

I want you to tell me all about yourself and your family, your home and everything. She seated herself with an air of conscious aplomb and motioned him to take a distant stool. There was a great heap of dry logs in the fireplace, with pointed flames shooting out of its crevices and leaping into the gloomy, cave-like throat of the flu. Outside, a wind passed heavily across the roof and bellowed in the chimney top. Beverly drew the stool near Alice, who with a charred stick used as a poker, was thrusting at the glowing crevices and sending showers of sparks aloft. Why, there wouldn't be much to tell, he said, glad to feel secure again.

Our home is a big old mansion named Beverly Hall on a hill among trees and half surrounded with slave cabins. It overlooks the plantation in the valley where a little river goes wandering on its way. He was speaking French and she followed him easily now, her eyes beginning to fling out again their natural sunny beams of interest. I was born there 26 years ago and haven't done much of anything since. You see before you, mademoiselle, a very undistinguished young man, who has signally failed to accomplish the dream of his boyhood, which was to be a great artist, like Raphael or Angelo.

Instead of being famous, I am but a poor lieutenant in the forces of Virginia. You have a mother, father, brothers and sisters? She interrogated. She did not understand his allusion to the great artists of whom she knew nothing. she had never before heard of them. She leaned the poker against the chimney-jam and turned her face toward him. Mother, father, and one sister, he said, no brothers. We were a happy little group, but my sister married and lives in Baltimore.

I am here. Father and mother are alone in the old house. Sometimes I am terribly homesick. He was silent a moment, then added, But you are selfish, you make me do all the telling. Now I will. want you to give me a little of your story, mademoiselle, beginning as I did at the first. But I can't, she replied with childlike frankness, for I don't know where I was born, nor my parents' names, nor who I am. You see how different it is with me. I am called Alice

Rousillon, but I suppose that my name is Alice Talleton. It is not certain, however. There is very little to help out the theory. Here is all the proof there is. I don't know that it is worth anything. she took off her locket and handed it to him he handled it rather indifferently for he was just then studying the fine lines of her face but in a moment he was interested tarleton tarleton he repeated then he turned the little disk of gold over and saw the enameled drawing on the back a crest clearly outlined he started the crest was quite familiar where did you get this he demanded in english and with such blunt suddenness that she was startled. Where did it come from? I have always had it. Always? It's the Tarleton crest. Do you belong to that family? Indeed, I do not know. Papa Rousillon says he thinks I do. Well, this is strange and interesting, said Beverly rather to himself than addressing her. He looked from the miniature to the crest and back to the

miniature again than at Alice. I tell you this is strange. He repeated with emphasis. It is exceedingly strange. Her cheeks flushed quickly under their soft brown, and her eyes flashed with excitement. Yes, I know. Her voice fluttered. Her hands were clasped in her lap. She leaned toward him eagerly.

It is strange. I've thought about it a great deal. Alice Tarleton. That is right. Alice is a name of the family. Lady Alice Tarleton was the mother of the first Sir Garnet Tarleton. who came over in the time of Yardley. It's a great family,

one of the oldest and best in Virginia. He looked at her now with a gaze of concentrated interest under which her eyes fell. Why, this is romantic, he exclaimed, absolutely romantic. And you don't know how you came by this locket.

You don't know who was your father, your mother. I do not know anything. And what does Monsieur Roussio know? Just as little. but how came he to be taking you and caring for you he must know how he got you where he got you of whom he got you surely he knows oh i know all that i was twelve years old when papa rousillon took me eight years ago i had been having a hard life and but for him i must have died i was a captive among the indians he took me and asked for me and taught me he has been very very good to me I love him dearly. And don't you remember anything at all about when, where, how the Indians got you?

No. She shook her head and seemed to be trying to recollect something. No, I just can't remember. And yet, there has always been something like a dream in my mind, which I could not quite get hold of. I know that I am not a Catholic. I vaguely remember a sweet woman who taught me to pray like this. "'Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.'

And Alice went on through the beautiful and perfect prayer, which she repeated in English with infinite sweetness and solemnity. Her eyes uplifted her hands clasped before her. Beverly could have sworn that she was a shining saint, and that he saw an oriole. "'I know,' she continued, "'that sometime, somewhere, to a very dear person, I promise that I never, never, never would pray any prayer but that.

and I remember almost nothing else about that other life, which is far off back yonder in the past, I don't know where. Sweet, peaceful, shadowy, a dream that I have all but lost from my mind. Beverly's sympathy was deeply moved. He sat for some minutes looking at her without speaking. She too was pensive and silent while the fires sputtered and sang, the great log slowly melting,

the flames tossing whips of smoke into the chimney, still booming to the wind. I know, too, that I am not French, she presently resumed, but I don't know just how I know it. My first words must have been English, for I have always dreamed of talking in that language, and my dimmest half-recollections of the old days are of a large white house and a soft-voiced black woman, who sang to me in that language the very sweetest songs in the world. It must be borne in mind that all this was told by Alice in her Creole French, half-voted. bookish, half-pat-wa, of which no translation can give any fair impression.

Beverly listened, as one who hears a clever reader in toning a strange and captivating poem. He was charmed. His imagination welcomed the story and furnished it with all that it lacked of picturesque completeness. In those days it was no uncommon thing for a white child to be found among the Indians with not a trace left by which to restore it to its people. He had often heard of such a case. But here was Alice right before him, the most beautiful girl that he had ever seen, telling him the strangest story of all. To his mind, it was clear that she belonged to the Tarleton family of Virginia. Youth always concludes a matter at once. He knew some of the Tarleton's, but it was a widely scattered family its members living in almost every colony in America.

The crest he recognized at a glance by the dragon on the helmet with three stars. It was not for a woman to bear. But doubtless it had been enameled on the locket merely as a family mark, as was often done in America. The black woman was your nurse, your mammy, he said. I know by that and by your prayer in English, as well as by your locket, that you are of a good old family. Like most southerners, he had strong faith in genealogy, and he held at his tongue's tip the names of all the old families. The Carter's, the Blairs, the Fitzhughes, the Hansons, the Randolphs, the Lees, the Ludwells, the Joneses, the Beverlies, their Tarletons.

A whole catalogue of them stretched back in his memory. He knew the coat of arms displayed by each house. He could repeat their legends. I wish you could tell me more, he went on. Can't you recollect anything further about your early childhood, your first impressions? The house, the woman who taught you to pray, the old black mammy.

Any little thing might be of priceless value as evidence. Alice shrugged her shoulders after the Creole fashion was something of her habitual levity of manner and laughed. His earnestness seemed disproportioned to the subject as she fancied he must view it, although to her it had always been something to dream over. It was impossible for her to realize, as he did, the importance of details in solving a problem like that involved

in her past history. Nor could she feel the pathos and almost tragic fascination with which her story had touched him. "'There is absolutely nothing more to tell,' she said. "'All my life I have tried to remember more, but it's impossible. "'I can't get any further back or call up another thing. "'There's no use trying. "'It's all like a dream.

"'Probably it is one. "'I do have such dreams. "'In my sleep I can lift myself into the air, just as easy, "'and fly back to the same big white house that I seem to remember. "'When you told me about your home, it was like something that I had often seen before. I shall be dreaming about it next. Beverly Cross questioned her from every possible point of view.

He was fascinated with the mystery. But she gave him nothing out of which the least further light could be drawn. A half-breed woman, it seemed, had been her Indian foster mother, a silent, grave, watchful guardian from whom not a hint of disclosure ever fell. She was, moreover, a Christian woman, who had received her convert. from an English-speaking Protestant missionary. She prayed with Alice, thus keeping in the child's mind

a perfect memory of the Lord's prayer. Well, said Beverly at last, you are more of a mystery to me the longer I know you. Then I must grow every day more distasteful to you. No, I love mystery. He went away feeling a new web of interest

binding him to this inscrutable maiden whose life seemed to him at once so full of idyllic happiness and so enshrouded in tantalizing doubt. At the first opportunity, he frankly questioned Monsieur Rousillon with no helpful result. The big Frenchman told the same meager story. The woman was dying in the time of a great epidemic

which killed most of her tribe. She gave Alice to Monsieur Roussion, but told him not a word about her ancestry or previous life. That was all. A wise old man, when he finds himself in a blind alley, no sooner touches the terminal wall than he paces about and goes back the way he came. Under like circumstances, a young man must needs try to batter the wall down with his head.

Beverly endeavored to break through the web of mystery by sheer force. It seemed to him that a vigorous attempt could not fail to succeed, but, like the fly in the spider's lines, he became more hopelessly bound at every move he made. Moreover, against his will, he was realizing that he could no longer deceive himself about Alice. He loved her. and the love was mastering him body and soul such a confession carries with it into an honest masculine heart a sense of contending responsibilities in beverly's case the clash was profoundly disturbing and now he clutched the thought that alice was not a mere child of the woods but a daughter of an old family of cavaliers with coat buttoned close against the driving wind he strode toward the fort in one of those melodramatic moods to which youth in all climes and times his subject. It was like a slap in the face when Captain Helm met him at the

stockade, Gaden said, "'Well, sir, you are good at hiding.' "'Hiding. What do you mean, Captain Helm?' he demanded, not in the mildest tone. "'I mean, sir, that I've been hunting you for an hour and more over the whole of this damn town. The English and Indians are upon us, and there's no time for fooling. Where are all the men? Beverly comprehended the situation in a second. Helm's face was congested with excitement. Some scouts had come in with the news that Governor Hamilton, at the head of five or six hundred soldiers and Indians, was only three or four miles up the river. Where are all the men? Helm repeated.

Buffalo hunting most of them, said Beverly. What in hell are they off hunting buffaloes for? raged the excited captain. You might go to hell and see, Beverly suggested, and they both laughed in sheer masculine contempt of a predicament too grave for anything but grim mirth. What could they do? Even Uncle Jazon and René de Ronville were off with the hunters. Helm sent for Monsieur Rousillon in the desperate hope that he could suggest something, but he lost his head and hustled off to hide his money and valuables. Indeed, the French people all felt that so far as they were concerned, the chief thing was to save what they had. They well knew that it mattered little which of the two masters held over them.

They must shift for themselves. In their hearts, they were true to France and America, but France and America could not now protect them against Hamilton, therefore it would be like suicide to magnify patriotism or any other sentiment objectionable to the English. So they acted upon Monsieur Roussion's advice and offered no resistance when the new army approached. my poor people are not disloyal to your flag and your cause said good father beret next morning to captain helm but they are powerless winter is upon us what would you have us do this rickety fort is not available for defence the men are nearly all far away on the plains isn't it the part of prudence and common sense to make the best of a desperate situation should we resist the british and their savage allies would destroy the town and commit outrages too horrible to think about in this case diplomacy promises much more than a hopeless fight against an overwhelming force i'll fight em helm ground out between his teeth if i have to do it single-handed and alone i'll fight him till hell freezes over father beret smiled grimly as if he too would enjoy a lively skirmish

on the ice of Taupheth and said, I admire your courage, my son. Fighting is perfectly proper upon fair occasion. But think of the poor women and children. These old eyes of mine have seen some terrible things done

by enraged savages. Men can die fighting, but they are poor wives and daughters. Ah, I have seen. I have seen. Beverly felt a pang of terror shoot through his heart as Father Beres' simple words made him think of Alice in connection with an Indian massacre. "'Of course, of course, it's horrible to think of,' said Helm.

"'But my duty is clear in that flag.' He pointed to where La Bagnier de Alice Rousillon was almost blowing away in the cold wind. "'That flag shall not come down save in full honor.' His speech sounded preposterously boastful Aunt Ollo, but he was manfully in earnest. Every word came from his brave heart. Father Beres's grim smile returned, lighting up his strongly marked face with the strangest expression imaginable.

We will get all the women inside the fort, Helm began to say, where the Indians will find them ready, bend up and at their mercy, quickly interpolated the priest. That we'll not do. Well, then, what can be done? Beverly demanded,

turning with a fierce stare upon Father Beret, Don't stand there objecting to everything with not a suggestion of your own to offer. I know what is best for my people, the old man replied softly still smiling. I have advised them to stay inside their houses and take no part in the military event. It is the only hope of averting an indiscriminate massacre and things worse. The curt phrase things worse went like a bullet stroke through Beverly's heart. It flashed an awful picture upon his vision. Father Beret saw his face whiten and his lips set themselves to resist a great emotion.

Do not be angry with me, my son, he said laying a hand on the young man's arm. I may be wrong, but I act upon long and convincing experience. Experience or no experience, Helm exclaimed with an oath. This fort must be manned and defended. I am commanding here. Yes, I recognize your authority, responded the priest in a firm yet deferential tone. And I heartily wish you had a garrison.

But where is your command, Captain Helm? Then it was that the doughty captain let loose the accumulated profanity with which he had been for some time well-nigh bursting. He tiptoed in order to curse with extremist violence. His gestures were, were threatening. He shook his fists at Father Beret without really meaning offense. Where is my garrison, you ask? Yes, and I can tell you. It's where you might expect a gang of

dad blasted, jaffering French good for nothings to be, off high gannicking around shooting buffaloes instead of staying here and defending their wives, children's homes, and country damned their everlasting souls. The few I have in the fort will sneak off, I suppose. The French gave you this post on easy terms, Captain, blandly retorted Father Beret. Yes, and they'll hand it over to Hamilton, you think, on the same basis, cried Helm. But I'll show you, I'll show you, Mr. Priest. Pardon me, Captain.

The French are loyal to you and to the flag yonder. They have sworn it. Time will prove it. But in the present desperate dilemma, we must choose the safer horn. Saying this, Father Beret turned about and went his way. He was chuckling heartily as he passed out of the gate. He is right, said Beverly, after a few moments of reflection during which he was wholly occupied with Alice,

whose terrified face in his anticipation appealed to him from the midst of howling savages, smoking cabins and mangled victims of lust and massacre. His imagination painted the scene with a merciless realism that chilled his blood. All the sweet romance. "'Cants fell away from Vesen. "'Well, sir, right or wrong, your duty is to obey orders,' said Helm with brutal severity.

"'We had better not quarrel, Captain,' Beverly replied. "'I have not signified any unwillingness to obey your commands. "'Give them, and you will have no cause to grumble.' "'Forgive, old fellow,' cried the impulsive commander. "'I know you are true as steel. "'I suppose I'm wound up too tight to be polite. but the time has come to do something. Here we are with but five or six men.

He was interrupted by the arrival of two more half-breed scouts. Only three miles away was a large flotilla of boats and canoes with cannon, a force of Indians on land and the British flag flying. That was the report. They are moving rapidly, said the spokesman, and will be here very soon. They are at least six hundred strong, all well armed. "'Push that gun to the gate and load it to the muzzle, Lieutenant Beverly.' Helm ordered with admirable firmness, the purple flush in his face giving way to a grayish pallor.

"'We are going to die right here or have the honors of war.' Beverly obeyed without a word. He even loaded two guns instead of one, charging each so heavily that the last wad looked as if ready to leap from the grimy mouth. Helm had already begun on receiving the first report a hasty letter to Colonel Clark at Kaskaskia. He now added a few words and at the last moment sent it out by a trusted man who was promptly captured by Hamilton's advance guard. The missive, evidently written in installments during the slow approach of the British, is still in the Canadian archives and runs thus. Dear sir, at this time there is an army within three miles of this place. I heard of their coming several days beforehand.

I sent spies to find the certainty. The spies being taken prisoner, I never got intelligence till they got within three miles of town. As I had called the militia and had all assurances of their integrity, I ordered at the firing of a cannon every man to appear, but I saw but few. Captain Busson behaved much to his honour and credit, but I doubt the conduct of a certain gent. Excuse haste as the army is in sight.

My determination is to defend the garrison, though I have but twenty-one men but what has left me. I refer you to Mr. Wems, for the rest. The army is within three hundred yards of the village. You must think how I feel. Not for men that I really depend upon. But I am determined to act brave. Think of my condition. I know it is out of my power to defend the town, as not one of the militia will take arms, though before sight of the army no braver men. There is a flag at a small distance. I must conclude. Your humble servant, Leonard Helm, must stop. To Colonel Clark.

Having completed this task, the letter shows under what a nervous strain Helm turned to his lieutenant and said, Fire a swivel with a black charge. We'll give these weak-need parley-boos one more call to duty. Of course not a frog-eater of them all will come. But I said that a gun should be the signal. Possibly they didn't hear the first one, the damned deaf cowardly hounds?

Beverly wheeled forth the swivel and rammed a charge of powder home. But when he fired it, the effect was far from what it should have been. Instead of calling in a fresh body of militia, it actually drove out the few who up to that moment had remained as a garrison, so that Captain Helm and his lieutenant found themselves quite alone in the fort, while out before the gate deployed in fine open order, a strong line of British soldiers approached with sturdy steps led by a tall, erect a ruddy-faced young officer.

End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of Alice of Old Binsenne by Maurice Thompson. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. 9. The Honors of War Gaspar Rusillon was thoroughly acquainted with savage warfare, and he knew all the Pacific means so successfully and so long used by French missionaries and traitors to control savage character. But the emergencynesses

upon him was startling. It confused him. The fact that he had taken a solemn oath of allegiance to the American government could have been pushed aside lightly enough upon pressing occasion, but he knew that certain confidential agents left in Vincennes by Governor Abbott had, upon the arrival of Helm, gone to Detroit, and of course they had carried thither a full report of all that happened in the Church of St. Xavier, when Father Gibo called the people together and at the fort, when the British flag was hauled down and La Bagnéard de Les Rousseaucyon run up in its place. His expansive imagination did full credit to itself in exaggerating the importance of his part in handing the post over to the rebels. And what would Hamilton think of this? Would he consider it treason?

The question certainly bore a tragic suggestion. Monsieur Rousillon lacked everything of being a coward and treachery had no rightful place in his nature. He was, however, so in the habit of fighting windmills and making mountains of molehills that he could not at first glance see any sudden presentment with a normal vision. He had no love for Englishmen and he did like Americans, but he naturally thought that Helm's talk of fighting Hamilton was, as his own would have been in a like case talk and nothing more. The fort could not hold out an hour he well knew.

Then what? Ah, he but too well realized the result. Resistance would inflame the English soldiers and madden the Indians. There would be a massacre in the best of the best of the result. belts of savages with sag with bloody scalps. He shrugged his shoulders and felt a chill creep up his back. The first thing Monsieur Rousillon did was to see Father Beret and take counsel of him. Then he hurried home to dig a great pit under his kitchen floor in which he buried many

bales of fur and all his most valuable things. He worked like a giant beaver all night long. Meantime, Father Beret went about over the town, quietly notifying the inhabitants to remain in their houses until after the four-year-old. which he was sure would happen the next day. You will be perfectly safe, my children, he said to them. No harm can come to you if you follow my directions. Relying implicitly upon him, they scrupulously obeyed in every particular.

He did not think it necessary to call at Rousillon place, having already given Monsieur Roussion the best advice he could command. Just at the earliest break of day, while yet the gloom of night scarcely felt the sun's approach, a huge figure made haste along the narrow streets in the northern part of the town. If any person had been looking out through the little holes called windows in those silent and railess huts, it would have been easy to recognize Monsieur Rousillon by his stature and his gate dimly outlined as he was. A thought, which seemed to him an inspiration of genius, had taken possession of him and was leading him as if by the nose, straight away to Hamilton's

lines. He was freighted with eloquence for the ear of that commander, and as he strode along, facing the crisp morning air he was rehearsing under his breath, emphasizing his periods in tragic whispers with sweeping gestures and liberal facial contortions. So absorbed was he in his oratorical soliloquy that he forgot due military precaution and ran plump into the face of a savage picket guard who, without respect for the great Monsieur Rousillon's dignity, sprang up before him, grunted cavernously, flourished a tomahawk and spoke an excellent and exceedingly gusual Indian. Wow, surrender. It is probable that no man ever complied with a modest request in a more docile spirit than did Monsieur Rousillon upon that occasion. In fact, his promptness must have been admirable,

for the savage grunted approval and straightway conducted him to Hamilton's headquarters on a bateau in the river. The British commander, a hailman of sandy complexion and probably under middle age, was in no very pleasant humor. Some of his orders had been misunderstood by the the chief of his Indian allies, so that a premature exposure of his approach had been made to the enemy. Well, sir, who are you? He gruffly demanded when Monsieur Rousillon loomed before him. I am Gaspar Rousillon, the mayor of Vaisen, was the lofty reply. I have come to announce to you officially that my people greet you loyally and that my town is freely at your command. He felt as important as if his statements had been true. Huh, that's it, is it?

well mr mayor you have my congratulations but i should prefer seeing the military commander and accepting his surrender what account can you give me of the american forces their numbers and condition m rousillon winced inwardly at least under hamilton's very undeferential air and style of address it piqued him cruelly to be treated as a person without the slightest claim to respect he somehow forgot the rolling and rhythmical eloquence prepared for the occasion the american commander naturally would not confide in me monsieur le governor not at all we are not very friendly he ousted me from office he offended me he was coughing and stammering "'Oh, the devil, what do I care?' "'Answer my question, sir,' Hamilton gruffly interrupted. "'Tell me the number of American troops at the fort, sir.' "'I don't know exactly.

I have not had admittance to the fort. I might be deceived as two numbers. But they're strong, I believe, Monsieur le Governeur. At least they make a great show and much noise.' Hamilton eyed the huge bulk before him for a moment, then turning to a subaltern, said, Place this fellow under guard and see that he doesn't get away. Send word immediately to Captain Farnsworth that I wish to see him at once.

The interview thereupon closed abruptly. Hamilton's emissaries had given him a detailed account of Monsieur Roussion's share in submitting Vassin to rebel dominion, and he was not in the least inclined toward treating him graciously. I would suggest to you, Monsieur de Governor, that my official position demands, Monsieur Roussion began, but he was fastened upon by two guards who roughly hustled him aft and bound him so rigidly that he could scarcely move finger or toe.

Hamilton smiled coldly and turned to give some orders to a stalwart, ready young officer, who in a canoe had just rode alongside the bateau. Captain Farnsworth, he said, acknowledging the military salute, you will take fifty men and make everything ready for a reconnaissance in the direction of the fort. We will move down the river immediately and choose a place to land. Move lively. We have no time to lose. In the meantime, Beverly slipped away from the fort and made a hurried call upon Alice at Rousillon Place. There was not much they could say to each other during the few moments at command. Alice showed very little excitement. Her past experience had fortified her against the alarms of frontier life,

but she understood and perfectly appreciated the situation. What are you going to do? Beverly demanded in sheer despair. He was not able to see any gleam of hope out of the blackness which had fallen around him and into his soul. What shall you do? he repeated. Take the chances of war, she said smiling gravely. It will all come out well, no doubt. I hope so, but, but I fear not. His face was grey with trouble.

Helm is determined to fight, and that means. Good, she interrupted with spirit. I am so glad of that. I wish I could go to help him. If I were a man. man I'd love to fight. I think it's just delightful. But it is reckless bravado. It is worse than foolishness, said Beverly, not feeling her mood. What can two or three men do against an army?

Fight and die like men, she replied her whole countenance lighting up. Be heroic. We will do that, of course. We... I do not fear death. But you, you... His voice choked him. A gunshot rang out clear in the distance, and he... did not finish speaking. That's probably the beginning, he added in a moment, extending both hands to her. Goodbye. I must hurry to the fort. Goodbye. She drew a quick breath and turned so white that her look struck him like a sudden and hard blow. He stood for a moment, his arms at full reach then. My God, Alice, I cannot, cannot leave you, he cried his voice again, breaking huskily. She made a little movement as if to take hold of his hands.

but in an instant she stepped back a pace and said, Don't fear about me. I can take care of myself. I'm all right. You'd better return to the fort as quickly as you can. It is your country, your flag, not me that you must think of now. She folded her arms and stood boldly erect. Never before in all his life had he felt such a rebuke. He gave her a straight, strong look in the eyes. You are right, Alice, he cried and rushed from the house to the

the fort. She held her rigid attitude for a little while after she heard him shut the front gate of the yard so forcibly that it broke in pieces, then she flung her arms wide as if to clasp something and ran to the door, but Beverly was out of sight. She turned and dropped into a chair. Jean came to her out of the next room. His queer little face was pale and pinched, but his jaw was set with the expression of one who has known danger and can meet it somehow. Are they going to scalp us? He half whispered presently with a shuddering lift

of his distorted shoulders. Her face was buried in her hands and she did not answer. Childlike, he turned from one question to another inconsequently. Where did Papa Roussion go to? He next inquired. Is he going to fight?

She shook her head. They'll tear down the fort, won't they? If she heard him, she did not make any sign. They'll kill the captain. and lieutenant, and get the fine flag that you set so high on the fort, won't they, Alice?' She lifted her head and gave the cowering hunchback such a stare that he shut his eyes and put up a hand as if afraid of her. Then she impulsively took his little misshapen form in her arms and hugged it passionately.

Her bright hair fell all over him, almost hiding him. Madame Rousillon was lying on a bed in an adjoining room, moaning diligently, at intervals handling her rosary and repeating a prayer. whole town was silent outside. Why don't you go get the pretty flag down and hide it before they come? Jean murmured from within the silken meshes of Alice's hair. In his small mind, the gaudy banner was the most beautiful of all things. Every day since it was set up, he had gone to gaze at it as it fluttered against the sky.

The men had frequently said in his presence that the enemy would take it down if they captured the fort. Alice heard his inquisitive voice, but it seemed to come from far off. His words were a part of the strange, wild swirl in her bosom. Beverly's look as he turned and left her now shook every court of her being. He had gone to his death at her command. How strong and true and brave he was. In her imagination she saw the flag above him, saw him die like a panther at bay, saw the gay rag snatched down and torn to shreds by savage hands.

It was the tragedy of a single moment enacted in a flashed. of anticipation. She released Jean so suddenly that he fell to the floor. She remembered what she had said to Beverly on the night of the dance when they were standing under the flag. You made it and set it up, he lightly remarked. You must see that no enemy ever gets possession of it, especially the English. I'll take it down and hide it when there's danger of that, she said in the same spirit. And now she stood there looking at Jean without seeing him and repeated the words under her breath. I'll take it down and hide it.

They shan't have it. Madame Rousillon began to call from the other room in a loud, complaining voice, but Alice gave no heed to her querulous demands. Stay here, Jean, and take care of Mama Rousion, she presently said to the hunchback, I am going out. I'll be back soon. Don't you dare leave the house while I am gone.

Do you hear? She did not wait for his answer, but snatching a hood-like fur cap from a peg on the wall, she put it on and hastily left the house. Down at the fort, Helm and Beverly were making ready to resist Hamilton's attack, which they knew would not be long deferred. The two heavily charged cannon were planted so as to cover the space in front of the gate, and some loaded muskets were ranged nearby ready for use.

"'We'll give them one hell of a blast,' growled the captain, before they overpower us. Beverly made no response in words, but he was preparing a bit of tinder on the end of a stick with which to fire the cannon. Not far away a little heap of logs was burning in the fort's area. The British officer already mentioned, as at the head of the line advancing diagonally from the river's bank, halted his men at a distance of 300 yards from the fort,

and seemed to be taking a deliberately careful survey of what was before him. "'Let him come a little nearer, Lieutenant,' said Helm, his jaw setting itself like a lion's. "'When we shoot, we want a hit!' He stooped and squinted along his gun. "'When they get to that weedy spot out yonder,' he added, "'just opposite the little rise in the riverbank, "'we'll turn loose on him.' Beverly had arranged his primitive match to suit his fancy,

and probably for the twentieth time looked critically to the powder in the beveled touchhold of his old cannon. He and Helm were facing the enemy with their backs to the main area of the stockade, when a well-known voice attracted their attention to the rear. Any room for a fellow of my size in this here crowded place? He demanded in a cracked but cheerful tenor. I'm kind of out in breath running to get here.

They turned about. It was Uncle Jason with his long rifle on his shoulder and wearing a very important air. He spoke in English, using the backwoods lingo with the ease of long practice. As I's coming in from a huntin, I tak notice at some. "'I see a lot of boats on the river and some fellers with guns are scooting around, "'so I just slipped by them all and come in the back way. "'There's plenty of them, I tell you what.

"'I can't shoot much, but I took one chance at a buck Indian out yonder "'and just happened to hit him in the left eye. "'He was one of the gang that scalped me down yonder in Cain Duck.' The greasy old sinner looked as if he had not been washed since he was born. He glanced about with furtive, shifty eyes, grimaced and winked after the manner of an animal just waking from a lazy nap. Where's the rest of the fighters? He demanded quizzically, lolling out his tongue and peeping past Helm so as to get a glimpse of the English line. Where's your Garrison? Have they all gone to breakfast?

The last question set Helm off again. cursing and swearing in the most melodramatic rage. Uncle Chazone turned to Beverly and said in rapid French, "'Surely the man's not going to fight those fellows yonder?' Beverly nodded rather gloomily. "'Well,' added the old man, fingering his rifle stock and taking another glance through the gate, "'I can't shoot toward a cent, being sort of nervous like.

But I'll stand by ye a while just for luck. I might accidentally hit one of them. When a man is truly brave himself, there is nothing that touches him like an exhibition of absolute unselfish gameness in another. A rush of admiration for Uncle Jasso made Beverly feel like hugging him. Meantime, the young British officer

showed a flag of truce, and with a file of men, separated himself from the line now stationary and approached the stockade. At a hundred yards, he halted the file and came on alone. waving the white clout. He boldly advanced to within easy speaking distance and shouted, I demand surrender of this fort.

Well, you'll not get it, young man, roared Helm, his profanity well mixed in with the words, not while there's a man of us left. Ye'd better use have soap on him, Captain, said Uncle Jason in English. Custin won't do no good. While he spoke, he rubbed the doughty captain's arm, patted it gently. Helm, who was not half as excited as he pretended to be, knew that Uncle Chazard's remark was the very essence of wisdom, but he was not yet ready for the diplomatic language

which the old trooper called soft soap. "'Are you the British commander?' he demanded. "'No,' said the officer, but I speak for him. "'Not to me, by a damned sight, sir. Tell your commander that I will hear what he has to say from his own mouth. No wonder strapper will be recognized by me. That ended the conference. The young officer evidently indignance strode back to his line and an hour later, Hamilton himself demanded the unconditional surrender of the fort and garrison. Fight for it, Helm stormed forth. We are soldiers. Hamilton held a confab with his officers

while his forces under cover of the town's cabins were deploying so as to form a half-circle about the stockade. Some artillery appeared and was planted directly opposite the gate, not three hundred yards distant. One blast of that battery would, as Halmwell knew, level a large part of the stockade. "'Sposen I have a cannon, too,

seeing it's the fashion,' said Uncle Jason. "'I can't shoot much, but I might scare them. This little one'll do me.' He set his rifle against the wall, and with Beverly's help rolled one the swivels alongside the guns already in position. In a few minutes, Hamilton returned under the white flag and shouted, "'Upon what terms will you surrender?'

"'All the honors of war!' Helm firmly replied. "'It's that or fight, and I don't care a damn which.' Hamilton half turned away as if done with the party, then facing the fort again, said, "'Very well, sir. Hold down your flag.' Helm was dumbfounded at this prompt acceptance of his terms. Indeed, the incident is unique in history. As Hamilton spoke, he very naturally glanced up to where La Banner d'Alice Rusillon waved brilliantly. Someone stood beside it on the dilapidated roof of the old

blockhouse and was already taking it from its place. His aide, Captain Farnsworth, saw this, and the vision made his heart dry in a strong, hot flood. It was a girl in short skirts and moccasins with a fur hood on her head, her face thrillingly beautiful, set around with fluffs of wind-blown brown-gold hair. Farnsworth was too young to be critical and too old to let his eyes deceive him. Every detail of the fine sketch with its steel-blue background of sky flashed into his mind's sharp cut as a cameo. Involuntarily he took off his hat.

Alice had come in by way of the post-turn. She mounted to the roof unobserved and made her way to the flag just at the moment when Helm, glad at heart to accept the easiest way out of a tight place, asked Uncle Jason to lower it. Beverly was thinking of Alice, and when he looked up he could scarcely realize that he saw her, but the whole situation was plain the instant she snatched the staff from its place, for he too recollected what she had said at the River House. The memory and the present scene blended perfectly during the fleeting instant that she was visible.

He saw that Alice was smiling somewhat as in her most mischievous moods, and when she jerked the staff from its fastening, she lifted it high and waved it once, thrice, thrice defiantly toward the British lines, then fled down the ragged roof slope with it and disappeared. The vision remained in Beverly's eyes forever afterward. The English troops, thinking that the flag was taken down in token of surrender, broke into a wild tumult of shouting. Uncle Jason intuitively understood just what Alice was doing, for he knew her nature and could read her face. His blood effervescent in an instant. "'Vive as Oz, Vassington!' "'Vive the bannier of Alice Rousillon!'

He screamed, waving his disreputable cap round his scalpless head. Hurrah for George Washington! Hurrah for Alice Roussion's flag! It was all over soon. Helm surrendered himself and Beverly with full honors. As for Uncle Jason, he disappeared at the critical moment. It was not just to his mind to be a prisoner of war,

especially under existing conditions. for Hamilton's Indian allies at some old war-pass scores to settle with him dating back to the days when he and Simon Kenton were comrades in Kentucky. When Alice snatched the banner and descended with it to the ground, she ran swiftly out through the post-turn

as she had once before done, and sped along under cover of the low bluff or swell which terrace-like bounded the flat bottomlands southward of the stockade. She kept on until she reached a point opposite Father Beres-Hut to which she then ran,

the flag streaming bravely behind her in the wind, her heart beating time to her steps. It was plainly a great surprise to Father Beret, who looked up from his prayer when she rushed in, making a startling clatter, the loose punchons shaking together under her reckless feet. Oh, father, here it is. Hide it, hide it quick. She thrust the flag toward him.

They shall not have it. They shall never have it. He opened wide his shrewd, kindly eyes, but did not fairly comprehend her meaning. She was panting, half laughing, half crying. Her hair, wildly disheveled, hung in glorious masses over her shoulders. Her face beamed triumphantly. They are taking the fort,

she breathlessly added, again urging the flag upon him. They are going in, but I got this and ran away with it. Hide it, father. Hide it quick, quick, before they come. The daring light in her eyes, the witching play of her dimples,

the madcap air intensified by her attitude and the excitement of the violent exercise just ended, something compounded of all these and more affected the good priest strangely. Involuntarily he crossed himself as if against a dangerous charm. "'Mondieu, Father Beret,' she exclaimed with impatience. "'Haven't you a grain of sense left?

Take this flag and hide it, I tell you. Don't stay there gazing and blinking. Here, quick, they saw me take it, they may be following me. "'Hurry, hide it somewhere.' He comprehended now, rising from his knees with a queer smile broadening on his face. She put the banner into his hands and gave him a gentle push. "'Hide it, I tell you, hide it, you dear old goose!'

Without speaking, he turned the staff over and over in his hand until the flag was closely wrapped around it, then stooping he lifted a puncheon and with it covered the gay roll from sight. Alice caught him in her arms and kissed him vigorously on the cheek. Her warm lips made the spot tingle. Don't you dare let any person have it. It's the flag of George Washington. She gave him a strong squeeze. He pushed her from him with both hands

and hastily crossed himself, but his eyes were laughing. You ought to have seen me. I waved the flag at them, at the English, and one young officer took off his hat to me. Oh, Father Beret, it was like what is in a novel. They'll get the fort, but not the first. banner. Not the banner. I've saved it. I've saved it. Her enthusiasm gave a splendor to her

countenance, heightening its riches of color and somehow adding to its natural girlish expression in audacious sweetness. The triumphant success of her undertaking lent the dignity of conscious power to her look, a dignity which always sits well upon a young and somewhat immaturely beautiful face. Father Beret could not resist her fervid eloquence, and he could not run away from her or stop up his ears while she went on. So he had to laugh when she said, Oh, if you had seen it all, you would have enjoyed it. There was Uncle Jason squatting behind the little swivel,

and there were Captain Helm and Lieutenant Beverly holding their burning sticks over the big cannon ready to shoot. All of them so intent that they didn't see me. And yonder came the English officer and his army against the three. When they got close to the gate, the officer called out, Surrender! And then Captain Helm. helm yelled back damned if i do come another step and i'll blow you all to hell in a second i was mightily in hopes that they'd come on i wanted to see a cannon-ball hit that english commander right in the face he looked so arrogant

father beret shook his head and tried to look disapproving and solemn meantime down at the fort hamilton was demanding the flag he had seen alice take it down and supposed that it was lowered officially and would be turned over to him now he wanted to handle it as the best token of his bloodless but important victory i didn't order the flag down until after i had accepted your terms said helm and when my man started to obey we saw a young lady snatch it and run away with it who was the girl i do not inform on women said helm hamilton smiled grimly with a vexed look in his eyes and turned to captain farnsworth and ordered him to bring up m roussillon who when he appeared still had his head but he had his head and turned to captain farnsworth and ordered him to bring up m roussillon who when he appeared still had his head hands tied together. Tell me the name of the young woman who carried away the flag from the fort. You saw her. You know every soul in this town. Who was it, sir?

It was a hard question for Monsieur Rousillon to answer. Although his humiliating captivity had somewhat cowed him, still his love for Alice made it impossible for him to give up the information demanded by Hamilton. He choked and stammered, but finally managed to say, "'I assure you that I don't know. I didn't look. I didn't see.

It was too far off for me, too. I was somewhat excited. I—' "'Take him away. Keep him securely bound,' said Hamilton. "'Confine him. We'll see how long it will take to refresh his mind. We'll puncture the big windbag.'

While this skirt scene was passing, the flag of Great Britain rose over the fort to the lusty cheering of the victorious soldiers. Hamilton treated Helm and Beverly with extreme courtesy. He was a soldier, gruff, unscrupulous and cruel to a degree, but he could not help admiring the daring behavior of these two officers who had rung from him the best terms of surrender. He gave them full liberty on parole of honor not to attempt escape

or to aid in any way an enemy against him while they were prisoners. Nor was it long before Helm's genial and sociable disposition when the Englishman's respect and confidence to such an extent that the two became almost inseparable companions, playing cards, brewing toddies, telling stories, and even shooting deer in the woods together, as if they had always been the best of friends. Hamilton did not permit his savage allies to enter the town, and he immediately required the French inhabitants to swear allegiance to Great Britain, which they did with apparent hardiness, all save Monsieur Rousillon, who was kept in close confinement and bound like a felon,

chafing lugubriously and wearing the air of a martyr. his prison was a little log pen in one corner of the stockade much open to the weather, its gaping cracks, giving him a dreary view of the frozen landscape through which the Wabash flowed in a broad steel-gray current. Helm, who really liked him, tried in vain to procure his release, but Hamilton was inexorable on account of what he regarded as duplicity in Monsieur Rouss' conduct. No, I'll let him reflect, he said. There's nothing like a little tyranny to break up a bad case of self-importance.

He'll soon find out that he has overrated himself. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of Alice of Old Vincent by Maurice Thompson. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Ten. Monsieur Rousillon entertains Colonel Hamilton. A day or two after the arrival of Hamilton, the absent garrison of buffalo hunters straggled back to Vincennes, and were duly sworn to demean themselves as lawful

subjects of Great Britain. René de Rondville was among the first to take the oath, and it promptly followed that Hamilton ordered him pressed into service as a woodchopper and log hauler during the erection of a new blockhouse, large barracks, and the making of some extensive repairs of the stockade. Nothing could have been more humiliating to the proud young Frenchman. Every day he had to report bright and early to a burly Irish corporal and be ordered about, as if he had been a slave, cursed at, threatened and forced to work until he was.

his hands were blistered and his muscles sore. The bitterest part of it all was that he had to trudge past both Roussillon Place and the Bursier cabin with the eyes of Alice and Adrianne upon him. Hamilton did not forget Monsieur Roussion in this connection. The giant orator soon found himself face to face with a greater trial even than René's. He was calmly told by the English commander

that he could choose between death and telling who it was that stole the flag. "'I'll have you shot, sir, "'tomorrow morning if you prevaricate about this thing any longer,' said Hamilton with a right deadly strain in his voice. "'You told me that you knew every man, woman and child, and Vesan at sight. "'I know that you saw that girl take the flag. "'Lying does not serve your turn.

"'I give you until this evening to tell me who she is. "'If you fail, you die at sunrise tomorrow.' "'In fact, it may be that Hamilton did not really purpose "'to carry out this bloodthirsty threat. most probably he relied upon Monsieur Rousillon's imagination to torture him successfully, but the effect as time proved could not be accurately foreseen. Captain Farnsworth had energy enough for a dozen ordinary men. Before he had been in Vé Céns'n twelve hours he had seen every nook and corner of its surface.

Nor was his activity due altogether to military ardor, although he never let pass an opportunity to serve the best interests of his commander. All the while his mind was on the state. strikingly beautiful girl whose saucy countenance had so dazzled him from the rooftop of the fort what time she wrenched away the rebel flag. I'll find her high or low, he thought, for I never could fail to recognize that face. She's a trump. It was not in Alice's nature to hide from the English.

They had held the town and fort before helm came, and she had not found them troublesome under Abbott. She did not know that Monsieur Rousillon was a prisoner, the family's taking it for granted that he had gone away to avoid the English. Nor was she aware that Hamilton felt so keenly the disappearance of the flag. What she did know and it gladdened her greatly was that Beverly had been well treated by his captor. With this in her heart she went about Oseonple singing Mary's snatches of Creole songs, and when at the gate, which still hung lopsided on account of Beverly's force in shutting it, she came unexpectedly face to face with Captain Farnsworth. There was no great surprise on her part.

He lifted his hat and bowed very politely, but a bold smile broke over his somewhat ruddy face. He spoke in French, but in a drawling tone and with a bad accent. How do you do, mademoiselle? I am mart glad to see you again. Alice drew back a pace or two. She was quick to understand his illusion, and she shrank from him, fearing that he was going to inquire about the flag. "'Don't be afraid,' he laughed. "'I am not so dangerous. I never did hurt a girl in a all my life. In fact, I am fond of them when they're nice. I am not in the least afraid, she replied, assuming an air of absolute dismissal.

And you don't look a bit ferocious, monsieur? You may pass on, if you please. He flushed and bit his lip, probably to keep back some hasty retort and thought rapidly for a moment. She looked straight at him with eyes that stirred and dazzled him. He was handsome in a coarse way, like a fine young animal, well-groomed, well-groomed, well- self-fed, magnetic, forceful, but his boldness being of a sort to which she had not been accustomed disturbed her vaguely and strangely.

Suppose that I don't pass on, he presently ventured with just a suspicion of insolence in his attitude, but laughing until he showed teeth of remarkable beauty and whiteness. Suppose that I should wish to have a little chat with you, mademoiselle. I have been told that there are men in the world

who think themselves handsome, and clever, and brilliant, when in fact they are but conceited simpletons. She remarked rather indifferently, muffling herself in her fur wrap. You certainly would be a fairly good hitching post for our horses if you never moved. Then she laughed out of the depth of her hood

a perfectly merry laugh, but not in the least flattering to Captain Farnsworth's vanity. He felt the scorn that it conveyed. His face grew redder, while a flash from hers made him wish that he had been more gracious in his deportment. here, to his surprise, was not a mere Creole girl of the wild frontier. Her superiority struck him with the force of a captivating revelation

under the light of which he blinked and winced. She laid a shapely hand on the broken gate and pushed it open. I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. His manner softened as he spoke. I beg your pardon. But I came to speak to you about the flag. The flag you took away from the fort. She had been half expecting.

this, but she was quite unprepared, and in spite of all she could do, showed embarrassment. I have come to get the flag. If you will kindly bring it to me or tell me where it is, I—' She quickly found words to interrupt him with, and at the same time, by a great effort, pulled herself together. You have come to the wrong place, she flung in. I assure you that I haven't the flag. You took it down, mademoiselle. Oh, did I? "'With bewitching grace you did, mademoiselle. "'I saw and admired.

"'Will you fetch it, please?' "'Indeed I won't.' "'The finality in her voice belied her face, "'which beamed without a ray of stubbornness or perversity. "'He did not know how to interpret her, "'but he felt that he had begun wrong. "'He half regretted that he had begun at all. "'More depends upon returning that flag

"'than you are probably aware of,' "'he presently said, in a more serious tone. In fact, the life of one of your townsmen and a person of some importance here, I believe, will surely be saved by it. You'd better consider, mademoiselle. You wouldn't like to cause the death of a man.

She did not fairly grasp the purport of his words, yet the change in his manner and the fact that he turned from French to English and making the statement aroused a sudden feeling of dread or dark apprehension in her breast. The first distinct thought was of Beverly, that some deadly danger threatened him. Who is it? she frankly demanded.

It's the mayor, the big man of your town, Monsieur Rousillon, I think he calls himself. He's got himself into a tight place. He'll be shot tomorrow morning if that flag is not produced. Governor Hamilton has so ordered, and what he orders is done. You jest, monsieur. I assure you that I speak the plain truth. You will probably catch Monsieur Roussion

before you shoot him, she tossed her head. He is already a prisoner in the fort. Alice turned pale. Monsieur, is this true? Her voice had lost its happy tone. Are you telling me that, too? You can verify it, mademoiselle, by calling upon the commander at the fort.

I am sorry that you doubt my veracity. If you will go with me, I will show you, Monsieur Rousillon, a tightly bound prisoner. Jean had crept out of the gate and was standing just behind Alice with his feet wide apart, his long chin elevated, his head resting far back between his upthrust shoulders, his hands in his pockets, his uncanny eyes gazing steadily at Farnsworth. He looked like a deformed frog ready to jump. Alice unmistakably saw truth in the captain's countenance and felt it in his voice.

The reality came to her with unhindered effect. Monsieur Roussillon's life depended upon the return. return of the flag. She put her hands together and for a moment covered her eyes with them. "'I will go now, mademoiselle,' said Parnsworth. "'But I hope you will be in great haste about returning the flag.' He stood looking at her. He was profoundly touched and felt that to say more would be too brutal even for his coarse nature, so he simply lifted his hat and went away. Jean took hold of Alice's dress as she turned to go back into the house.

"'Is he going to take the flag? "'Can he find it? "'What does he want with it? "'What did you do with the flag, Alice?' "'He whined in his peculiar quavering voice. "'Where is it?' "'Her skirt dragged him along as she walked. "'Where did you put it, Alice?'

"'Father Beret hid it under his floor,' "'she answered involuntarily and almost unconsciously. "'I shall have to take it back and give it up.' "'No, no, I wouldn't.' He quavered, dancing across the veranda as she quickened her pace and fairly spun him along. I wouldn't let him have it at all. Alice's mind was working with lightning speed. Her imagination took strong grip on the situation so briefly and effectively sketched by Captain Farnsworth.

Her decision formed itself quickly. Stay here, Jean. I am going to the fort. Don't tell Mama Roussio a thing. Be a good boy. She was gone before Jean. could say a word. She meant to face Hamilton at once and be sure what danger menaced Monsieur Rousillon. Of course, the flag must be given up if that would save her foster father any pain, and if his life were in question there could not be too great haste on her part. She ran directly to the Stockade Gate and breathlessly informed a sentinel that she must

see Governor Hamilton into whose presence she was soon led. Captain Farnsworth had preceded her but a minute or two and was present when she entered the miserable shedroom where the commander was having another talk with M. Rousillon. The meeting was a tableau which would have been comical, but for the pressure of its tragic possibilities. Hamilton, stern and sententious, stood frowning upon Monsieur Rousillon who sat upon the ground, his feet and hands tightly bound,

a colossal statue of injured innocence. Alice, as soon as she saw Monsieur Rousillon, uttered a cry of sympathetic endearment and flung herself toward him with open arms. She could not reach around his great sheson. shoulders, but she did her best to include the whole bulk. Papa, Papa, Rousillon, she cherripped between the kisses that she showered upon his weather-beaten face.

Hamilton and Farnsworth regarded the scene with curious and surprised interest. Monsieur Rousillon began speaking rapidly, but being a Frenchman he could not get on well with his tongue while his hands were tied. He could shrug his shoulders. That helped him some. I am to be shot. my petite, he pathetically growled in his deep bass voice, shot like a dog at sunrise tomorrow. Alice kissed Monsieur Rousillon's rough cheek once more and sprang to her feet facing Hamilton.

You are not such a fiend and brute as to kill Papa, Rousillon, she cried. Why do you want to injure my poor good papa? I believe you are the young lady that stole the flag, Hamilton remarked, smiling contemptuously. She looked at him with a swift flash of indignation as he uttered these words. I am not a thief. I could not steal what was my own. I helped to make that flag. It was named after me.

I took it because it was mine. You understand me, monsieur? Tell where it is and your father's life will be spared. She glanced at Monsieur Rousillon. No, Alice, said he, with a pathetically futile effort to make a fine gesture. Don't do it. I am brave enough to die. You would not have me act the coward.

No onlooker would have even remotely suspected the fact that Monsieur Rousillon had chance to overhear a conversation between Hamilton and Farnsworth, in which Hamilton stated that he really did not intend to hurt Monsieur Rousillon in any event. He merely purposed to humiliate the big windbag. Ah, no. Let me die bravely, for honor's sake.

I fear death far as. less than dishonor. They can shoot me, my little one, but they cannot break my proud spirit. He tried to strike his breast over his heart. Perhaps it would be just as well to let him be shot, said Hamilton gruffly and with dry indifference. I don't fancy that he's much of value to the community at best.

He'll make a good target for a squad, and we need an example. Do you mean it, you ugly English brute? Would you murder him? she stamped her foot. Not if I get that flag between now and sundown. Otherwise, I shall certainly have him shot. It is all in your hands, mademoiselle. You can tell me where the flag is.

Hamilton smiled again with exquisite cruelty. Farnsworth stood by, gazing upon Alice an open admiration. Her presence had power in it, to which he was very susceptible. You look like a low, dishonorable soul, a styr, she said to Hamilton. And if you get my flag, how shall I know that you will keep your promise and let Papa Rousillon go free?

I am sorry to say that you will have to trust me, unless you'll take Captain Farnsworth for security. The captain is a gentleman, I assure you. Will you stand good for my veracity and sincerity, Captain Farnsworth? The young man smiled and bowed. Alice felt the irony, and her perfectly frank nature

preferred to trust rather than distrust the sincerity of others. She looked at Farnsworth, who smiled encouragingly. The flag is under Father Beres' floor, she said. Under the church floor? No, under the floor of his house. Where is his house? She gave full directions how to reach it.

Untie the prisoner, Hamilton ordered, and it was quickly done. Monsieur Rousillon, I congratulate you upon your narrow escape. Go to the priest's house, monsieur, and bring me that flag. It would be well, I assure you, not to be very long about it. Captain Farnsworth, you will send a guard with Monsieur Rousillon, a guard of honor, fitting his official dignity, a corporal and two men. The Honorable Mayor of this important city should not go alone upon so important an errand. He must have his attendance. Permit me to go myself and get it, said Alice.

I can do it quickly. May I please, monsieur? "'Hamilton looked sharply at her. "'Why, certainly, mademoiselle, certainly. "'Captain Farnsworth, you will escort the young lady. "'It is not necessary, monsieur.' "'Oh, yes, it is necessary, my dear young lady. "'Very necessary. "'So let's not have further words.

"'I'll try to entertain his honour the mayor "'while you go and get the flag. "'I feel sure, mademoiselle, that you'll return with it in a few minutes. "'But you must not go alone. Alice set forth immediately, and Farnsworth, try as hard as he would, could never reach her side so swift was her gate. When they arrived at Father Beret's cabin, she turned and said with imperious severity, "'Don't you come in. You stay out here. I'll get it in a minute.'

Farnsworth obeyed her command. The door was wide open, but Father Beret was not inside. He had gone to see a sick child in the outskirts of the village. Alice looked about and hesitated. She knew the very puncheon that covered the flag, but she shrank from lifting it. There seemed nothing else to do, however, so after some trouble with herself, she knelt upon the floor and turned the heavy slab over with a great thump.

The flag did not appear. She peeped under the other punchons. It was not there. The only thing visible was a little ball of paper fragments not larger than an egg. Farnsworth heard or utter a low cry of surprise or dismay and was on the point of going in when Father Beret, coming around the corner of the cabin, confronted him.

The meeting was so sudden and unexpected that both men recoiled slightly and then, with a mutual stare, saluted. I came with a young lady to get the flag, said Farnsworth. She is inside. I hope there is no serious intrusion. She says the flag is hidden under your floor. Father Beret said nothing, but frowning as if much annoyed, stepped through the doorway to Alice's side, and stooping where she knelt, laid a hand on her shoulder as she glanced up and recognized him.

What are you doing, my child? Oh, father, where is the flag? It was all she could say. Where is the flag? Why, isn't it there? No, you see it isn't there. Where is it? The priest stood as if done.

dumbfounded gazing into the vacant space and covered by the puncheon. Is it gone? Has someone taken it away? They turned up all the floor to no avail. La Bagnier de Lisrosillon had disappeared, and Captain Farnsworth went forthwith to report the fact to his commander. When he reached the shed at the angle of the fort, he found Governor Hamilton sitting stupid and dazed on the ground. One jaw was inflamed and swollen,

and an eye was half-closed in bloodshot. He turned his head with a painful irregular motion and his chin sagged. Farnsworth sprang to him and lifted him to his feet, but he could scarcely stand. He licked his lips clumsily. What is the matter? What hurt you? The governor rubbed his forehead trying to recollect. He struck me, he presently said with difficulty. He hit me with his fist.

Where? Where is he? Who? The big French idiot. That Rocyon. Go after him. Take him. Shoot him. Quick.

I have been stunned. I don't know how long he's been gone. Give the alarm. Do something. Hamilton, as he gathered his wits together, began to foam with rage, and his passion gave his bruised and swollen face a terrible look. The story was short and maybe quickly told.

Monsieur Roussion had taken advantage of the first moment when he and Hamilton were left alone. One Herculian buffet, a swinging smash of his enormous fist on the point of the governor's jaw, and then he walked out of the fort unchallenged, doubtless on account of his lordly and masterful air. Zeef! he exclaimed, shaking himself and lifting his shoulders when he had passed beyond hearing of the sentinel at the gate. Zeefe! I can punch a good stiff stroke yet, monsieur the governor? Ah, ziff! And he blew like a porpoise. Every effort was promptly made to recapture Monsieur Rousillon, but his disappearance was absolute. Even the reward offered for his scalp

by Hamilton only gave the Indians great trouble. They could not find the man. Such a beginning of his administration of affairs at Vincent did not put Hamilton into a good humor. He was overbearing and irascible at best, and under the irritation of small but exceedingly unpleasant experiences, he made life well-nigh unendurable to those upon whom his dislike chance to fall. Beverly quickly felt that it was going to be very difficult for him and Hamilton to get along agreeably. With Helm it was quite different, smoking, drinking, playing cards, telling good stories. In a word, rude and not unfrequently boisterous conviviality drew him and the commandant together.

Under Captain Farnsworth, immediate supervision, the fort was soon in excellent repair and a large blockhouse and comfortable quarters for the men were built. Every day added to the strength of the works and to the importance of the post as a strategic position for the advance guard of the British Army. Hamilton was ambitious to prove himself conspicuously valuable to his country. He was dreaming vast dreams and laying large plans. The Indians were soon anxious to gain his face. and to bind them securely to him, he offered liberal pay and rum and firearms, blankets,

trinkets, and ammunition for the scalps of rebels. He kept this as secret as possible from his prisoners, but Beverly soon suspected that a traffic in hair, as the terrible business had been named, was going on. Savages came in from far away with scalps yet scarcely dry dangling at their belts. It made the young Virginian's blood chill in his heart, and he regretted that he had given Hamilton his parole of honor not to attempt to escape. Among the Indians occasionally reporting to Hamilton with their ghastly but valuable trophies was Longhair, who slipped into the fort and out again rather warily,

not having much confidence in those Frenchmen who had once upon a time given him a memorable run for his life. Winter shut down, not cold, but damp, changeable, raw. The work on the fort was nearly completed, and René de Ronville would have soon been relieved of his servile and exasperating employment under the Irish corporal. But just at the point of time when only a few days' work remained for him, he became furious, on account of an insulting remark,

and struck the corporal over the head with a hand-spike. This happened in a wood some miles from town where he was loading logs upon a sled. There chanced to be no third person present when the deed was done, and some hours passed before they found the officer quite cold and stiff beside the sled. His head was crushed to. a pulp. Hamilton, now thoroughly exasperated, began to look upon the French inhabitants of Misen

as all like Monsieur Roussion and René, but waiting for an opportunity to strike him unawares. He increased his military vigilance, ordered the town patrolled day and night, and forbade public gatherings of the citizens, while at the same time he forced them to furnish him a large amount of provisions. When little Adrian Borsier heard of René's terrible act, followed by his successful escape to woods, and of the tempting reward offered by Hamilton for his scalp, she ran to Rousillon place while nigh crazed with excitement. She had always depended upon Alice for advice, encouragement, and comfort in her troubles. But in the present case there was not much

that her friend could do to cheer her. With Monsieur Rousillon and René both fugitives, tracked by wily savages a price on their heads, while every day added new dangers to the French inhabitants of Vincennes, no rosy view could possibly be. be taken of the situation. Alice did her best, however, to strengthen her little friend's faith in a happy outcome. She quoted what she considered unimpeachable authority to support her optimistic argument. Lieutenant Beverly says that the Americans will be sure to drive Hamilton out of Vincennes or capture him. Probably they are not so very far away now, and René may join them and come back to help punish these brutal Englishmen. Don't you wish he would, Adrian? Wouldn't it be romantic?

"'He's armed, I know that,' said Adrianne, brightening a little, and he's brave, Alice, brave as can be. He came right back into town the other night and got his gun and pistols. He was at our house, too, and, oh, she burst out crying again. "'Oh, Alice, it breaks my heart to think that the Indians will kill him. Do you think they will kill him, Alice?' "'He'll come nearer killing them,' said Alice, confident. with her strong warm arms around the tiny lass. He's a good woodsman, a fine shot.

He's not so easy to kill, my dear. If he and Papa Rousillon should get together by chance, they would be a match for all the Indians in the country. Anyway, I feel that it's much better for them to take their chances in the woods than to be in the hands of Governor Hamilton. If I wore a man, I'd do just as Papa Rousillon and René did. I'd break the bicketed head of every woman. every English man that mistreated me.

I'll do it, girl as I am, if they annoy me, see if I don't. She was thinking of Captain Farnsworth, who had been from the first untiring in his efforts to gain something more than a passing acquaintance. As yet he had not made himself unbearable, but Alice's fine intuition led her to the conclusion that she must guard against him from the outset. Adrian's simple heart could not grasp the romantic criterion

with which Alice was wont to measure action. Her mind was single, impulsive, narrow and direct in all its movements. She loved, hated, desired, caressed, repulsed, not for any assignable reason more solid or more luminous than, because. She adored René and wanted him near her. He was a hero in her imagination, no matter what he did. Little difference was it to her whether he hauled logs for the English or smoked his pipe in idleness by the winter fire.

What could it matter which flag he served under? so that he was true to her, or whom he served if she could always have him coming to see her and calling her his little pet. He might crush an Irish corporal's head every day if he would but stroke her hair and say, My sweet little one! Why couldn't he be quiet and do as your man, Lieutenant Beverly did?

She cried in a sudden change of mood, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Lieutenant Beverly surrendered and took the consequences. He didn't kill somebody and run off to be hunted like a bear? "'No wonder you're happy, Alice. "'I'd be happy, too, if René were here "'and came to spend half of every day with me. "'I—'

"'Why, what a silly girl you are!' "'Alice exclaimed her face reddening prettily. "'How foolishly you prattle! "'I'm sure I don't trouble myself "'about Lieutenant Beverly. "'What put such absurd nonsense into your head, Adrienne?' "'Because, that's what, and you know it so, too. "'You love him just as much as I love Renée,

and there's just all the love in the world, and you needn't deny it, Alice Rousillon. Alice laughed and hugged the wee brown-faced might of a girl until she almost smothered her. It was growing dusk when Adrian left Roussion place to go home. The wind cut icily across the commons and moaned as it whirled around the cabins and cattle sheds. She ran briskly, muffled in a wrap,

partly through fear and partly to keep warm, and had gone two-thirds of her way when she was brought to an abrupt stop by the arms of a man. She screamed sharply, and Father Beret, who was coming out of a cabin not far away heard and knew the voice. Oh, ho, my little lady,

cried Adrian's captor in a breezy joccan tone. You wouldn't run over a fellow, would you? The words were French, but the voice was that of Captain Farnsworth who laughed while he spoke. You jump like a rabbit, my darling. Why, what a lively little chick of a girl it is! Adrian screamed and struggled recklessly. Now, don't rouse up the town, coaxed the captain.

He was just drunk enough to be quite a fool, yet sufficiently sober to imagine himself the most proper person in the world. I don't mean you any harm, mademoiselle. I'll just see you safe home, you know. Scort you to your residence. Come on now. That's a good girl. Father Beret hurried to the spot, and when in the deepening gloom he saw Adrian flinging herself violently this way and that, helplessly trying to escape from the clasp of a man, he did to perfection what a priest is supposed to be the least fitted to do.

Indeed, considering his age and leaving his vocation out of the reckoning, his performance was amazing. It is not certain that the blow dealt upon Governor Hamilton's jaw by Monsieur Rousillon was a stiffer one than that sent straight from the priest's shoulder. her right into the short ribs of Captain Farnsworth, who thereupon released a mighty grunt and doubled himself up. Adrianne recognized her assailant at the first and used his name freely during the struggle. When Father Beret appeared, she cried out to him. Oh, Father, Father Beret, help me, help me! When Farnsworth recovered from the breath-expelling shock of the jab in his side and got himself once more in a vertical position, both girl and priest were gone. He looked this way and that, rapidly becoming sober,

and beginning to wonder how the thing could have happened so easily. His ribs felt as if they had been hit with a heavy hammer. By Joe! He muttered all to himself. The old prayer sing and heathen. By Joe! And with this very brilliant and relevant observation, he rubbed his sore side and went his way to the fort.

End of Chapter 10. Chapter 11 of Alice of Old Vincent. by Maurice Thompson. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. 11. A sword and a pistol. We hear much about the days that tried men's souls, but what about the souls of women in those same days? Sitting in the liberal geniality of the 19th century's sunset glow,

we insist upon having our grumble at the times and the manners of our generation. But if we had to exchange places, periods, and experiences with the people who lived in America through the last quarter of the 18th century, there would be good ground for despairing ill elations. And if our men could not bear it, if it would try their souls too poignantly, let us imagine the effect upon our women. No, let us not imagine it, but rather let us give full credit to the heroic souls of the mothers and the maidens who did actually bear up in the center of that terrible struggle and unflinchingly help win for us not only freedom, but the vast empire which at this moment is at once the master of the world and the model toward which all

the nations of the earth are slowly but surely tending. If Alice was an extraordinary girl, she was not aware of it, nor had she ever understood that her life was being shaped by extraordinary conditions. Of course, it could not but be plain to her that she knew more and felt more than the girls of her narrow acquaintance, that her accomplishments were greater, that she nursed splendid dreams of which they could have no proper comprehensive. but until now she had never even dimly realized that she was probably capable of being something more than a mere Creole lass, the foster daughter of Gaspar Rousillon, traitor in pelts and furs. Even her most romantic visions had never taken the form of personal desire or ambition in its most

nebulous stage. They had simply pleased her fresh and natural fancy and served to gild the hardness and crudeness of her life. That was all. Her experiences had been almost too terrible for belief viewed at our distance from them. She had passed through scenes of incredible horror and suffering, but her nature had not been chilled, stunted or hardened. In body and in temper, her development had been sound and beautiful. It was even thus that our great-grandmother's triumph over adversity, hardship, indescribable danger.

We cannot say that the strong, lie, the happy-hearted Alice of Old Vincennes was the only one of her kind. Few of us who have inherited the faded portraits of our revolution forebears can doubt that beauty, wit, and great lovableness flourished in the cabins of pioneers all the way from the Adisto to the licking, from the Connecticut to the Wabash. Beverly's Advent could not fail to mean a great deal in the life of a girl like Alice. A new era, as it were, would naturally begin for her the moment that his personal influence touched her imagination. But it is well not to measure her too strictly by the standard of our

present taste and the specialized forms of our social and moral code. she was a true child of the wilderness a girl who grew as the wild prairie rose grew not on account of innumerable exigencies accidents and hardships but in spite of them she had blushed unseen and had wasted divine sweets upon a more than desert air but when beverly came near her at first carelessly droning his masculine monotonies as the wandering bee to the lonely and lovely rose and presently striking her soul as with the wings of love there fell a change into her heart heart of hearts, and lo, her haunting and elusive dreams began to condense and take on forms that startled her with their wonderful splendor and beauty. These she saw all the time sleeping or waking. They made bright summer of the frozen stream and snapping gale, the snowdrifts and the sleet. In her brave young heart swelled the ineffable song, the music never yet caught by syrinx or flute or violin, the words no tongue can speak.

Ah, here may be the secret of that vigorous, brave, sweet life of our pioneer maids, wives, and mothers. It was love that gave those tender hearts the iron strength and heroic persistence at which the world must forever wonder. And do we appreciate those women? Let the old world boast its crowned kings, its mailed knights, its ladies of the court and castle. But we of the new world, we of the powerful West, let us brim our cups with the wine of undying devotion and drink to the memory of the women of the revolution, to the humble but good and marvellously brave and faithful women like those of old Vincennes. But if Alice was being radically influenced by Beverly, he in turn found a new light suffusing his nature and he was not unaware that it came out of her eyes, her face, her smiles, her voice, her soul.

It was the old, well-known, inexplicable mutual magnetism, which from the first has been, been the same on the highest mountain top and in the lowest valley. The queen and the milkmaid. The king and the hind may come together only to find the king walking off with the lowly beauty and her fragrant pale, while a waste talks the lusty rustic to be lord and master of the queen. Love is love, and it thrives in all climes under all conditions. There is an inevitable and curious protest that comes up unbidden between lovers. It takes many forms in accordance with particular circumstances. It is the demand for equality and perfection.

Love itself is without degrees, it is perfect, but when shall it see the perfect object? It does see it, and it does not see it, in every beloved being. Beverly found his mind turning as on a pivot round and round upon the thought that Alice might be impossible to him. The mystery of her life seemed to force her below the line of his aristocratic vision, so that he could not fairly consider her, and he could not fairly consider her, and he yet with all his heart he loved her. Alice, on the other hand, had her bookish ideal to reckon with, despite the fact that she

daily dashed it contemptuously down. She was different from Adrianne Borsier, who bewailed the absence of her untamable lover. She wished that Beverly had not, as she somehow viewed it, weakly surrendered to Hamilton. His apparently complacent acceptance of idle captivity did not comport with her dream of knighthood and heroism. She had been all the time half expecting him to do something that would stamp him a hero.

Counter-protests of this sort are never sufficiently vigorous to take a fall out of love. They merely serve to worry his temper by lightly hindering his feet. And it is surprising how love does delight himself with being entangled. Both Beverly and Alice day by day felt the cord tightening which threw their hearts together. Each acknowledged it secretly, but strove not to evince it openly. meantime, both were as happy and as restlessly dissatisfied as love and uncertainty could make them. Amid the activities in which Hamilton was engaged, his dealings with the Indians and the work of reconstructing the fort, he found time to worry his temper about the purloined flag.

Like every other man in the world he was superstitious, and it had come into his head that to ensure himself and his plans against disaster, he must have the banner of his captives as a badge of his victory. It was a small matter, but it magnified itself as he dwelt upon it. He suspected that Alice had deceived him. He sharply questioned Father Beret, only to be half convinced that the good priest told the truth when he said that he knew nothing whatever on the subject beyond the fact that the banner had mysteriously disappeared from under his floor. Captain Farnsworth scarcely sympathized with his chief about the flag, but he was nothing if not anxious to gain Hamilton's highest confidence.

His military zeal knew no bounds, and he never let pass even the slightest opportunity to show it. Hence his persistent search for a clue to the missing banner. He was no respecter of persons. He frankly suspected both Alice and Father Beret of lying. He would himself have lied under the existing circumstances, and he considered himself as truthful and trustworthy as priest or maiden. I'll get that flag for you,

he said to Hamilton, if I have to put every man, woman, and child in this down on the rack. It lies, I think, between Miss Housillon and the priest, although both insistently deny it. I've thought it over in every way, and I can't see how they can both be ignorant

of where it is, or at least who got it. Hamilton, since being treated to that wonderful blow on the jaw, was apt to fall into a spasm of anger whenever the name Ehrouciot was spoken in his hearing. Involuntarily he would put his hand to his hand to his cheek and grimace reminiscently. If it's that girl, make her tell, he savagely commanded. Let's have no trifling about it.

If it's the priest, then make him tell or tie him up by the thumbs. Get that flag or show some good reason for your failure. I'm not going to be baffled. The captain's adventure with Father Beret came just in time to make it count against that courageous and bellicose missionary in more ways than one. Farnsworth did not tell Hamilton or her. any other person about what the priest had done to him, but nursed his sore ribs and his wrath,

waiting patiently for the revenge that he meant soon to take. Alice heard from Adrianne the story of Farnsworth's conduct and his humiliating discomfiture at the hands of Father Beret. She was both indignant and delighted, sympathizing with Adrian and glorying in the priest's vigorous pugilistic achievement. Well, she remarked, with one of her infectious trills of laughter, So far, the French have the best of it anyway. papa roussillo knocked the governor's cheek nearly off then rene cracked the irish corporal's head and now father beret has taught captain farnsworth a lesson in fisticuffs that he'll not soon forget

If the good work can only go on a little longer, we shall see every English soldier in Vesen wearing the mark of a Frenchman's blow. Then her mood suddenly changed from smiling lightness to almost fierce gravity, and she added, Adrian Borsier, if Captain Farnsworth ever offers to treat me as he did you, mark my words, I'll kill him. Kill him, indeed I will. You ought to see me. But he won't dare touch you, said Adrian, looking at her friend with round admiring. eyes. He knows very well that you are not little and timid like me. He'd be afraid of you.

I wish he would try it. How I would love to shoot him into pieces, the hateful wretch. I wish he would. The French inhabitants all, or nearly all, felt as Alice did. But at present they were helpless and dared not say or do anything against the English.

Nor was this feeling confined to the creoles of Vésain. It had spread to most of the points where trading posts existed. Hamilton found this out too late to mend some of his mistakes, but he set himself on the alert and organized scouting bodies of Indians under white officers to keep him informed as to the American movements in Kentucky and along the Ohio. One of these bands brought in as captive Colonel Francis Vigo of St. Louis, a Spaniard by birth, an American by adoption, a patriot to the core who had large influence over both

Indians and Creoles in the Illinois country. Colonel Vigo was not long held a prisoner. hamilton dared not exasperate the creoles beyond their endurance for he knew that the savages would closely sympathize with their friends of long-standing and this might lead to revolt and coalition against him a very dangerous possibility indeed at least one of the great indian chieftains had already frankly informed him that he and his tribe were loyal to the americans here was a dilemma requiring consummate diplomacy hamilton saw it but he was not of a diplomatic temper or character with the indians he used a demoralizing system of bribery while toward the whites he was too often gruff imperious repellent helm understood the whole situation and was quick to take advantage of it his personal relations with hamilton were easy and familiar so that he did not hesitate to give advice upon all occasions here his jovial disposition helped him you'd better let v go return to st louis he said they had a bowl of something hot steaming between them i know him he's harmless if you don't rub him too hard the wrong way he'll go back if you treat him well and tell clark how strong you are here and how foolish it would be to think of attacking you clark has but a handful of men poorly supplied and tired with long hard marches if you'll think a moment you can't think a moment you cannot fail to understand that you'd better be friends with this man Vigo.

He and Father Givot and this old priest here Beret carry these Frenchmen in their pockets. I'm not on your side, understand, I am an American, and I'd blow the whole of you to Kingdon come in a minute if I could, but common sense is common sense all the same. There's no good to you and no harm to Clark in mistreating or even holding this prisoner. What harm can he do you by going back to Clark and telling him the whole truth? Clark knew everything long before Vigo reached here. Old Jazon, my best scout, left here the day you took possession, and you may bet he got to Cascascar in short order.

He never fails. But he'll tell Clark to stay where he is, and Vigo can do no more. What effect Helms bold and apparently artless talk had upon Hamilton's mind is not recorded, but the meager historical facts at Comanche show that Vigo was released and permitted to return under promise that he would give no information to the enemy on his way to Cascascia. Doubtless, this bit of careless diplomacy

on the governor's part did have a somewhat soothing effect upon a large class of Frenchmen at Vincennes. But Farnsworth quickly neutralized it to a serious extent by a foolish act while slightly under the influence of liquor. He met Father Beret Neroci en place and feeling his ribs squirm at the sight of the priest, he accosted him insolently,

demanding information as to the whereabouts of the missing flag. A priest may be good and true, Father Beret certainly was, and yet have the strongest characteristics of a worldly man. This thing of being bullied day after day, as had recently been the rule, generated nothing to aid in removing a refractory desire from the priest's heart,

the worldly desire to repeat with great increment of force the punch against Farnsworth's lower ribs. I order you, sir, to produce that rebel-flicts. flag, said Farnsworth. You will obey forthwith or take the consequences. I am no longer in the humor to be trifled with. Do you understand? I might be forced to obey you if I could, said the priest, drawing his robe about him.

But, as I have often told you, my son, I do not know where the flag is or who took it. I do not even suspect any person of taking it. All that I know about it is the simple fact that it is gone. "'Father Beres's manner and voice were very mild, "'but there must have been a hint of sturdy defiance somewhere in them. "'At all events, Farnsworth was exasperated and fell into a white rage. "'Perhaps it was the liquor he had been drinking "'that made him suddenly desperate.

"'You canting, old fool!' he cried. "'Don't lie to me any longer. "'I won't have it. "'Don't stand there grinning at me. "'Get that flag or I'll make you.' What is impossible, my son, is possible to God alone. Apu domines, o'k impossibilis is. Apu deum otem omnia, possibilities,

soon. None of your Jesuit Latin or logic to me. I am not here to argue but to command. Get that flag. Be in a hurry about it, sir. He whipped out his sword, and in his half-drunken eyes there gathered the dull film of murderous passion.

Put up your weapon. captain. You will not attack an unarmed priest. You are a soldier, and will not dare strike an old defenseless man. But I will strike a black-robed and black-hearted French rebel. Get that flag, you grinning fool. The two men stood facing each other. Father Beres' eyes did not stir from their direct fearless gaze. What Farnsworth had called a grin was a peculiar smile, not of merriment, a grayish flicker and a slight backward wrinkling of the cheeks. The old man's arms were loosely crossed upon his sturdy breast. Strike if you must, he said very gently, very firmly.

I never yet have seen the man that could make me afraid. His speech was slightly sing-song in tone as it would have been during a prayer or a blessing. Get the flag then! Raged Farnsworth in whose veins the heat of liquor was aided by another. unreasoning caller. I cannot, said Father Beret. Then take the consequences. Farnsworth lifted his sword, not to thrust, but to strike with its flat side, and down

it flashed with a noisy whack. Father Beret flung out an arm and deftly turned the blow aside. It was done so easily that Farnsworth sprang back, glaring and surprised. You old fool! he cried, leveling his weapon for a direct lunch. "'You devilish hypocrite!' It was then that Father Beret turned deadly pale and swiftly crossed himself. His face looked as if he saw something startling just beyond his adversary. Possibly this sudden change of expression caused Farnsworth to hesitate for a mere point of time.

Then there was the swish of a woman's skirts, a light step pattered on the frozen ground, and Alice sprang between the men facing Farnsworth. As she did this something small and yellow, The locket at her throat fell and rolled under her feet. Nobody saw it. In her hand she held an immense horse pistol which she leveled in the captain's face, its flaring, bugle-shaped muzzle gaping not a yard from his nose. The heavy tube was as steady as if in a vice.

Drop that sword! That was all she said. But her finger was pressing the trigger and the flint in the backward slanting hammer was ready to click against the steel. The leaden slugs were on the point of leaving. forth. Drop that sword. The repetition seemed to close the opportunity for delay.

Farnsworth was on his guard in a twinkling. He set his jaw and uttered an ugly oath, then quick as lightning he struck sidewise at the pistol with his blade. It was a move which might have taken a less alert person than Alice unawares, but her training in sword play was ready in her wrist and hand. An involuntary turn, the slightest imaginable, set the heavy barrel of her weapon strongly against the blow, partly stopping it, and then the gaping muzzle spat its load of balls and slugs with a bellow that awoke the drowsy old village. Harns were staggered backward, letting fall his

sword. There was a rent in the clothing of his left shoulder. He reeled. The blood spun out, but he did not fall, although he grew white. Alice stood gazing at him with a look on her face he would never forget. It was a look that changed by wonderful swift gradations from terrible hate to something like sweet pity. The instant she saw him hurt and bleeding, his countenance relaxing and pale, her heart failed her. She took a step toward him, her hand opened, and with a thud the heavy old pistol fell upon the ground beside her.

Father Beret sprang nimbly to sustain Farnsworth, snatching up the pistol as he passed around Alice. You are hurt, my son, he gently said. Let me help you. He passed his arm firmly under that of Farnsworth, seeing that the captain was unsteady on his feet. Lean upon me. Come with me, Alice, my child,

and I will take him into the house. Alice picked up the captain's sword and led the way. It was all done so quickly that Barnsworth in his half-dazed condition scarcely realized what was going on until he found himself on a couch in the Rousillon home. His wound, a jagged furrow plowed out by slugs that the sword's blade had first intercepted,

neatly dressed and bandaged, while Alice and the priest hovered over him busy with their careful ministrations. Hamilton and Helm were, as usual, playing cards at the farmer's quarters, when a guard announced that Mademoiselle Rousillon wished an audience with the governor. "'Bring the girl in,' said Hamilton, throwing down his cards and scowling darkly. "'Now you'd better be wise as a serpent and gentle as a dove,' remarked Helm. "'There is something up, and that gunshot we heard a while ago may have a good deal to do with it. At any rate, you'll find kindness your best card to play with Alice Rossillon just at the

present stage of the game. Of course, they knew nothing of what had happened to Farnsworth, but they had been discussing the strained relations between the garrison and the French inhabitants when the roar of Alice's big mouth pistol startled them. Helm was slyly beating about to try to make Hamilton lose sight of the danger from Clark's direction. To do this, he artfully magnified the insiduous work that might be done by the French. and their Indian friends, should they be driven to desperation by oppressive or exasperating action on the part of the English. Hamilton felt the dangerous uncertainty upon which the situation rested.

But, like many another vigorously self-reliant man, he could not subordinate his passions to the dictates of policy. When Alice was conducted into his presence, he instantly swelled with anger. It was her father who had struck him and escaped. It was she who had carried off the rebel flag and. the moment of victory. Well, Miss, to what do I owe the honor of this visit? He demanded with a supercilious air, bending a card between his thumb and finger on the rude table.

She stood before him, tall and straight, well bundled in furs. She was not pale. Her blood was too rich and brilliant for that. But despite a half-smile and the inextinguishable dimples, there was a touch of something appealingly pathetic in the lines of her mouth. She did not waver or hesitate, however. but spoke promptly and distinctly. I have come, monsieur, to tell you

that I have hurt Captain Farnsworth. He was about to kill Father Beret, and I shot him. He is in our house and well cared for. I don't think his wound is bad. And— Here she hesitated at last and let her gaze fall. So, here I am.

Then she lifted her eyes again and made an inimitable French gesture with her shoulders and arms. "'You will do as you please, monsieur. I am at your own. "'Hermercise!' Hamilton was astounded. Helm sat staring phlegmatically. Meantime, Beverly entered the room and stopped hat and hand behind Alice.

He was flushed and evidently excited. In fact, he had heard of the trouble with Farnsworth and seeing Alice enter the door of Hamilton's quarters he followed her in, his heart stirred by no slight emotion. He met the governor's glare and parried it with one of equal haughtiness. The veins on his forehead swelled and turned down. dark. He was in a mood to do whatever desperate act should suggest itself. When Hamilton fairly comprehended the message so graphically presented by Alice, he rose from his seat by the fire.

"'What's this, you tell me?' he blurted. "'You say you've shot, Captain Farnsworth?' "'We, monsieur.' He stared a moment, then his features beamed with hate. "'And I'll have you shot for it, Miss, as sure as you stand there in your silly impudence ogling me so brazenly.' He leaned toward her as he spoke and sent with the words a shock of coarse, passionate energy from which she recoiled as if expecting a blow to follow it.

An irresistible impulse swept Beverly to Alice's side, and his attitude was that of a protector. Helm sprang up. A lieutenant came in and respectfully, but with evident overhaste, reported that Captain Farnsworth had been shot and was at Roussillon Place in care of the surgeon. Take this girl into custody. Confine her and put a strong guard over her. In giving the order, Hamilton jerked his thumb contemptuously toward Alice, and at the same time gave Beverly a look of supreme defiance and hatred.

When Helm began to speak, he turned fiercely upon him and stopped him with, "'None of your advice, sir. I have had all I want of it. Keep your place, or I'll make you.' Then to Beverly, "'Retire, sir. When I wish to see you, I'll send for you. At present you are not needed here.' The English lieutenant saluted his commander, bowed respectfully to Alice, and said, Come with me, Miss, please. Helm and Beverly exchanged a look of helpless and inquiring rage. It was as if they had said, What can we do? Must we bear it?

Certainly they could do nothing. Any interference on their part would be sure to increase Alice's danger, and at the same time add to the weight of their own humiliation. Alice silently followed the officer out of the room. She did not even glance toward Beverly. who moved as if to interfere and was promptly motioned back by the guard. His better judgment returning held him from a rash and futile act, until Hamilton spoke again saying loudly as Alice passed through the door.

I'll see who's master of this town if I have to shoot every French hoyden in it. Women and children may well fear you, Colonel Hamilton, said Beverly. That young lady is your superior. You say that to me, sir. It is the best I could possibly say, of you. I will send you along with the wench if you do not guard your language. A prisoner on parole has no license to be a blackguard. I return you my parole, sir. I shall no longer regard it as binding, said Beverly by a great effort, holding back a blow. I will not keep faith with a scoundrel who does

not know how to be decent in the presence of a young girl. You had better have me arrested and confined. I will escape at the first opportunity and bring a force here to reckon with you for your villainy. And if you dare hurt at Isrocillon, I will have you hanged like a dog. Hamilton looked at him scornfully, smiling as one who feels safe in his authority and means to have his own way with his victim. Naturally, he regarded Beverly's words as the merest vaporings of a helpless and exasperated young man. He saw very clearly that love was having a hand in the affair, and he chuckled inwardly thinking what a fool Beverly was. I thought I ordered you to leave this room, he said with an air and tone of lofty superiority,

"'And I certainly mean to be obeyed. Go, sir. And if you attempt to escape or in any way break your parole, I'll have you shot.' "'I have already broken it. From this moment I shall not regard it. You have heard my statement. I shall not repeat it. Govern yourself accordingly.' With these words, Beverly turned and strode out of the house, quite beside himself, his whole frame quivering. Hamilton laughed derisively, then looked at Helm and said,

Helm, I like you. I don't wish to be unkind to you. But positively, you must quit breaking in upon my affairs with your ready-made advice. I've given you and Lieutenant Beverly too much latitude, perhaps.

If that young fool don't look sharp, he'll get himself into a beastly lot of trouble. You'd better give him a talk. He's in a way to need it just now. I think so myself, said Helm. glad to get back upon fair footing with the irascible governor. I'll wait until he cools off somewhat, and then I can manage him.

Leave him to me. Well, come walk with me to see what has really happened to Farnsworth. He's probably not much hurt and deserves what he's got. That girl has turned his head. I think I understand the whole affair. A little love, a little wine, some foolishness and the wets shot him. Helm genially assented, but they were delayed for some time by an officer who came in to consult with Hamilton on some pressing Indian affairs. When they reached Rousillon Place, they met Beverly coming out, but he did not look at them.

He was scarcely aware of them. A little way outside the gate on going in, he had picked up Alice's locket and broken chain, which he mechanically put into his pocket. It was all like a dream to him, and yet he had a clear purpose. He was going away from Vesen, or at least he would try, and woe be to Hamilton on his coming back. It was so easy for an excited young mind to plan great things and to expect success under apparently impossible conditions. Beverly gave Jean a note for Alice. It was this that took him to Rousillon Place, and no sooner fell the night than he shouldered a gun furnished by Madame Goddard, and, guided by the woodsman's fine craft, stole away southward, thinking to swim the icy wabash some mile.

below, and then strike across the plains of Illinois to Cascascia. It was a desperate undertaking, but in those days desperate undertakings were rather the rule than the exception. Moreover, love was the leader and Beverly the blind follower. Nothing could daunt him or turn him back until he found an army to lead against Hamilton. It seems but a romantic burst of indignation as we look back at it, hopelessly foolish, with no possible end but death in the wilderness. Still, there was a method in Love's madness, and Beverly, with his superb physique, his knowledge of the wilderness and his indomitable self-reliance, was by no means without his fighting chance for success. End of Chapter 11

Chapter 12 of Alice of Old Vincent by Maurice Thompson This Librevox recording is in the public domain. 12. Mano Lescoe and a Rapier Thrust Beverly's absence was not noticed by Hamilton until late on the following day, and even then he scouted Helm's suggestion that the young man was possibly carrying out his threat to disregard his parole. He would be quite justified in doing it. You know that very well, said Helm with a laugh.

And he's just the man to undertake what is impossible. Of course, however, he'll get scalped for his trouble and that will cost you something, I am happy to say. It's a matter of small importance. Hamilton replied, But I'll wager you the next toddy that he's not at the present moment a half mile from this spot.

He may be a fool, I readily grant that he is, but even a fool is not going to set out alone in this kind of weather to go where your rebel friends are probably toasting their shins by a fire of green logs and half starving over yonder on the Mississippi. Joking aside, you are doubtless right. Beverly is hot-headed, and if he could he'd get even with you devilish quick.

but he hasn't left Vincennes, I think. Miss Rousillon would keep him here if the place were on fire. Hamilton laughed dryly. He had just thought what Helm was saying. Beverly's attentions to Alice had not escaped his notice. Speaking of that girl,

he remarked after a moment's silence, what am I to do with her? There's no place to keep her, and Farnsworth insists that she wasn't to blame. He chuckled again and added, "'It's true as gospel. "'He's in love with her, too. "'Seems to be glad she shot him.

"' Says he's ashamed of himself "'for ever suspecting her of anything but being a genuine angel. "'Why, he's got as flabby as a rabbit "'and mumbles like a fool. "'Same as you or I at his age,' "'said Helm, taking a chew of tobacco. "'She is a pretty thing. "'Beverly don't know his foot

"'from his shoulder-blade when she's anywhere near him. "'Boys are boys. "'I'm a sort of a boy myself. If she'd give up that flag, I'd let her go, said Hamilton. I hate like the devil to confine her. It looks brutal and makes me feel like a tyrant. Have you ever happened to notice the obvious fact, Governor Hamilton, that Alice Oseon and Father Beret are not all the French in Vincennes?

What do you mean? I mean that I don't for a moment believe that either the girl or the priest knows a thing about where that flag is. They are both as truthful and honorable as people. ever get to be i know them somebody else got that flag from under the priest's floor you may depend upon that if miss rousillon knew where it is she'd say so and then dare you to make her tell where it's hidden oh the whole devilish town is rotten with treason that's very clear there's not a loyal soul in it outside of my forces thank you for not including me among the loyalists "'Hum, I spoke of these French people. They pretend to be true, but I believe they are all traitors.

You can manage them if you try. A little jolly kindness goes a long way with them. I had no trouble while I held the town.' Hamilton bit his lip and was silent. Helm was exasperatingly good-tempered and his jocularity was irresistible. While he was yet speaking, a guard came up followed by Jean the hunchback and saluting said to Hamilton, the lad wants to see the young lady, sir. Hamilton gazed quizzically at Jean,

who planted himself in his habitual attitude before him and stared up into his face with the grotesque expression which seems to be characteristic of hunchbacks and unflaged birds, the look of an embodied and hideous joke. Well, sir, what will you have? The governor demanded.

I want to see Alice, if you please. What for? I want to give her a book to read. Ah, indeed. Where is it? Let me see it. Jean took from the breast of his loose jerkin a small volume, dog-eared and mildewed, and handed it to Hamilton. Meantime, he stood first on one foot than the other, gnawing his thumbnail and blinking rapidly.

Well, Helm, just look here. What? Manon, let's go. And what's that? Haven't you ever read it? Read what? This novel. Mano, let's go.

Never. I never read a novel in my life. Never expect to. Hamilton laughed freely at Helm's expense, then turned to Jean and gave him back the book. It would have been quite military had he taken the precaution to examine between the pages for something hidden there, but he did not. Go give it to her, he said, and tell her I send my compliments, with great admiration of her taste in literature. He motioned the soldier to show Jean to Alice. It's a beastly French story. he added addressing Helm.

Immoral enough to make a pirate blush. That's the sort of girl, Mademoiselle Rousio is. I don't care what kind of a book she reads, blurted Helm. She's a fine, pure, good girl. Everybody likes her. She's the good angel of this miserable frog-hole of a town. You'd like her yourself if you'd straighten up

and quit burning toe in your brain all the time. You're always so furious about something that you never have a chance to be just to yourself. or pleasant to anybody else. Hamilton turned fiercely on Helm, but a glimpse of the captain's broad, good-humored face heartily smiling dispelled his anger. There was no ground upon which to maintain a quarrel

with a person so persistently genial and so absurdly frank. And in fact, Hamilton was not half so bad as his choleric manifestation seemed to make him out. Besides, Helm knew just how far to go, just when to stop. If I had got furious at you every time there was overwhelming provocation for it, Hamilton said, You'd have been long since hanged or shot.

I fancy that I have shown angelic forbearance. I've given you somewhat more than a prisoner's freedom. So you have, so you have, assented helm. I've often been surprised at your generous partiality in my case. Let's have some hot water with something else in it. What do you say? I won't give you any more advice. for five minutes by your watch.

But I want some advice at once. What about? That girl. Turn her loose. That's easy and reputable. I'll have to, I presume. But she ought to be punished. If you'll think less about punishment,

revenge and getting even with everybody and everything, you'll soon begin to prosper. Hamilton winced, but smiled as one quite sure of himself. Jean followed the soldier to a rickety-lawful. pen on the farther side of the stockade, where he found the prisoner restlessly moving about like a bird in a rustic cage. It had no comforts that gloomy little room. There was no fireplace, the roof leaked, and the only furniture consisted of a bench to sit on and a pile of skins for bed. Alice looked charmingly forlorn peeping out of the wraps in which she was bundled against

the cold. Her hair fluffed and rippled in shining disorder around her face. The guard let John in and closed the door, himself staying outside. Alice was as glad to see the poor lad as if they had been parted for a year. She hugged him and kissed his drawn little face. You dear, good Jean, she murmured. You did not forget me. I brought you something, he whispered, producing the book. Alice snatched it, looked at it, and then at Jean.

Why? What did you bring this for? You silly, Jean. I didn't want this. I don't like this book at all. He's hateful. I despise it. Take it back.

There's something in it for you, a paper with writing on it. Lieutenant Beverly wrote it on there. It shut up between the leaves about the middle. Shh. Not so loud. The guard'll hear you. Alice breathlessly whispered

her whole manner changing instantly. She was trembling, and the color had been whisked from her face as the flame from a candle in a sudden draft. She found the note and read it a dozen times without a pause, her eyes leaping along the lines back and forth with pathetic eagerness in concentration. Presently she sat down on the bench and covered her face with her hands. A tremor first, then a convulsive sobbing shook her collapsed form.

Jean regarded her with a droly sympathetic grimace, elevating his long chin and letting his head settle back between his shoulders. Oh, Jean, Jean, she cried at last. last, looking up and reaching out her arms. Oh, Jean, he is gone, gone, gone. Jean stepped closer to her while she sobbed again like a little child. She pulled him to her and held him tightly against her breast while she once more read the note through blinding tears.

The words were few, but to her they bore the message of desolation and despair. A great, haunting hollow voice in her heart repeated them until they echoed from vague distance to distance. It was written with a bit of lead on the half of a mildewed fly-leaf torn from the book. Dear Alice, I am going away. When you read this, think of me as hurrying through the wilderness to reach our army and bring it here. Be brave as you always have been. Be good, as you cannot help being.

Wait and watch for me. Love me as I love you. I will come. Do not doubt it. I will come. and i will crush hamilton and his command courage alice dear courage and wait for me faithfully ever beverly she kissed the paper with passionate fervour pouring her tears upon it in april showers between which the light of her eyes played almost fiercely so poignant was her sense of a despair which bordered upon desperation gone gone it was all she could think or say gone gone jean took the offending novel back home with him hidden under his jerkin but beverly's note lay upon alice's heart a sweet comfort and a crushing weight when an hour later hamilton sent for her and she was taken before him her face was stained with tears and she looked pitifully distressed and dishevelled yet despite all this her beauty asserted itself with subtle force

hamilton felt ashamed of looking at her but put on sternness and spoke with apparent sympathy miss rousillon you came near committing a great crime as it is you have done badly enough but i wish not to be unreasonably severe i hope you are sorry for your act and feel like doing better hereafter she was trembling but her eyes looked steadily straight into his they were eyes of baby innocence yet they irradiated a strong womanly spirit just touched with the old, perverse, mischievous light which she could neither banish nor control. When she did not make reply, Hamilton continued, "'You may go home now, and I shall expect to have no more trouble on your account.' He made a gesture indicative of dismissal. Then, as she turned from him, he added somewhat raising his voice. "'And a further, Miss Rousillon, that flag you took from here must positively be returned. See that it is done.' She lifted her head high and walked

away not deigning to give him a word. Hump, what do you think now of your fine young lady? He demanded turning to Helm with a sneering curl of his mouth. She gives thanks copiously for a kindness, don't you think? Poor girl, she was scared nearly out of her life, said Helm. She got away from you like a wounded bird from a snare. I never saw a face more pitiful than hers. Much pity she needs and greatly like a wounded bird she acts, I must say.

but good riddance if she'll keep her place hereafter. I despise myself when I have to be hard with a woman, especially a pretty one. That girl's a saucy and fascinating minks and as dangerous as twenty men. I'll keep a watch on her movements from this on, and if she gets into mischief again, I'll transport her to Detroit, or give her away to the Indians. She must stop her high-handed foolishness. Helm saw that Hamilton was talking mere wind.

Vox et praetere a Niel, and he furthermore felt that his babbling signified no harm to Alice. But Hamilton surprised him presently by saying, I have just learned that Lieutenant Beverly is actually gone. Did you know of his departure? What are you saying, sir? Helm jumped to his feet, not angry but excited. Keep cool, you need not answer if you prefer silence or evasion. You may want to go yourself soon.

Helm burst out laughing but quickly growing serious said, Has Beverly been such a dribbling fool as that? Are you in earnest? He killed two of my scouts, wounded another, and crossed the Wabash in their canoe. He is going straight towards Gaskia. The idiot! Hurrah for him! If you catch your hair, you may roast him, but catch him first, Governor. You'll joke out of the other corner of your mouth, Captain Helm, if I find

out that you gave him aid or countenance in breaking his parole. Aid or countenance. I never saw him after he walked out of this room. You gave him a devil of a sight more aid in countenance than I did. What are you talking about? Broke his parole. He did no such thing. He returned it to you fairly as you well know. He told you he was going. Well, I've sent twenty of my swiftest Indians after him to bring him back. I'll let you see him shot. That ought to please you. They'll never get him, Governor. I'll bet high on him against your twenty scalp lifters any day.

Fitzhue Beverly is the best Indian fighter Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton accepted in the American colonies. On her way home, Alice met Father Beret, who turned and walked beside her. He was so overjoyed at her release that he could scarcely speak, but held her hand and stroked it gently while she told him her story. It was beginning to rain, a steady, cold shower, when they reached the house, and for many days and nights thereafter, the downfall continued almost

incessantly. "'Dear child,' said Father Beres, stopping at the gate and looking beseechingly into Alice's face, "'you must stay at home now. Stay in the house. It will be horribly dangerous for you to pass about in the village after your—after what has happened.' "'Do not fear, father. I will be careful. Aren't you coming in? I'll find you a cake and a glass of wine. No, child, not now. Then, good-bye, good-bye, she said turning from him to run into the house. Come soon, I shall be so lonesome. On the veranda, she suddenly stopped, running her fingers about her neck and into her bosom. Oh, father, Father Beret, I've lost my locket, she cried.

See if I dropped it there. She went back to the gate searching the ground with her eyes. Of course, find the locket. It was miles and miles away close to the heart of her lover. If she could but have known this, it would have comforted her. Beverly had intended to leave it with Jean, but in his haste and excitement he forgot. Writing the note distracted his attention, and so he bore Alice's picture on his breast and in his heart while pursuing his long and perilous journey. Four of Hamilton's scouts came upon Beverly twenty miles south of Vincennes, but having the advantage of them he killed two almost immediately, and

and after a running fight, the other two attempted escape in a canoe on the Wabash. Here, firing from a bluff, he wounded a third. Both then plunged head foremost into the water and by keeping below the surface got away. The adventure gave Beverly new spirit and self-reliance. He felt that he could accomplish anything necessary to his undertaking. In the captured pirogue he crossed the river, and to make his trail hard to find, sent that little craft to drift down the current. Then, alone in the dead of winter, he took his bearings and struck across the dreary,

houseless plain toward St. Louis. As soon as Hamilton's discomfited scouts reported to him, he sent long hair with twenty picked savages, armed and supplied for continuous and rapid marching in pursuit of Beverly. There was a large reward for bringing him in alive, a smaller one, for his scalp. When Alice heard of all this, her buoyant and happy nature seemed entirely to desert her for a time. She was proud to find out that Beverly had shown himself brave and capable. It touched her love of heroism,

but she knew too much about Indian warfare to hope that he could hold his own against long hair, the wiliest and boldest of scalp hunters and twenty of the most experienced braves in Hamilton's forces. He would almost certainly be killed and scalped or captured and brought back to be shot or hanged in Vesenne. The thought chilled and curdled her blood. Both Helm and Father Berethe.

tried to encourage and comfort her by representing the probabilities in the fairest light. It's like hunting for a needle in a haystack going out to find a man in that wilderness, said Helm with optimistic cheerfulness. And besides, Beverly is no easy dose for twenty red niggers to take. I've seen him tried at worse odds than that, and he got out with a whole skin, too. Don't you fret about him, Miss Rousillon? Little help came to her from attempts of this sort. She might brighten up for a while.

but the dark dread and the terrible gnawing at her heart, the sinking and despairing in her soul could not be cured. What added immeasurably to her distress was the attention of Farnsworth, whose wound troubled him but a short time. He seemed to have had a revelation and a change of spirit since the unfortunate rencounter and the subsequent nursing at Alice's hands.

He was grave, earnest, kindly, evidently striving to play a gentle and honorable part. She could feel that he carried a low, load of regret that he wanted to pay a full price and good for the evil that he had done. His sturdy English heart was writing itself nobly, yet she but half understood him until his actions and words began to betray his love, and then she hated him unreasonably. Realizing this, Farnsworth bore himself more like a faithful dog than in the manner hitherto habitual to him. He simply shadowed Alice and would not be rebuffed.

There can be nothing more painful to a finely sympathetic nature than regret for having done a kindness. Alice experienced this to the fullest degree. She had nursed Farnsworth but a little while, yet it was a while of sweet influence. Her tender woman nature felt the blessedness of doing good to her enemy lying helpless in her house and hurt by her own hand. But now she hated the man, and with all her soul she was sorry that she had been kind to him. For out of her kindness he had drawn the spell of a love under which he lived a new life, and all for her. Yet deep down, he had drawn the spell of a love under which he lived a new life, and all for her.

yet deep down in her consciousness the pity and the pathos of the thing hovered gloomily and would not be driven out. The rain in midwinter gave every prospect a sad, cold, sodden gray appearance. The ground was soaked, little rills ran in the narrow streets, the small streams became great rivers. The Wabash overflowed its banks and made a sea of all the lowlands on either side. It was hard on the poor dwellers in the thatched and mostly floorless cabins, for the grass roofs gradually let the water through and puddles formed on the ground inside. Fuel was distant and had to be hauled in the pouring rain. Provisions were scarce and hunting almost impossible. Many people, especially children, were taken ill with colds and fever. Alice found some relief from her trouble

in going from cabin to cabin and waiting upon the sufferers. But even here Farnsworth could not be got rid of. He followed her night and day. Never was a good soldier. for he was that from head to foot, more lovelorn or love docile. The maiden had completely subdued the man. About this time, deep in a rainy and pitch-black night, Gaspar Rousillon came home.

He tapped on the door again and again. Alice heard, but she hesitated to speak or move. Was she growing cowardly? Her heart beat like a drum. There was but one person in all the world that she could think of. It was not Monsieur Rousseau. ah no she had well nigh forgotten her gigantic foster-father it is i my chri it is gaspar my love opened the door came in a booming half whisper from without alice jean it is your papa rousillon my dears let me in

alice was at the door in a minute and barring it m roussion entered armed to the teeth the water dribbling from his buckskin clothes poof he exclaimed my throat is like dust. His thoughts were diving into the stores under the floor. I am famished. Dear children, dear little ones, they are glad to see Papa. Where is your mama? He had Alice in his arms and Jean clung to his legs.

Madame Rousillon, to be sure of no mistake, lighted a lamp with a brand that smoldered on the hearth and held it up, then satisfied as to her husband's identity, set it on a shelf and flung herself into the affectionate group with clumsy abandon making a great noise. Oh, my dear Gaspar! She cried as she lunged forward. Gaspar, Gaspard, Gaspard!

Her voice fairly lifted the roof. Her great weight hurled with such force overturned everybody, and all of them tumbled in a heap, the rotund and solid dame sitting on top. Oof, not so impetuous, my dear, puffed Monsieur Rousillon, freeing himself from her unpleasant pressure and scrambling to his head.

feet. Really, you must have fared well in my absence, Madame. You are much heavier. He laughed and lifted her up as if she had been a child, kissing her resonantly. His gun had fallen with a great clatter. He took it from the floor and examined it to see if it had been injured, then set it in a corner. I am afraid we are making too much noise, said Alice, speaking very low. There is a patrol guard every night now. If they should hear you. "'Sh!' whispered Monsieur Rousillon. "'We will be very still.

"'Alice, is there something to eat in a drop of wine handy?' "'I have come many miles. "'I am tired, hungry, thirsty, zeefe.' Alice brought some cold roast venison, a loaf, and a bottle of claret. "'These she set before him on a little table.' "'Ah, this is comfort,' he said after he had gulped a full cup. Have you all been well? Then he began to tell where he had been,

what he had seen, and the many things he had done. A Frenchman must babble while he eats and drinks. A little wine makes him eloquent. He talks with his hands, shoulders, eyes. Madame Rousillon, Alice, and Jean, wrapped in furs, huddled around him to hear. He was very entertaining,

and they forgot the patrol until a noise startled them. It was the low of a cow. They laughed, and the master of the house. house softened his voice. Monsieur Rousillon had been the guest of a great Indian chieftain who was called the Gate of the Wabash, because he controlled the river. The chief was an old acquaintance and treated him well. But I wanted to see you all, Gaspar said.

I was afraid something might have happened to you. So I came back just to peep in. I can't stay, of course. Hamilton would kill me as if I were a wolf. I can remain but an hour and then sleep out of town again before they'd comes. The rain and darkness are my friends. He had seen Simon Kenton, who said he had been in the neighborhood of Vincent acting as a scout and spy for Clark. Presently and quite casually, he added, and I saw Lieutenant Beverly, too.

I suppose you know that he has escaped from Hamilton, and, here a big mouthful of venison interfered. Alice leaned toward him white and breathless, her heart standing still. Then the door which had been left unbarred was flung open, and along with a great rush of wind and rain, the patrol guard five and number, sprang in. Monsieur Rousillon reached his gun with one hand, with the other swung a tremendous blow as he leaped against the intruders. Madame Rousillon blew out the light. No cave in the depth of earth was ever darker than that room. The patrolman could not see one another or know what to do, but Monsieur Rousillon laid about him with a strength of a giant. his blows sounded as if they smashed bones.

Men fell heavily thumping on the floor where he rushed along. Someone fired a pistol and by its flash they all saw him. But instantly the darkness closed again, and before they could get their bearings he was out and gone, his great hulking form making its way easily over familiar ground where his would-be captors could have proceeded but slowly, even with a light to guide them. There was furious cursing among the patrolmen

as they tumbled about in the room, the unhurt ones trampling their prostrate companions and striking wildly at each other in their blindness and confusion. At last, one of them bethought him to open a dark lantern with which the night guards were furnished. Its flame was fluttering and gave forth a pale red light that danced weirdly on the floors and walls. Alice had snatched down one of her rapiers when the guards first entered.

They now saw her facing them with her slender blade leveled, her back to the wall, her eyes shining dangerously. Madame Rousillon had fled. into the adjoining room, Jean had also disappeared. The officer, a subaltern in charge of the guard, seeing Alice, and not quickly able to make out that it was a woman thus defying him, crossed swords with her. There was small space for action. Moreover, the officer being not in the least a swordsman, played awkwardly and quick as a flash his point was down. The rapier entered just below his throat with a dull chucking stab. He leaped backward, feeling at the same time a pair

of arms clasped his legs. It was Jean, and the lieutenant, thus unexpectedly tangled, fell to the floor, breaking but not extinguishing the guard's lantern as he went down. The little remaining oil spread and flamed up brilliantly as if eager for conflagrations spluttering along the uneven boards. Kill that devil, cried the lieutenant in a strangling voice while trying to regain his feet. Shoot! Bayonet! In his pain, rage and haste, he inadvertently set his hand in the midst of the blazing oil which clung to the flesh with a seething grip. Hell! he screamed. Fire! Fire! Two or three bayonets were leveled upon Alice. Someone kicked John clean across the room

and he lay there curled up in his hairy night wrap looking like an enormous porcupine. At this point a new performer came upon the stage, a dark-robed thing, so active that its outlines changed elusively, giving it no recognizable features. It might have been the devil himself, or some terrible unknown wild animal clad somewhat to resemble a man so far as a startled guards could make out. It clawed right and left, hurled one of them against the wall, dashed another through the door into Madame Rousillon's room, where the good woman was wailing at the top of her voice and fell to a third with a stroke like that of a bear's paw. Consternation was at high tide when Farnsworth, who always slept with an ear open, reached

Rousillon place and quickly quieted things. He was troubled beyond expression when he found out the true state of the affair, for there was nothing that he could do but arrest Alice and take her to Hamilton. It made his heart sink. He would have thought little of ordering a file of soldiers to shoot a man under the same conditions, but to subject her again to the governor's turn cruelty. How could he do it? This time there would be no hope for her. Alice stood before him, flushed, disheveled, defiant, sword in hand, beautiful and terrible as an angel. The figure man or devil had disappeared as strangely as it had come. The sub-lieutenant was having his slight wound bandaged.

Men were raging and cursing under their breath, rubbing their bruised heads and limbs. Alice. Mademoiselle Rousillon, I am so sorry for this, said Captain Farnsworth. It is painful, terrible. He could not go on, but stood before her unmanned. In the feeble light his face was wan and his hurt shoulder still in bandages drew. perceived perceptibly. "'I surrender to you,' she presently said in French, extending the hilt of a rapier to him.

"'I had to defend myself when attacked by your lieutenant there. If an officer finds it necessary to set upon a girl with his sword, may not the girl guard her life if she can?' She was short of breath so that her voice palpitated with a touching plangency that shook the man's heart. Farnsworth accepted the sword. He could do nothing less. His duty admitted of no doubtful consideration.

Yet he hesitated, feeling around in his mind for a phrase with which to evade the inevitable. It will be safer for you at the fort, mademoiselle. Let me take you there. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of Alice of Old Vincent by Maurice Thompson. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Thirteen. A meeting in the wilderness. Beverly set out on his midwinter journey to Cascassia with a tempest and his heart, and it was perhaps the storm's energy that gave him the courage to face undaunted and undoubting what his experience must have told him lay in his path. He was young and strong.

That meant a great deal. He had taken the desperate chances of Indian warfare many times before this, and the danger counted as nothing save that it offered the possibility of preventing him from doing the one thing in life he now cared to do. What meant suffering to him if he could but rescue Alice? and what were life should he fail to rescue her? The old old song hummed in his heart, every phrase of it distinct above the tumult of the storm. Could cold and hunger, swollen streams, ravenous wild beasts and scalp-hunting savages baffle him?

No, there is no barrier that can hinder love. He said this over and over to himself after his encounter with the four Indian scouts on the Wabash. He repeated it with every heartbeat until he fell in with some friendly red men who took him to their cap, were to his great surprise he met Monsieur Rousillon. It was his song when he again strode off toward the west on his lonely way. We need not follow him step by step.

The monotony of the woods and prairies, the cold rains, alternating with northerly winds and blinding snow, the constant watchfulness necessary to guard against a meeting with hostile savages, the tiresome tramping, wading and swimming, the hunger, the broken and wretched sleep in front, frozen and scant wraps, why detail it all? There was but one beautiful thing about it, the beauty of Alice as she seemed to walk beside him and hover near him in his dreams.

He did not know that Longhair and his band were fast on his track, but the knowledge could not have urged him to greater haste. He strained every muscle to its utmost, kept every nerve to the highest tension. Yonder towards the west was help for Alice. That was all he cared for. But if Longhair was pursuing him with relentless greed for the reward offered by Hamilton, there were friendly footsteps still nearer behind him. And one day at high noon, while he was bending over a little fire, broiling some liberal cuts of venison, a finger tapped him on the shoulder. He sprang up and grappled Uncle Jazeau. At the same time, standing nearby, he saw Simon Kenton, his old-time Kentucky friend. The pungled features of one and the fine, rugged face at the

other swam as in a mist before Beverly's eyes. Kenton was laughing quietly, his strong, upright form shaking to the force of his pleasure. He was in the early prime of a vigorous life, not handsome, but strikingly attractive by reason of a certain glow in his face and a kindly flash in his deep-set eyes. Well, well, my boy, he exclaimed laying his left hand on Beverly's shoulder, while in the other he held a long, heavy rifle. I'm glad to see ye, glad to see ye. "'Thought we was in, jones, eh?' said Uncle Jazon. "'And if we had a bin, we'd have been sure all your scalp.' The wizened old Creole cackled gleefully.

"'And where are ye going?' demanded Kenton. "'You're making what lacks a heap a bee and a bee-line for some place or other.' Beverly was dazed and vacant-minded. Things seemed wavering and dim. He pushed the two men from him and gazed at them without speaking. Their presence and voices did not convince him. "'Your meat's a burn, said Uncle Jason stooping to turn it on the smouldering coals.

He must be hungry. Cookin enough for a regiment.' Kenton shook Beverly with rough familiarity as if to rouse his faculties. "'What's the matter? Fits, my lad. Don't you know, Sir Kenton? It's not so long since we were like brothers and now ye don't speak to me.

You've not forgotten me, fits. Maybe he don't like ye as well as ye thought he did, drawled Uncle Jazon. I have no no fellers a-bein' mistaken just that way. Beverly got his wits together as best he could, taking in the situation by such degrees as seemed at the time unduly slow, but which were really mere momentary falterings. Why, Kenton, Jazon?

He presently exclaimed a cordial gladness blending with his surprise. "'How did you get here? Where did you come from?' He looked from one to the other back and forth with a wondering smile breaking over his bronzed and determined face. "'We've been hot on y'er trail for thirty hours,' said Kenton. "'Rusillon put us on it back yonder. "'But what are ye up to? Where are ye going?' "'I'm going to Clark at Cascahastka to bring him yonder.' He waved his hand eastward.

"'I am going to take Vincent and kill Hamilton.' well ye're taking a mighty queer course my boy if ye ever expect to find cascasca you're already twenty miles too far south carry in his gun on the same shoulder all the time said uncle jason has made him kind of swing in a curve like tain't good luck no how to carry your gun on your left shoulder when you do it makes yer take a longer step with your right foot than ye do with your left and you can't walk a straight line to save your left and you can't walk a straight line to save your left your liver. Ventre blue. La Benison brule encore. Look at that dastard meat burning again. He jumped back to the fire to turn the scorching cuts. Beverly wrung Kenton's hand and looked into his eyes, as a man does when an old friend comes suddenly out of the past, so to say, and brings the freshness and

comfort of a strong, true soul to brace him in his hour of greatest need. Of all the men in the world, Simon Kenton, you were the least expected. But how glad I am. How thankful. Now I know I shall succeed. We are going to capture Vincent, Kenton, are we not? We shall, shan't we Jason? Nothing, nothing can prevent us, can it? Kenton heartily returned the pressure of the young man's hand, while Uncle Jason looked up quizzically and said, we're a tolerable spectable lot to prevent but then we might get prevented i've seen better men and us pretty considerable prevented lots o times in my life in speaking the colloquial dialect of the american backwoodsman uncle jason despite years of practice among them gave to it a creole list in some terms of pronunciation not to be indicated by any form of spelling it added to his talk a peculiar soft drollery when he's spoke French, it was mostly that of the Courer de Bois, a patois which still lingers in out-of-the-way nooks of Louisiana. For my part, said Kenton,

I am with ye old boy and anything ye want to do, but now you've got to tell me everything. I see that you're keeping something back. What is it? He glanced sideways, slyly at Uncle Jason. Beverly was freck to a fault, but somehow his heart tried to keep Alice all to itself. He hesitated then. I broke my parole with Governor Hamilton, he said. He forced me to do it. I feel altogether justified. I told him beforehand that I should certainly leave Vincennes and go get a force to capture and kill him. And I'll do it, Simon Kenton. I'll do it. I see, I see, Kenton assented. But what was the row about? What did he do to excite ye? To make ye feel justified. and break an over yer parole in that high-handed way.

Fitz, I know ye too well to be fooled by ye. You've got something in mind that ye don't want to tell. Well, then don't tell it. Uncle Chazzo and I will go it blind, won't we, Chazzo? Blind as two moles, said the old man. But as for that secret, he added, winking both eyes at once. I don't know as it's so mighty hard to guess. It's always safe to imagine a woman in the case.

It's mostly women that sends men a trotting off about nothing, sort of crazy like. Beverly looked guilty and Uncle Jason continued. There's a putty girl at Veson, and I see the young man a stepping into her house about 15 times a day before I left the place. Maybe she's stuck up with one of them English officers. Girls is slippery and uncertain.

in, Jazon, cried Beverly, stop that instantly, or I'll ring your old neck. His anger was real, and he meant what he said. He clenched his hands and glowered. Uncle Jazon,

who was still squatting by the little fire, tumbled over backwards, as if Beverly had kicked him, and there he lay on the ground with his slender legs quivering a kimbo in the air while he laughed in a strained trouble that sounded like the whining of a screech-owl.

The old scamp did not know all the facts, in Beverly's case, nor did he even suspect what had happened, but he was aware of the young man's tender feeling for Alice, and he did shrewdly conjecture that she was a factor in the problem. The rude jest at her expense did not seem to his withered and toughened taste in the least out of the way. Indeed, it was a delectable bit of humor from Uncle Jason's point of view. Don't get mad at the old man, said Kenton, plucking Beverly aside. He's your friend, from his heels to his old scalped crown. him have his fun. Then lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he continued. I was in

Vaisen for two days and nights spying around. Madame Godair hid me in her house when there was need of it. I know how it is with Yee. I got all the gossip about Ye and the young lady as well as all the information about Hamilton and his forces that Colonel Clark wants. I'm going to Casasccia, but I think it's quite possible that Clark will be on his march to Vescent before we get there, for Vigo has taken him full particulars as to the fort and its garrison, and I know that he's determined to capture the whole thing or die trying. Beverly felt his heart swell and his blood leaped strong in his veins at these words. I saw ye while I was in Ves-en, Kenton added, but I never let ye see me. Ye were a prisoner, and I had no business with ye while your parole held.

I felt that it was best not to tempt ye to give me aid or to let ye have not. knowledge of me while I was a spy. I left two days before ye did, and should have been at Cascar by this time, if I hadn't run across Chazzo, who detained me. He wanted to go with me, and I waited for him to repair the stock of his old gun. He tinkered at it between meals and showers for half a week at the Indian village back yonder before he got it just to suit him. But I tell ye, he's war waiting for any length of time, and I was glad to let him have his way. Kenton, who was still a young man in his early thirties, respected Beverly's reticence on the subject uppermost in his mind.

Madame Goddair had told the whole story with flamboyant embellishments. Kenton had seen Alice, and inspired with the gossip and a surreptitious glimpse of her beauty, he felt perfectly familiar with Beverly's condition. He was himself a victim of the tender passion to the extent of being an exile from his Virginia home, which he had left on account of dangerously wounding arrival. but he was well touched with the backwoodsman's taste for joke and banter. He and Oakla-Jazon, therefore, knowing the main feature of Beverly's predicament, enjoyed making the most of their opportunity in their rude but perfectly generous and kindly way.

By indirection and impersonal details as regarded his feelings toward Alice, Beverly in due time made his friends understand that his whole ambition was centered in rescuing her. Nor did the motive fail to enlist their sympathy to the utmost, If all the world loves a lover, all men having the best virile instinct will fight for a lover's cause. Both Kenton and Uncle Jazon were enthusiastic. They wanted nothing better than an opportunity to aid in rescuing any girl who had shown so much patriotism and pluck. But Uncle Jazon was fond of Alice, and Beverly's story affected him peculiarly on her account. "'These's one question I'm a-go-in' to put to ye, young man,' he said after he had heard everything and they had talked at all.

over. And I want ye to answer it straight as a bullet from your gun. Of course, Jazon, go ahead, said Beverly. I shall be glad to answer. But his mind was far away with the gold-haired maiden in Hamilton's prison. He scarcely knew what he was saying. Are ye expecting to marry Alice Roussio? The three men were at the moment eating the well-broiled venison. Uncle Jazon's puckered lips and chin were dripping with the fragrant grease and juice which also flowed down his sinewy claw-like fingers. Overhead in the bare tops of the scrub oaks that covered the prairie oasis, the February wind sang a shrill and doleful song. Beverly started as if a blow had been aimed at him.

Uncle Jason's question indeed was a blow as unexpected as it was direct and powerful. I know it's putty, pented, the old man added after a short pause. and ye may think that I ain't got no business asking it, but I have. That little girl's a pet of mine, and I'm looking after her, and expecting to see that she's not bothered by nobody who's not going to do right by her. Marianne is a mighty good thing, but... What do ye know about matrimony? Ye old raw-headed bachelor, demanded Kenton,

who felt impelled to relieve Beverly of the embarrassment of an answer. ye wouldn't know a wife from a sack a meal. Now don't get too part and fast, sighed Kenton, cried Uncle Jazon, glaring truculently at his friend, but at the same time showing a dry smile that seemed to be hopelessly entangled in criss-cross wrinkles. Who told ye I was a bachelor? Not by a big jump.

I've been married 99 on to 20 times in my day. Mostly engines, of course. But a squaws a wife when he may be. marries her, and I know how it hurts a gal to be disappointed in such a matter. That's why I put the question I did. I'm not going to let no man give sorry to that little Rousillon gal. And so ye've got my say.

Yee seed her raise that flag on the fourth, Lieutenant Beverly, and ye seed her take it down and get her away with it. You know it she deserves nothing but the best. And by the Holy Virgin she's got to have it, or I'm going to know several reasons why. That's what made me put the question straight to ye young man, and I expect a straight answer. Beverly's face paled, but not with anger. He grasped one of Uncle Jason's greasy hands and gave it such a squeeze that the old fellow grimaced painfully.

Thank you, Uncle Jason. Thank you, he said with a peculiar husky burr in his voice. Alice will never suffer if I can help it. Let the subject drop now, my friend, a we have saved her from the hands of Hamilton. In the power of his emotion, he continued to grip the old man's hand with increasing severity of pressure. "'Vandre blue, let go. He didn't smash a fellow's fingers about it,'

screeched Uncle Jason. "'I can't shoot with a set no-how, and if ye cripple up my trigger finger.' Kenton had been peeping under the low-hanging scrub-oak bows while Uncle Jazon was speaking these last words, and now he suddenly interrupted. "'The devil, look yonder!' he growled out in startling tone. "'Engines!'

It was a sharp snap of the conversation's thread, and at the same time our three friends realized that they had been careless and not keeping a better lookout. They let fall them eat they had not yet finished eating and seized their guns. Five or six dark forms were moving toward them across a little point of the prairie that cut into the wood a quarter of a mile distant. "'Yander's more of them,' said Uncle Jason, as if not. not in the least concerned, wagging his head in an opposite direction from which another squad

was approaching. That he duly appreciated this situation appeared only in the celerity with which he acted. Kenton at once assumed command and his companions felt his perfect fitness. There was no doubt from the first as to what the Indians meant, but even if there had been it would have soon vanished, for in less than three minutes twenty-one savages were swiftly and silently forming a circle in closing the spot where the three white men who had covered themselves as best they could with trees, waited in grim steadiness for the worst. Quite beyond gunshot range, but near enough for Uncle Jazon to recognize Long

Hare as their leader, the Indians halted and began making signs to one another all around the line. Evidently, they dreaded to test the marksmanship of such riflemen as they knew most border men to be. Indeed, Longhair had personal knowledge of what might certainly be expected from both Kenton and Uncle Jazon. They were terrible when out for fight. the Red Warriors from Georgia to the Great Lakes had heard of them, their name smacked of tragedy. Nor was Beverly without fame among Longhaer's followers, who had listened to the story of his fighting qualities

brought to Vesen by the two survivors of the scouting party so cleverly defeated by him. The liver-colored cowards, said Kenton, I referred of us in a shooting match. They know that a lot of them would have to die if they should undertake an open fight with us. It's some sort of a sneak-in-game they are, are studying about just now.

I'm a getting most too old to shoot worth a cent, said Uncle Jason. But I'd give half of my scalp if that long hair would come close enough for me to get a head on his left eye. It's tall bull-plane at well-gone-gawkins' this time I'm thinking. Still, it'd be mighty satisfying if I could plug out a left eye or two-four I go. Beverly was silent. The words of his companions were heard by him, but not noticed.

nothing interested him save the thought of escaping and making his way to Clark. To fail meant infinitely more than death, of which he had as small fear as most brave men, and to succeed meant everything that life could offer. So in the unlimited selfishness of love, he did not take his companions into account. The three stood in a close set clump of four or five scrub oaks at the highest point of a thinly wooded knoll that sloped down in all directions to the prairie. their view was wide but in places obstructed by the trees. Men, said Kenton, after a thoughtful and watchful silence,

the thing looks kind of squally for us. I don't see much of a chance to get out of this alive, but we've got to try. He showed by the density of his voice and a certain grey film in his face that he felt the awful gravity of the situation, but he was calm and not a muscle quivered. There's just two chances for us. said Uncle Jason.

And them's as slim as a broomstrar. We've got to stand here and fight it out, or wait till night and sneak through a twineum and run for it. I don't see any hope of sneaking through the line, observed Kenton. It's not going to be dark tonight. Wow, Uncle Jason drawled nonchalantly while he took in a quid of tobacco.

I've been into tight-ar squeezes and this many a time, and I got out too. likely enough said kenton still reflecting while his eyes roamed around the circle of savages i feed the skunks in ferginny for you's thought of sigh kenton and down in carolina in them hills if ye think i'm a goin to be scalped where there ain't no scalp without trying a few dodges you're a dat dastad dastadur fool an i'm used to think ye was and that's making a big compliment to ye well we don't have to argue this question Uncle Jason. They're getting ready to run in upon us, and we've got to fight. I say, Beverly, are ye ready for fast shooting? Have you got a plenty of bullets? Yes, Rousillon gave me a hundred. Do you think? He was interrupted by a yell that leaped from savage mouth to mouth all around the circle, and then the charge began. Steady now, growled Kenton. Let's not be in a hurry. Wait till they come nigh enough to hit him

before we shoot. The time was short, for the Indians came on at almost race-horse speed. Uncle Jason fired first, the long, keen crack of his small-bore rifle splitting the air with a suggestion of vicious energy, and a lithe young warrior who was outstripping all his fellows leaped high and fell paralyzed.

Can't shoot worth a cent, muttered the old man deftly beginning to reload his gun the while. But I just happened to hit that buck. He'll never get my scalp. That's sartin and chur. Beverly and Kenton each likewise dropped an Indian, but the shocks did not even check the rush. Longhair had planned to capture his prey, not kill it.

Every savage had his orders to take the white men alive. Hamilton's larger reward depended on this. Right on they came as fast as their nimble legs could carry them, yelling like demons, and they reached the grove before the three white men could reload their guns. Then every warrior took cover behind. a tree and began scrambling forward from bowl to bowl, thus approaching rapidly without much exposure. "'Our tatters is roasted brown,' muttered Uncle Jason. He crossed himself. Possibly he prayed,

but he was priming his old gun the next instant. Kenton fired again making a hurried and ineffectual attempt to stop the nearest warrior who saved himself by quickly skipping behind a tree. Beverly's gun snapped, the flint failing to make fire. But Uncle Jason board a little hole through the head of the Indian nearest him, and then the final rush was made from every direction. A struggle ensued, which for desperate energy has probably never been surpassed. Like three lions at bay the white men met the shock, and lion-like they fought in the midst of seventeen stalwart and determined savages.

Don't kill them. Take them alive. Throw them down and hold them. Was Longhair's order loudly shouted in the tongue of his tribe. Both Kenton and Jazon understood every word and knew the significance of such a command from the leader. It naturally came into Kenton's mind that Hamilton had been informed of his visit to Vincent and had offered a reward for his capture. This being true, death as a spy would be the certain result if he were taken back. He might as well die now. As for Beverly, he thought only of Alice, yonder as he had left her, a prisoner in Hamilton's hands. Uncle Jazon, if he thought at all,

probably considered nothing but present escape, though he prayed audibly to the Blessed Virgin, even while he lay helpless upon the ground, pinned down by the weight of an enormous Indian. He could not move any part of himself, save his lips, and these mechanically put forth the wheezing supplication. Beverly and Kenton, being young and powerful, were not so easily mastered.

For a while, indeed, they appeared to be more than holding their own. They time and time again scattered the entire crowd by the violence of their muscular efforts, and after it had finally closed in upon them in a solid body, they swayed and swung it back and forth and round and round until the writhing savage mass looked as if caught in the vortex of a whirlwind. But such tremendous exertion could not last long.

Eight to one made two great a difference between the contending parties, and the only possible conclusion of the struggle soon came. Seized upon by desperate clinging wolf-like assailants, the white men felt their arms, legs and bodies waited down and their strength fast going. Kenton fell next after Uncle Jason and was soon tightly bound with rawhide thongs. He lay on his back, panting, and utterly exhausted, while Beverly still kept up the unequal fight.

Longhair sprang in at the last moment to make doubly search in the securing of his most important captive. He flung his long and powerful arms around Beverly from behind and made a great effort to throw him upon the ground. The young man, feeling this fresh and vigorous clasp, turned himself about to put forth one more mighty spur of power. He lifted the stalwart Indian bodily and dashed him headlong against the buttressed root of a tree half a rod distant, breaking the smaller bone of his left forearm and well-nigh knocking him senseless. It was a fine exhibition of manly strength, but there could be nothing gained by it. A blow on the back of his head the next instant stretched Beverly face downward and unconscious on the ground. the savages turned him over and looked satisfied when they found that he was not dead they bound him with even greater care than they had shown in securing the others while long hair stood by stolidly looking on meantime supporting his broken forearm in his hand

ugh dog he grunted and gave beverly a kick in the side then turning a fiendish stare upon uncle jason he proceeded to deliver against his old dry ribs three or four like contributions with resounding effect pole cat little old greasy woman he snarled make good fire for a warrior to dance by kenton also received his full share of the kicks and verbal abuse after which long hair gave orders for fires to be built then he looked to his hurt arm and had the bone set and bandage never so much as wincing the while it was soon apparent that the indian's purpose to celebrate their successful enterprise with a feast they cooked a large amount of buffalo steak then each with his hands full of the savoury meat they began to dance around the fires droning meantime an atrociously repellent chant they are respecting to have a little bit o'nottin us muttered uncle jason to beverly who lay near him "'I understand what they're up to, Dad Dast them. "'More than forty years ago in Kailina, "'they put me and Jim Hypes through the gantlet, "'and after that, in Kentucky,

"'me and Cy Kenton tucked the run. "'Aye there, Cy, where are ye?' "'Shut your fool mouth,' Kenton growled under his breath. "'You'll have that engine "'kicking our lights out of us again.' "'Ocler-Gazon winked at the grey-scone, and puckered his mouth so that it looked like a nut gall on an old dry leaf. What's the difference? he demanded.

I'd just as soon be kicked now as after a while. It's got to come anyhow. Kenton made no response. The thongs were torturing his arms and legs. Beverly was silent, but consciousness had returned, and with it a sense of despair. All three of the prisoners lay face upward quite unable to move, knowing full well that a terrible ordeal awaited them.

Uncle Jason's grim humor could not be quenched, even by the galling agony of the thongs that buried themselves in the flesh, and the anticipation of torture beside which death would seem a luxury. Yep. Longhair, how's your arm? he called jeeringly. Feels pretty good, hey? Longhair, who was not joining in the dance and song, turned when he heard these taunting words and a mistaking whence they came, to Beverly's side and kicked him again and again.

Uncle Jason heard the loud blows and considered the incident a remarkably good joke. He-he-he-heed, he snickered as soon as Longhair walked away again. I does the talk and somebody else gets the dump in. I always was devilly shlucky. Them keeks was good solid jolts, wasn't they, lieutenant? Sounded like they was. "'He-he-he! Beverly gave no heed to Uncle Jason's exasperating pleasantry, but Kenton's sorely chafing under the pressure of his bonds could not refrain from making a retort in kind.

"'I'd give ye one pound and that ye'd remember Emil Jazon if I could get to ye, "'ye old twisted face, peel-headed, crooked mouth, aggravated and scamp,' he exclaimed, "'not thinking how high his naturally strong voice was lifted. "'I can stand any fool but a damn fool!' longhair heard the concluding epithet and understood its meaning moreover he thought himself the target at which it was so energetically launched wherefore he promptly turned back and gave kenton a kicking that made his body resound not unlike a drum and here it was that uncle jason overreached himself he was so delighted at kenton's luck that he broke forth giggling and thereby drew against his own ribs a considerable improvement of long hair's pedal applications Ventre bleu, whined the old man when the Indian had gone away again. Holy Mary, Jerusalem.

There's nary bon o me left that's not splintered as fine as tooth pickers. Suppose you're satisfied now, ain't ye, sighed Kenton? If you ain't, I'm sure to satisfy ye the first time I get a chance at ye, you blab-mouthedget. Before this conversation was ended, Arrayne began to fall, and it rapidly thickened from a desultory shower to our roaring downpour that effectually quenched not only the fires around which the savages were dancing, but the enthusiasm of the dancers as well. During the rest of the afternoon and all night long the fall was incessant, accompanied by a cold, panting, wailing southwest wind.

Beverly lay on the ground, face upward, the raw hide strings torturing his limbs, the chill of cold water searching his bones. He could see nothing but the dim, strange canopy of flying rain against which the bare boughs of the scrub-oaks were vaguely outlined. He could hear nothing but the cry of the wind and the swash of the water which fell upon him and ran under him, bubbling and gurgling as if fiendishly exultant. The night dragged on through its terrible length, dealing out its indescribable horrors, and at last morning arrived, with a stingy and uncertain gift of light slowly increasing, until the dripping trees appeared forlornly gray and brown against clouds, now breaking

into masses that gave but little rain. Beverly lived through the awful trial and even had the hardihood to brighten inwardly with the first flash of sunlight that shot through a cloud crack on the eastern horizon. He thought of Alice, as he had done all night. But now the thought partook somehow of the glow yonder above old Vincennes,

although he could only see its reflection. There was a great stir among the Indians. Longhares talked about scrutinizing the ground. Beverly saw him come nearer time and again with a hideous inquiring scowl on his face. Grunts and laconic exclamations passed from mouth to mouth, and presently the import of it all could not be mistaken. Kenton and Jazon were gone, had escaped during the night, and the rain had completely obliterated their tracks. The Indians were furious. Longhair sent out picked parties of his best scouts with orders to scour the country in all directions, keeping with himself a few of the older warriors.

Beverly was fed what he would eat of venison, and Long Hair made him understand that he would have to suffer some terrible punishment on account of the action of his companions. Late in the day, the scouts straggled back with the report that no track or sign of the fugitives had been discovered, and immediately a consultation was held. Most of the warriors, including all of the young bucks, demanded a torture entertainment as compensation for their exertions

and the unexpected loss of their own prisoners. for it had been agreed that Beverly belonged exclusively to Longhair, who objected to anything which might deprive him of the great reward offered by Hamilton for the prisoner if brought to him alive. In the end, it was agreed that Beverly should be made to run the gauntlet, provided that no deadly weapons were used upon him during the ordeal. End of Chapter 13 of Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Fourteen, a prisoner of love. Alice put on her warmest clothes and followed Captain Farnsworth to the fort,

realizing that no pleasant experience awaited her. The wind and rain still prevailed when they were ready to set forth, and although it was not extremely cold, a searching chill went with every throb that marked the storm's waves. No light shone in the village houses. Overhead a gray gloom covered stars and sky, making the darkness in the watery streets seemed densely black. farnsworth offered alice's arm but she did not accept it i know the way better than you do she said come on and don't be afraid that i am going to run i shall not play any trick on you very well mademoiselle as you like i trust you

he followed her from the house he was so filled with the bitterness of what he was doing that he carried her sword in his hand all the way to the fort quite unaware that its point often touched her dress so that she plainly felt it Indeed, she thought he was using that ruffianly and dangerous means of keeping pace with her. He had sent the patrol on its rounds, taking upon himself the responsibility of delivering her to Hamilton. She almost ran, urged by the strange excitement that burned in her heart, and he followed somewhat awkwardly, stumbling over the unfamiliar way in the rain and darkness. At every step he was wishing that she would escape from him. Course as his nature was, and distorted by hardening experiences, it was rooted in good English honesty and imbued with the chivalric spirit.

When has happened too often he fell under the influence of liquor, the bad in him promptly came uppermost, but at all other times his better traits made him a good fellow to meet, genial, polite, generous, and inclined to recognize the finer sentiments of manliness. To march into his commander's presence with Alice as his prisoner lacked everything of agreeing with his taste, yet he had not been willing to give her over into the hands of the patrol. If his regard for military obligation had not been exceptionally strong, even for an English soldier, he would have given way to the temptation of taking her to someplace of hiding and safety, instead of brutally subjecting her to Hamilton's harsh judgment.

He anticipated a trying experience for her on account of this new transgression. They hastened along until a lantern in the fort shot a hazy gleam upon them. Stop a moment, mademoiselle, Farnsworth called. I say, Miss Rue. "'Rusillon. Stop a moment, please.' Alice halted and turned facing him so short and so suddenly that the rapier in his hand pricked through her wraps and slightly scratched her arm. "'What do you mean, sir?' she demanded, thinking that he had thrust purposely. "'Do I deserve this brutality?'

"'You mistake me, Miss Rousillon. I cannot be brutal to you now. Do not fear me. I only had a word to say.' "'And you deem it very polite and gentle to jane. me with your sword, do you? If I had one in my hand, you would not dare try such a thing, and you know it very well. He was amazed, not knowing that the sword-point had touched her. He could not see her face, but there was a flash in her voice that startled him with its indignant contempt and resentment. What are you saying, Miss Ossillon?

I don't understand you. When did I ever? When did I jab you with my sword? I never thought of such a thing. "'This moment, sir, you did, and you know you did. My arm is bleeding now.' She spoke rapidly in French, but he caught her meaning and for the first became aware of the rapier in his hand. Even then its point was toward her and very near her breast.

He lowered it instantly while the truth rushed into his mind. "'Forgive me,' he murmured. His words barely audible in the tumult of wind and rain but charged with the intensest feeling. "'Forgive me!' did not know. It was an accident. I could not do such a thing purposely. Believe me, believe me, Miss Rousio, I did not mean it. She stood facing him, trying to look right into his eyes. A quality in his voice had checked her hot anger. She could only see his dim outlines in the dull gleam from the fort's lantern. He seemed to be forlornly wretched. I should like to believe you,

she presently said, but I cannot. You English are all. all despicable, mean, vile. She was remembering the young officer who had assaulted her with his sword in the house a while ago. And, what a strange thing the human brain is, she at the same time comforted herself with the further thought that Beverly would never, never be guilty of rudeness to a woman.

"'Some time you shall not say that,' Farnsworth responded. "'I asked you to stop a moment "'that I might beg you to believe "'how wretchedly sorry I am for what I am doing. "'But you cannot understand, me now. Are you really hurt, Miss Rousillon? I assure you that it was purely accidental.

My hurt is nothing, she said. I am very glad. Well, then, shall we go on to the fort? You may go where you please, mademoiselle. She turned her back upon him, and without an answering word walked straight to the lantern that hung by the gate of the stockade, where a sentinel trapped to and pro.

A few moments later, Captain Farnsworth presented her to Hamilton, who had been called from his bed when the news of the trouble at Oceion Place reached the fort. "'So you've been raising hell again, have you, miss?' He growled with an ugly frown darkening his face. "'I beg your pardon,' said Farnsworth. "'Miss Rousillon was not to blame for—' "'In your eyes, she'd not be to blame, sir, if she burned up the fort and all of us in it,'

Hamilton gruffly interrupted. "'Miss, what have you been doing? What are you here for?' "'Captain Farnsworth, will you please state the particulars of the trouble that I have just heard about. And I may as well notify you that I wish to hear no special lovers pleading in this girl's behalf. Farnsworth's face whitened with anger.

He bit his lip and a shiver ran through his frame, but he had to conquer the passion. In a few words, blunt and direct as musket balls, he told all the circumstances of what had taken place, making no concealments to favor Alice, but boldly blaming the officer of the patrol Lieutenant Barlow for losing his head and attacking a young girl in her own home. I will hear from Barlow, said Hamilton after listening attentively to the story.

But take this girl and confine her. Show her no favors. I hold you responsible for her until tomorrow morning. You can retire. There was no room for discussion. Farnsworth saluted and turned to Alice. Come with me, he gently said. Hamilton looked after them as they went out of his drew a curious smile playing around his firmly set lips. "'She's the most beautiful vixen that I ever saw,' he thought. "'She doesn't look to be a French girl either, decidedly English.' He shrugged his shoulders, then laughed dryly. Farnsworth as crazy as can be the beggar, in love with her so deep that he can't see out.

By Jove, she is a beauty. Never saw such eyes. And plucky to beat the devil. I'll bet my head Barlow will be daft about her next. Still notwithstanding the lightness of his inward comments, Hamilton regarded the incident as rather serious. He knew that the French inhabitants were secretly his bitter enemies, yet probably willing, if he would humor their peculiar social,

domestic and commercial prejudices to refrain from active hostilities, and even to aid him in furnishing his garrison with a large amount of needed supplies. The danger just now was twofold. his Indian allies were discerting him, and a flotilla loaded with provisions and ammunition from Detroit had failed to arrive. He might, if the French rose against him and were joined by the Indians, have great difficulty defending the fort. It was clear that Monsieur Rousillon had more influence with both Creoles and savages

than any other person save Father Beret. Urgent policy dictated that these two men should somehow be won over. But to do this it would be necessary to treat Alice in such a way that her arrest would aid instead of operating against the desired result. A thing not easy to manage. Hamilton was not a man of fine scruples, but he may have been, probably was, better than our American historians have made him appear. His besetting weakness, which, as a matter of course, he regarded as the highest flower

of efficiency, was an uncontrollable temper, a lack of fine human sympathy, and an inability to forgive. In his calmest moments when Prudence appealed to him, he would be able to him. resolved to use diplomatic means. But no sooner was his opinion questioned or his purpose opposed than anger and the thirst for revenge overpowered every gentler consideration. He returned to his bed that night fully resolved upon a pleasant and successful interview with Alice next morning. Captain Farnsworth took his fair prisoner straightway from Hamilton's presence to a small room connected with a considerable structure in a distant angle of the stockade. Neither he nor Alice

spoke on the way. With a huge wooden key, he unlocked the door and stepped aside for her to enter. A dim lamp was burning within, its yellowish light flickering over the scant furniture which consisted of a comfortable bed, a table with some books on it, three chairs, a small looking-glass on the wall, a guitar and some articles of men's clothing hanging here and there. A heap of dull embers smouldered in the fireplace. Alice did not falter on the threshold, but promptly entered her prison. I hope you can be comfortable.

said Farnsworth in a low tone. It's the best I can give you. Thank you, was the answer spoken, quite as if he had handed her glass of water or picked up her handkerchief. He held the door a moment while she stopped with her back toward him in the middle of the room.

Then she heard him close and lock it. The air was almost too warm after her exposure to the biting wind and cold dashes of rain. She cast off her outer wraps and stood by the fireplace. At a glance she comprehended that the place was not the one she had formerly occupied as a prisoner and that it belonged to a man.

A long rifle stood in a corner, a bullet pouch and powderhorn hanging on a projecting hickory ramrod, a heavy fur topcoat lay across one of the chairs. Alice felt her situation bitterly enough, but she was not of the stuff that turns to water at the touch of misfortune. Pioneer women took hardships as a matter of course and met calamity with admirable fortitude. There was no ringing of hands, no frantic wailing, no hollow, despairing groan, while life-lasted hope flourished, even in most tragic surroundings, and not unfrequently Sucker came at the last verge of destruction as the fitting reward of unconquerable courage.

A girl like Alice must be accepted in the spirit of her time and surroundings. She was born amid experiences scarcely credible now, and bred in an area and atmosphere of incomparable dangers. Naturally, she accepted conditions of terrible import with a Saint-Fouix, scarcely possible to a girl of our day. She did not cry. She did not sink down helpless when she found herself once more imprisoned with some uncertain trial before her,

but simply knelt and repeated the Lord's Prayer then went to bed and slept. Even dreamed the dream of a maid's first love. Meantime, Farnsworth, who had given Alice's own apartment, took what rest he could on the cold ground under a leaky shed hard by. His wound, not yet altogether healed, was not benefited by the exposure. In due time next morning, Hamilton ordered Alice brought to his office, and when she appeared he was smiling with as near an approach to affability as his disposition would permit.

He rose and bowed like a courtier. I hope you rested well, mademoiselle, he said in his best French. He imagined that the use of her language would be agreeable to begin with. The moment that Alice saw him wearing that she, shallow veneering of pleasantness on his never-pre-possessing visage, she felt a mood of perversity come over her. She too smiled, and he mistook her expression for one of reciprocal amenity. She noticed that her sword was on his table. I am sorry, monsieur, that I cannot say as much to you, she glibly responded.

If you lay upon a bed of needles the whole night through, your rest was better than you deserved. My own sleep was quite refreshing, thank you. instantly Hamilton's caller rose. He tried to suppress it at first, but when he saw Alice actually laughing, Anne Farnsworth, who had brought her in, biting his lip furiously to keep from adding an uproarious gaffa, he lost all hold of himself. He unconsciously picked up the rapier and shook it till its blade swished. I might have known better than to expect decency from a wench of your character, he said. I hope to do your favor, but I see that you are not capable of accepting kindness politely.

I am sure, monsieur, that I have but spoken the truth plainly to you. You would not have me do otherwise, I hope?' Her voice absolutely witching in its softness, freshness and suavity, helped the assault of her eyes, while her dimples twinkled and her hair shone. Hamilton felt his heart moved strangely, but he could not forbear saying in English, If you are so devilish-truthful, miss, you will probably tell me where the flag is that you stole and hid.

It was always the missing banner that came to mind when he saw her. Indeed, I will do nothing of the sort, she promptly replied. When you see that flag again, you will be a prisoner, and I will wave it high over your head. She lifted a hand as she spoke

and made the motion of shaking a banner above him. It was exasperation sweetened almost to delight that decode of the sturdy Britain. He liked Pluck, especially in a woman. all the more if she was beautiful. Yet the very fact that he felt her charm falling upon him

set him hard against her, not as Hamilton the man, but as Hamilton the commander at Vincennes. You think to fling yourself upon me as you have upon Captain Farnsworth, he said with an insulting leer and in a tone of prurient innuendo. I am not susceptible, my dear.

This more for Farnsworth benefit than to insult her, albeit he was not in a mood to care. You are a... coward and a liar, she exclaimed her face flushing with hot shame. You stand here, she quickly added, turning fiercely upon Farnsworth, and quietly listen to such words. You two are a coward if you do not make him retract. Oh, you English are low brutes. Hamilton laughed, but Farnsworth looked dark and troubled his glance going back and forth from Alice to his commander as if another word would cause him to do something terrible.

I rather think I've heard all that I care to hear from you, Miss, Hamilton presently said. Captain Farnsworth, you will see that the prisoner is confined in the proper place, which I suggest to you, is not your sleeping quarters, sir. Colonel Hamilton, said Farnsworth in a husky voice. I slept on the ground under a shed last night in order that Miss Rousillon might be somewhat comfortable. Hump!

Well, see that you do not do it again. This girl is guilty of harboring a spy and resisting a lawful attempt of my guards to capture him. Confine her in the place prepared for prisoners and see that she stays there until I am ready to fix her punishment. There is no place fit for a young girl to stay in, Farnsworth ventured. She can have no comfort or— Take her along, sir. Any place is good enough for her, so long as she behaves like a—very well—Farnsworth bluntly interrupted, thus saving Alice the stroke of a vile comparison. "'Come with me, please, Miss Rousillon.' He pulled her toward the door, then dropped the army he had grasped and murmured an apology.

She followed him out, holding her head high. No one looking on would have suspected that a sinking sensation in her heart made it difficult for her to walk, or that her eyes, shining like stars, were so inwardly clouded with distress that she saw her way but dimly. It was a relief to Hamilton when Helm a few minutes later entered the room with something breezy to say. "'What's up now, if I may ask?' the jolly American demanded,

"'What's this I hear about trouble with the French women? Have they begun a revolution?' "'That elephant, Gaspar Rousillon, came back into town last night,' said Hamilton sulkily. "'Well, he went out again, didn't he?' "'Yes, but—' "'Stept on somebody's toe first, eh?' The guard tried to capture him,

and that girl of his wounded Lieutenant Barlow in the neck with a sword. Hossillon fought like a tiger, and the men swear that the devil himself appeared on the scene to help the Frenchmen out. Moral. Be generous in your dealings with Frenchmen and French women, and so get the devil on your side. I've got the girl a prisoner, and I swear to you that I'll have a shot this time, if... Why not shoot her yourself? You oughtn't to shirk a dirty job like that and force it upon your men. Hamilton laughed and elevated his shoulders as if to shake off an annoying load.

Just then, a young officer with a white bandage around his neck entered and saluted. he was a small soft-haired blue-eyed man of reckless bearing with marks of dissipation sharply cut into his face he saluted smiling self-consciously well barlow said hamilton the kitten scratched you did she yes slightly and i don't think i've been treated fairly in the matter sir how so i stood the brunt and now captain farnsworth gets the prize he twisted his mouth in mock expression of maudlin disappointment i'm always cheated out of the sweets i never get anything for gallant conduct on the field poor boy it is a shame but i say lieutenant has rousillon really escaped or is he hidden somewhere in town have you been careful "'Oh, it's the Indians. They all swear by these Frenchmen. You can't get any help from them against a fellow like Oceion. In fact, they aid him. He's among them now.' "'Moral again,' Helm interposed.

"'Keep on the good side of the French.' "'That sensible talk, sir,' assented Barlow. "'Bah!' exclaimed Hamilton. "'You might as well talk of sleeping on the good side of the American traitors. "'A bloody Murren sees the whole race.' "'That's what I say,' chimed in the lieutenant with a sly look at Helm. "'They have been telling me a cock and bull story concerning the affair at the Rousillon Cabin,' Hamilton said, changing his manner.

"'What is this about a disguised and wonderful man who rushed in and upset the whole of you? "'I want no romancing. Give me the facts.' Barlow's dissolute countenance became troubled. "'The facts,' he said speaking with serious deliberation, "'are not clear. It was like a clap of thunder the way that man performed. As you say, he did fling the whole squad all of a heap, and it was done that quickly. He snapped his thumb and finger demonstratively with a sharp report.

Nobody could understand it. Hamilton looked at his subaltern with a smile of unlimited contempt and said, A pretty officer of His Majesty's Army, you are, Lieutenant Barlow. First, a slip of a girl shows herself your superior with the sword and wounds you. then a single man wipes up the floor of a house with you and your guard, depriving you at the same time of both vision and memory so that you cannot even describe your assailant. He was dressed like a priest,

muttered Barlow evidently frightened at his commander's scathing comment. That was all there was to see. A priest. Some of the men say the devil. I wonder. Hamilton hesitated and looked at the floor. This, father Beret, he is too old for such a thing, isn't he?

I have thought of him. It was like him. But he is, as you say, very old, to be so tremendously strong and active. Why, I tell you, that men went from his hands against the walls and floor as if shot out of a mortar. It was the strangest and most astounding thing I ever heard of. A little later Barlow seized a favorable opportunity and withdrew. The conversation was not to his liking.

Hamilton sent for Father Beret and had a long talk. with him, but the old man looked so childishly inoffensive in spirit and so collapsed physically that it seemed worse than foolishness to accuse him of the exploit over which the entire garrison was wondering. Farnsworth sat by during the interview. He looked the good priest curiously and critically over from head to foot, remembering but not mentioning, the most unclerical punch in the side received from that energetic right arm now lying so flabbily across the old man's lap. When the talk ended and Father Beret humbly took his leave, Hamilton turned to Farnsworth and said,

What do you think of this affair? I have cross-questioned all the men who took part in it, and every one of them says simply priest or devil. I think old Beret is both. But plainly he couldn't hurt a chicken. You can see that at a glance. Farnsworth smiled, rubbing his side reminiscently, but he shook his head.

I'm sure it's puzzling indeed. Hamilton sat in thoughtful silence for a while then abruptly changed the subject. I think, Captain, that you had better send out Lieutenant Barlow and some of the best woodsmen to kill some game. We need fresh venison, and by George, I'm not going to depend upon these French traitors any longer. I have set my foot down.

They've got to do better or take the consequences. He paused for breath, then added, That girl has done too much to escape severest punishment. The garrison will do that. be demoralized if this thing goes on without an example of authority rigidly enforced. I am resolved that there shall be a startling and effective public display of my power to punish. She shot you. You seem to be glad of it, but it was a grave offense. She has stabbed Barlow. That is another serious crime. But worst of all, she a spy and resisted arrest. She must be punished.

Farnsworth knew Hamilton's nature, and he now saw that Alice was in dreadful. danger of death or something even worse. Whenever his chief talked of discipline and the need of maintaining his authority, there was little hope of softening his decisions. Moreover, the provocation to apply extreme measures really seemed sufficient, regarded from a military point of view, and Captain Farnsworth was himself under ordinary circumstances a disciplinarian of the strictest class. The fascination, however, by which Alice held him overbore every other influence, and his

devotion to her loosened every other tie and obligation to a most dangerous extent. No sooner had he left headquarters and given Barlow his instructions touching the hunting expedition, then his mind began to wander amid visions and schemes by no means consistent with his military obligations. In order to reflect undisturbed, he went forth into the dreary, lane-like streets of Vincennes, and walked aimlessly here and there until he met Father Beret. Farnsworth saluted the old man and was passing him by, when seeing a sword in his hand half hidden in the folds of his worn and faded cassock, he turned and addressed him. "'Why are you armed this morning, father?' he demanded very pleasantly.

"'Who is to suffer now?' "'I am not on the warpath, my son,' replied the priest. "'It is but a rapier that I am going to clean of rust spots that are gathering on its blade.' "'Is it yours, father? Let me see it.' He held out his hand. "'No, not mine.' Father Beret seemed not to notice Farnsworth's desire to handle the weapon,

and the young man, instead of repeating his words, reached farther, nearly grasping the scabbard. "'I cannot let you take it, my son,' said Father Beret. "'You have its meat, that should satisfy you.' "'No, Colonel Hamilton took it,' Farnsworth quickly replied. "'If I could I would gladly return it to its owner. I am not a thief, father, and I am ashamed of of what I did when I was drunk. The priest looked sharply into Farnsworth's eyes

and read there something that reassured him. His long experience had rendered him adept at taking a man's value at a glance. He slightly lifted his face and said, Ah, but the poor little girl, why do you persecute her? She really does not deserve it. She is a noble child.

Give her back to her wrong. home and her people. Do not soil and spoil her sweet life. It was the sing-song voice used by Father Beret in his sermons and prayers, but something went with it indescribably touching. Farnsworth felt a lump rise in his throat and his eyes were ready to show tears. Father, he said with difficulty making his words distinct, I would not harm Miss Rousillon to save my own life, and I would do anything. He paused slightly, then added with passionate force. I would do anything no matter what

to save her from the terrible thing that now threatens her. Father Beret's countenance changed curiously as he gazed at the young man and said, If you really mean what you say, you can easily save her, my son. Father, by all that is holy, I mean just what I say.

Swear not at all, my son, but give me your hand. The two men stood with a tight grip between them and exchanged a long, steady, searching gaze. A drizzling rain had begun to fall again with a raw wind creeping from the west. Come with me to my house, my son, Father Beret presently added, and together they went, the priest covering Alice's sword from the rain with the folds of his cassock. End of Chapter 14.

Chapter 15 of Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson. This Libervox recording is in the public. domain. Fifteen. Virtue in a locket. Longhair stood not upon ceremony in conveying to Beverly the information that he was to run the gauntlet, which otherwise stated, meant that the Indians would form themselves in two parallel lines facing each other about six feet apart, and that the prisoner would be expected to run down the length of the space between, thus affording the warriors an opportunity, greatly

coveted and relished by their fiendish natures to beat him cruelly during his flight. This sort of thing was to the Indians indeed an exquisite amusement, as fascinating to them as the theatre is to more enlightened people. No sooner was it agreed upon that the entertainment should again be undertaken than all the younger men began to scurry around getting everything ready for it. Their faces glowed with a droll, cruelty strange to see, and they further express their lively expectations by playful yet curiously solomantic. The preparations were simple and quickly made. Each man armed himself with a stick three feet long and about three quarters of an inch in diameter. Rough weapons they were, cut from boughs of scrub oak, naughty and tough as horn. Long hair unbound Beverly and stripped his clothes from his body down to the waist.

Then the lines formed, the Indians in each row standing about as far apart as the width of the space in which the prisoner was to run. This arrangement gave them free use of their sticks and plenty of room for full swing of their lithe bodies. In removing Beverly's clothes, long hair found Alice's locket hanging over the young man's heart. He tore it rudely off and grunted, glaring viciously, first at it and then at Beverly. He seemed to be mightily wrought upon. White man, damn thief! He growled deep in his throat, stole from little girl. He put the locket in his pouch and resumed his stupidly indifferent expression.

When everything was ready for the delightful entertainment to begin, Then, Longhair waved his tomahawk three times over Beverly's head, and pointing down between the waiting line said, Ugh, run. But Beverly did not budge. He was standing erect with his arms deeply creased where the thongs had sunk folded across his breast. A rush of thoughts and feelings had taken tumultuous possession of him and he could not move or decide what to do. A mad desire to escape arose in his heart the moment that he saw Longhair take the locket. It was as if Alice had cried to him and bidden him make a dash for liberty.

Ugh, run. The order was accompanied with a push of such violence from Longhair's left elbow that Beverly plunged and fell for his limbs, after their long and painful confinement in the rawhide bonds were stiff and almost useless. Longhair, in no gentle voice, bad him get up. The shock of falling seemed to awaken his dormant forces. A sudden resolve leaped into his brain. He saw that the Indians had put aside their bows and guns, most of which were leaning against the bowl of trees here and yonder. What if he could knock long hair down and run away? This might possibly be easy, considering the Indian's broken arm.

His heart jumped at the possibility. But the shrewd savage was alert and saw the thought come into his face. You try get way. Kill dead! He snarled, lifting his tomahawk ready for a stroke. Brains out, damn. Beverly glanced down the waiting and eager lines. Swiftly, he speculated, wondering what would be his chance for escape were he to break through. But he did not take his own condition into account. Ugh, run! Again the elbow of long hair's hurt arm pushed him toward the expectant rows of Indians, who flourished their clubs and uttered impatient grunts.

This time he did not fall. But in trying to run he limped stiffly at first, his legs butt slowly and imprisoned. perfectly regaining their strength and suppleness from the action. Just before reaching the lines, however, he stopped short. Longhair, who was close behind him, took hold of his shoulder and let him back to the starting place. The big Indian's arm must have given him pain when he thus used it, but he did not wince. Fool, kill dead.

He repeated two or three times, holding his tomahawk on high with threatening motions and frequent repetitions of his one echo from the profanity of civilization. He was beginning to draw his mouth down at the corners and his eyes were narrowed to mere slits. Beverly understood now that he could not longer put off the trial. He must choose between certain death and the torture of the gauntlet, as frontiersmen named this savage ordeal. An old man might have preferred the stroke of the hatchet to such an infliction as the clubs must afford, considering that even after all the agony, his captivity and suffering would be only a little nearer its end. youth however has faith in the turn of fortune's wheel and faith in itself no matter how dark the prospect hope blows her horn just over the horizon and the strain bids the young heart take courage and beat strong

moreover men were men who led the van in those days on the outmost lines of our march to the summit of the world beverly was not more a hero than any other young brave unconquerable patriot of the frontier army his situation simply tried him a trifle harder than was common but it must be remembered that he had love with him and where love is there can be no cowardice no surrender long hair once again pushed him and said ugh run beverly made a direct dash for the narrow lane between the braced and watchful lines every warrior lifted his club every copper face gleamed stolidly a mask behind which burned a strangely atrocious spirit the two savages standing at the end nearest beverly struck at him the instant he reached them but they were taken quite by surprise when he checked himself between them and leaping this way and that swung out two powerful blows left and right stretching one of them flat and sending the other reeling and staggering half a dozen paces backwards with the blood streaming from his nose. This done, Beverly turned to run away, but his breath was already short and his strength rapidly going. Longhair, who was at his heels, leaped before him when he had gone but a few steps and once more flourished the tomahawk. To struggle was useless, save to insist upon being brained

outright, which just then had no part in Beverly's considerations. Longhair kicked his victim heavily, uttering laconic curses, meanwhile, and let him back again to the starting point. A genuine sense of humor seems almost entirely lacking in the mind of the American Indian. He smiles, not in the least amusing to us, and when he laughs, which is very seldom, the cause of his merriment usually lies in something repellently cruel and inhuman. When Beverly struck his two assailants, hurting them so that one lay half stunned, while the other spun away from his fist with a smashed nose, all the rest of the rest of the Indians grunted and laughed raucously in high delight. They shook their clubs,

danced, pointed at their discomfited fellows, and twisted their painted faces into knotted wrinkles, their eyes twinkling with devilish expression of glee quite indescribable. "'A damn, run,' said Longhair, this time adding a heart kick to the elbow shove he gave Beverly. The young man who had borne all he could now turned upon him furiously and struck straight from the shoulder, setting the whole weight of his body into the blow-up. Long hair stepped out of the way and quick as a flash brought the flat side of his tomahawk with great force against Beverly's head. This gave the amusement a sudden and disappointing end, for the prisoner fell limp and senseless to the ground. No more running the gauntlet for him that day.

Indeed, it required protracted application of the best Indian skill to revive him, so that he could fairly be called a living man. There had been no dangerous concussion, however, and on the following morning, camp was broken. Beverly, sore, haggard, forlornly dishevelled, had his arms bound again and was made to march apace with his nimble enemies, who set out swiftly eastward, their disappointment at having their sport cut short, although bitter enough, not in the least indicated by any facial expression or spiteful act. Was it really a strange thing, or was it not, that Beverly's mind now busied itself unceasingly with the thought that long hair had Alice's picture in his pouch? one might find room for discussion of a cerebral problem like this,

but our history cannot be delayed with analyses and speculations. It must run its direct course unhindered to the end. Suffice it to record that, while tramping at Longhair's side and growing more and more desirous of seeing the picture again, Beverly began trying to converse with his taciturn captor. He had a considerable smattering of several Indian dialects which he turned upon Longhair to the best of his ability, but apparently without effect.

Nevertheless, he babbled at intervals, always upon the same subject, and always endeavouring to influence that huge, stolid, heartless savage in the direction of letting him see again the child face of the miniature. A stone, one of our travel scarred and mysterious western granite boulders

brought from the far north by the ancient ice, would show as much sympathy as did the face of long hair. Once in a while he gave Beverly a soulless glance and said, Damn, with utter indifference. nothing however could quench or even in the slightest sense allay the lover's desire he talked of alice and the locket with constantly increasing volubility saying over and over phrases of endearment in a half delirious way not aware that fever was fermenting his blood and heating his brain probably he would have been very ill but for the tremendous physical exercise forced upon him the exertion kept him in a profuse perspiration and his robust constitution cast off the malarial poison meantime he used every word and every phrase every grunt and gesture of indian dialect that he could recall in the iterated and reiterated attempt to make long hair understand what he wanted when night came on again the band camped under some trees beside a swollen stream

There was no rain falling, but almost the entire country lay under a flood of water. Fires of logs were soon burning brightly on the comparatively dry bluff chosen by the Indians. The weather was chill, but not cold. Long hair took great pains, however, to dry Beverly's clothes and see that he had warm wraps and plenty to eat. Hamilton's large reward would not be forthcoming should the prisoner die. Beverly was good property, well worth careful attention. to be sure his scalp in the worst event would command a sufficient honorarium, but not the greatest. Beverly thought of all this while the big Indian was wrapping him snugly in skins and blankets for the night,

and there was no comfort in it, save that possibly if he were returned to Hamilton he might see Alice again before he died. A fitful wind cried dolefully in the leafless treetops. The stream hard by gave forth a rushing sound, and far away some wolves howled like lost souls. Worn out, sore from head to foot, Beverly, deep buried in the blankets and skin, soon fell into a profound sleep. The fires slowly crumbled and faded. No sentinel was posted,

for the Indians did not fear an attack, there being no enemies that they knew of nearer than Kaskia. The camp slumbered as one man. At about the mid-hour of the night, Longhair gently awoke his prisoner by drawing a hand across his face and whispered in his ear. Damn, still!

Beverly tried to rise, uttering a sleepy ejaculation under his breath. No talk, hissed Longhair, still. There was something in his voice that not only swept the last film of sleep out of Beverly's brain, but made it perfectly clear to him that a very important bit of craftiness was being performed. Just what its nature was, however, he could not surmise. One thing was obvious, Longhair did not wish the other Indians to know of the move he was making. Depthly, he slipped the blankets from around Beverly and cut the thongs at his ankles. Still, he whispered, come long.

Under such circumstances a competent mind acts with lightning celerity. Beverly now understood that Longhair was stealing him away from the other savages, and that the big villain meant to cheat them out of their part of the reward. Along with this discovery came a fresh gleam of hope. It would be far easier to escape from one Indian than from nearly a score, ah he would follow long hair indeed he would the needed courage came with the thought and so with immense labor he crept at the heels of that crawling monster it was a painful process for his arms were still fast bound at the wrists with the raw-hide strings but what was pain to him he shivered with joy thinking of what might happen the voice of the wind overhead and the noisy bubbling of the stream nearby were cheerful and cheering sounds to him now so much can him mere shadow of hope

do for a human soul on the verge of despair. Already he was planning on trying to plan some way by which he could kill long hair when they should reach a safe distance from the sleeping camp. But how could the thing be done? A man with his hands

tied, though they are in front of him, is in no excellent condition to cope with a free and stalwart savage arm to the teeth. Still, Beverly's spirits rose with every rod of distance that was added to their slow progress. Their course was nearly parallel with that of the stream, but slightly converging toward it, and after they had

gone about a furlong, they reached the bank. Here Longhair stopped, and without a word, cut the thongs from Beverly's wrists. This was astounding. The young man could scarcely realize it, nor was he ready to act. Swim, water, Longhair said in a guttural murmur barely audible. Swim, damn. Again, it was necessary for Beverly's mind to act swiftly and with prudence. The camp was yet with inhaling distance. A false move now would bring the whole pack howling to the rescue. Something told him to do as Longhair ordered, so with scarcely a perceptible hesitation,

he scrambled down the bushy bank and slipped into the water, followed by Longhair, who seized him by one arm when he began to swim and struck out with him into the boiling and tumbling current. Beverly had always thought himself a master swimmer, but Longhair showed him his mistake. The giant Indian, with but one hand free to use, fews, fairly rushed through that deadly cold and turbulent water, bearing his prisoner with him

despite the wounded arm as easily as if towing him at the stern of a pirogue. True, his course was downstream for a considerable distance, but even when presently he struck out boldly for the other back, resting her current in which few swimmers could have lived, much less made headway, he still swung forward rapidly, splitting the waves and scarcely giving Beverly freedom enough so that he could help in the progress. It was a long, cold struggle, and when at last they touched the sloping low bank on the other side, Longhair had fairly to lift his chilled and exhausted prisoner to the top. A gold!

He grunted, beginning to pound and rub Beverly's arms, legs, and body. Make warm, damn heap! All this he did with his right hand holding the tomahawk in his left. It was a strange bewildering experience out of which the young man could not see in any direction far enough to give him a hint upon which to act. In a few minutes, Longhair jerked him to his feet and said, Go! It was just light enough to see that the order had a tomahawk to enforce its withal.

Longhair indicated the direction and drove Beverly onward as fast as he could. Try, run way, kill, damn. He kept repeating, while with his left hand on the young man's shoulder, he guided him from behind, dexterously, through the wood for some distance. Then he stopped and grunted, adding his favorite expletive which he used with not the least knowledge of its meaning. To him the syllable, Damn, was but a mouthful of forcible wind. They had just emerged from a thicket into an open space where the ground was comparatively dry. Overhead the stars were shining in great clusters of silver and gold against a dark, cavernous-looking sky,

here and there overrun with careering black clouds. Beverly shivered, not so much with cold as on account of the sun. stress of excitement which amounted to nervous rigor. Long hair faced him and leaned toward him until his breathing was audible and his massive features were dimly outlined. A dragon of the darkest age could not have been more repulsive. Hug, friend, damn. Beverly started when these words were followed by a sentence in an Indian dialect somewhat

familiar to him, a dialect in which he had tried to talk with Long Hair during the day's march. The sentence literally translated was, Longhair is friendly now. A blow in the face could not have been so surprising. Beverly not only started but recoiled as if from a sudden and deadly apparition. The step between supreme exhilaration and utter collapse is now and then infinitesimal. There are times, moreover, when an expression on the face of hope makes her look like the twin sister of despair.

The moment falling just after Longhair spoke was a century condensed in a breath. Long hair is friendly now. Will white man be friendly? Beverly heard, but the speech seemed to come out of vastness and hollow distance. He could not realize it fairly. He felt as if in a dream far off somewhere in loneliness with a big shadowy form looming before him. He heard the chill wind in the thickets round about, and beyond long hair rose a wall of giant trees. Ugh, not understand. The savage presently demeaned.

in his broken English. Yes, yes, said Beverly. I understand. Is the white man friendly now? Longhair then repeated in his own tongue with a certain insistence of manner and voice. Yes, friendly. Beverly said this absently in a tone of perfunctory dryness.

His throat was sparched, his head seemed to waver. But he was beginning to comprehend that Longhair, for some inscrutable reason of his own, was desirous of making a friendship between them. The thought was bewildering. Long hair fumbled in his pouch and took out Alice's locket, which he handed to Beverly. White man love little girl. He inquired in a tone that bordered upon tenderness again speaking an Indian.

Beverly clutched the disc as soon as he saw it gleam in the starlight. White man going to have little girl for his squaw, eh? Yes, yes, cried Beverly without hearing his own voice. He was trying to. open the locket, but his hands were numb and trembling. When at last he did open it, he could not see the child face within, for now even the starlight was shut off by a scudding black cloud. Little girl saved Longhair's life. Long hair save white warrior for little girl.

A dignity which was almost noble accompanied these simple sentences. Long hair stood proudly erect like a colossal dark statue in the dimness. The great truth dawned upon Beverly that here was a characteristic act. He knew that an Indian rarely failed to repay a kindness or an injury, stroke for stroke, when opportunity offered. Longhair was a typical Indian. That is to say, a type of inhumanity raised to the last power, but under his hideous atrocity of nature lay the indestructible sense of gratitude

so fixed and perfect that it did its work almost automatically. It must be said, and it may or may not, be to the white man's shame, that Beverly did not respond with absolute promptness and sincerity to Longhair's generosity. He had suffered terribly at the hands of this savage. His arms and legs were raw from the biting of the thongs. His body ached from the effect of blows and kicks laid upon him while bound and helpless. Perhaps he was not a very emotional man. At all events there was no sudden recognition of the favor he was receiving. And this pleased Longhair, for the taste of the American Indian delights an immobility of countenance and reserve a feeling under great strain.

Wait here a little while, Longhair presently said, and without lingering for a reply, turned away and disappeared in the wood. Beverly was free to run if he wished to, and the thought did surge across his mind, but a restraining something like a hand laid upon him would not let his limbs move. Down deep in his heart a calm voice seemed to be repeating Longhair's Indian sentence. Wait here, a little while. A few minutes later, Long Hair returned, bearing two guns, Beverly's and his own, the latter, a superb weapon given him by Hamilton. He afterward explained that he had brought these with their bullet pouches and powderhorns to a place of concealment nearby before he awoke Beverly.

This meant that he had swum the Cold River three times since nightfall, once over with the guns and accoutrements, once back to the camp, then over again with Beverly. all this with a broken arm and to repay Alice for her kindness to him. Beverly may have been slow, but at last his appreciation was perhaps all the more profound. As best he could, he expressed it to Longhair, who showed no interest whatever in the statement. Instead of responding an Indian, he said, Damn, without emphasis.

It was rather as if he had yawned absently being bored. Delay could not be thought of. Longhair explained briefly that he's, thought Beverly must go to Cascassia. He had come across the stream in the direction of Vincennes in order to set his warriors at fault. The stream must be recrossed, he said,

farther down, and he would help Beverly a certain distance on his way then leave him to ship for himself. He had a meager amount of parched corn and buffalo meat in his pouch, which would stay hunger until they could kill some game. Now they must go. The resilience

of a youthful and powerful physique offers many a problem to the biologist, vital force seems to find some mysterious reservoir of nourishment hidden away in the nerve centers. Beverly set out upon that seemingly impossible undertaking with renewed energy. It could not have been the ounce of parched corn and a bit of jerked venison from which he drew so much strength, but on the other hand, could it have been the miniature of Alice, which he felt pressing over his heart once more that afforded a subtle stimulus to both mind and body? They flung miles behind them before day-dawn, long hair leading,

Beverly pressing close at his heels. Most of the way led over flat prairies covered with water, and they therefore left no track by which they could be followed. Late in the forenoon, Longhair killed a deer at the edge of a wood. Here they made a fire and cooked a supply which would last them for a day or two, and then on they went again. But we cannot follow them step by step. When Longhair at last took leave of Beverly, the occasion had no ceremony. It was an abrupt, unemotional parting. The stalwart Indian simply said in his own dialect, pointing westward, Go that way, two days.

You will find your friends. Then, without another look or word, he turned about and stalked eastward at a marvelously rapid gate. In his mind he had a good tale to tell his warrior companions when he should find them again. How Beverly escaped that night and how he followed him a long, long chase, only to lose him at last under the very guns of the fort at Cascascia. but before he reached his band an incident of some importance changed his story to a considerable degree it chanced that he came upon lieutenant barlow who in pursuit of game had lost his bearings and far from his companions was beating around quite bewildered in a watery solitude longhair promptly murdered the poor fellow and scalped him with as little compunction as he would have skinned a rabbit for he had a clever scheme in his head a very audacious and outrageous scheme by which he purposed to recoup to some extent

the damages sustained by letting Beverly go. Therefore, when he rejoined his somewhat disheartened and demoralized band, he showed them the scalp and gave them an eloquent account of how he tore it from Beverly's head after a long chase and a bloody hand-to-hand fight. They listened, believed, and were satisfied. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of Alice of Old Vincent by Maurice Thompson. This Libervox recording is in the public domain.

16. Father Beret's Old Battle The room in which Alice was now imprisoned formed part of the upper story of a building erected by Hamilton in one of the four angles of the stockade. It had no windows and but two oblong port-holes made to accommodate a small swivel, which stood darkly scowling near the middle of the floor. From one of these apertures, Alice could see the straggling roofs and fences of the dreary little town, while from the other a long reach of watery prairie, almost a lake, lay under view with the rolling muddy wabash gleaming beyond. There seemed to be no activity of garrison or townspeople. Few sounds broke the silence of which the cheerless prison room seemed to be the center. Alice felt all her courage and cheerfulness leaving her. She was alone in the midst of enemies.

No father or mother, no friend, a young girl at the mercy of soldiers who could not be expected to regard her with any sympathy beyond that which is accompanied with repulsive leers and hints. Day after day her loneliness and helplessness became more agonizing. Farnsworth, it is true, did all he could to relieve the strain of her situation, but Hamilton had an eye upon what passed and soon interfered. He administered a bitter reprimand under which his subordinate writhed in speechless anger and resentment. Finally, Captain Farnsworth, he said in conclusion, you will distinctly understand that this girl is my prisoner not yours that i not you will direct how she is to be held and treated and that hereafter i will suffer no interference on your part i hope you fully understand me sir and will govern yourself accordingly smarting or rather smothering under the outrageous insult of these remarks farnsworth at first determined to fling his resignation at the governor's feet and then do whatever desperate things seemed most to his mood

but a soldier's training is apt to call a halt before the worst befalls in such a case moreover in the present temptation farnsworth had a special check and hindrance he had had a conference with father beret in which the good priest had played the part of wisdom in slippers and of gentleness more dove-like than the doves A very subtle impression illuminated with the hope that Withers' hope had become of that interview, and now Farnsworth felt its restraint. He therefore saluted Hamilton formally and walked away. Father Beret's paternal love for Alice, we cannot characterize it more nicely than to call it paternal, was his justification for a certain mild sort of corruption insinuated by him into the heart of Farnsworth. He was a crafty priest, but his craft was always used for a good end. unquestionably jesuitic was his mode of circumventing the young man's military scruples by offering him a puff of fair weather with which to sail toward what appeared to be the shore of delight

he saw at a glance that farnsworth's love for alice was a consuming passion in a very ardent yet decidedly weak heart here was the worldly lever with which father beret hoped to raise alice's prison and free her from that terrible doom with which she was threatened the first interview was at father beret's cabin to which as will be remembered the priest in farnsworth went after their meeting in the street it actually came to nothing save an indirect understanding but half suggested by father bhaer and never openly sanctioned by captain farnsworth the talk was insinuating on the part of the former while the latter slipped evasively from every proposition as if not able to consider it on account of a curious obtuseness of perception still when they separated they shook hands and exchanged a second searching look perfectly satisfactory to both. The memory of that interview with the priest was in Farnsworth's mind when boiling with rage he left Hamilton's presence and went forth into the chill February air. He passed out through the postern and along the sodden and quechy edge of the prairie involuntarily making his way to Father Peres' cabin.

His indignation was so great that he trembled from head to foot at every step. The door of the place was open and Father Beret was eating a frugal meal of scones and sour wine, of his own make, he said, which he hospitably begged to share with his visitor. A fire smouldered on the hearth, and a flat stone showed, by the grease smoking over its hot surface where the cakes had been baked. "'Come in, my son,' said the priest, "'and try the fare of a poor old man. It is plain, very plain, but good.'

He smacked his lips sincerely and fingered another scone. "'Take some, take some.' Farnsworth was not tempted. The acid bouquet of the wine filled the room with a smack of vinegar, and the smoke from rank scorching fat and wheatmeal did not suggest an agreeable feast. Well, well, if you are not hungry, my son, sit down on the stool there and tell me the news. Farnsworth took the low seat without a word,

letting his eyes wander over the walls. Alice's rapier, that mate to that now worn by Hamilton, hung in its curiously engraved scabbard near one corner. the sight of it inflamed Farnsworth. It's an outrage, he broke forth. Governor Hamilton sent a man to Rousillon Place with orders to bring him the scabbard of Miss Rousillon's sword, and he now wears the beautiful weapon as if he had come by it honestly.

Damn him. My dear, dear son, you must not soil your lips with such language. Father Beryl had fall the half of a well-bitten cake and held up both hands. I beg your pardon, father. I know I ought to be more careful in your presence, but—but—the beast hellish scoundrel. Bah, dousement, mon fies, dousment! The old man shook his head and his finger while speaking. Easy, my son, easy.

You would be a fine target for bullets were your words to reach, Hamilton's ears. You are not permitted to revile your commander. Yes, I know. but how can a man restrain himself under such abominable conditions? Father Beret shrewdly guessed that Hamilton had been giving the captain fresh reason for bitter resentment. Moreover, he was sure that the moving cause had been Alice. So in order to draw out what he wished to hear, he said very gently, How is the little prisoner getting along?

Farnsworth ground his teeth and swore. But Father Beret appeared not to hear. He bit deep into a scone, took him. a liberal sip of the muddy red wine and added, has she a comfortable place? Do you think Governor Hamilton would let me visit her? It is horrible, Parnthworth blurted. She's pinned up as if she were a dangerous beast, the poor girl.

In that damned scoundrel, son, son. Oh, it's no use to try, I can't help it, father. The whelp. We can converse more safely and intelligently. if we avoid profanity and undue emotion, my son. Now, if you will quit swearing, I will, and if you will be calm, so will I. Farnsworth felt the sly irony of this absurdly vicarious proposition.

Father Beres smiled with a kindly twinkle in his deep-set eyes. Well, if you don't use profane language, father, there's no telling how much you think in expetives. What is your opinion of a man who tumbles a poor, defenceless girl into prison and then refuses to let her be decently cared for. How do you express yourself about him? My son, men

often do things of which they ought to be ashamed. I heard of a young officer once who maltreated a little girl that he met at night in the street. What evil he would have done had not a passing kind-hearted man reminded him of his honor by

a friendly punch in the ribs I dare not surmise. True, and your sarcastic. goes home as hard as your fist did, father. I know that I've been a sad dog all my life. Miss Rousillon saved you by shooting me and I love her for it. Lay it on, father. I deserve more than you can give me.

Surely you do, my son. Surely you do. But my love for you will not let me give you pain. Ah, we priests have to carry all men's loads. Our backs are broad, however. very broad, my son. And your fist, devilish-heavy, father, devilish-heavy. The gentle smile again flickered over the priest's weather-beaten face

as he glanced sideways at Farnsworth and said, "'Sometimes, sometimes, my son, a carnal weapon must break the way for a spiritual one. But we priests rarely have much physical strength, our dependencies upon. To be sure, certainly,' Farnsworth. interrupted, rubbing his side. Your dependence is upon the first thing that offers. I've had many a blow, but yours was the solidest that ever jarred my mortal frame, Father Beret. The twain

began to laugh. There is nothing like a reminiscence to stir up fresh mutual sympathy. If your intercostals were somewhat sore for a time on account of a contact with priestly knuckles, doubtless they are soon set in a corresponding uneasiness in the region of your. conscience. Such shocks are often vigorously alternative and tonic, eh, my son? You jolted me sober, father, and then I was ashamed of myself. But where does all your tremendous strength lie? You don't look strong. While speaking, Farnsworth leaned near Father Perret and grasped his arm. The young man started for his fingers, instead of closing around a flabby, shrunken old man's

limb, spread themselves upon a huge, knotted mass of iron, muscle. With a quick movement, Father Beret shook off Farnsworth's hand and said, I am no Samson, my son. Non sumcoly seram. Then, as of dismissing a light subject for a graver one, he sighed and added, I suppose there is nothing that can be done for Little Alice.

He called the tall, strong girl Little Alice, and so she seemed to him. He could not, without direct effort, think of her as a magnificently maturing woman. She had always been his spoiled pet child, perversely said against the Holy Church, but dear to him nevertheless. I came to ask you that very question, father, said Farnsworth.

And what do I know? Surely, my son, you see how utterly helpless an old priest is against all you British? And besides? Father Beret, Farnsworth huskily interrupted. Is there a place that you know of anywhere in which Miss Roussillon could be hidden? if... My dear son.

But, father, I mean it. Mean what? Pardon an old man's low understanding. What are you talking about, my son? Father Beret glanced furtively about, then quickly stepped through the doorway, walked entirely around the house, and came in again before Farnsworth could respond.

Once more seated on his stool, he added interrogatively, Did you think you heard something moving outside? No. You were saying something when I went out. Pardon my interruption. Farnsworth gave the priest a searching and not wholly confiding look. You did not interrupt me, Father Beret. I was not speaking.

Why are you so watchful? Are you afraid of eavesdroppers? You were speaking recklessly. Your words were incendiary, Ardencia Verba. My son, you were suggesting a dangerous thing. your life would scarcely satisfy the law were you convicted of insinuating such treason what if one of your prowling guards had overheard you your neck and mine might feel the halter quod a verted dominus he crossed himself and in a solemn voice added in english may the lord forbid ah my son we priests protect those we love and i who am not fit to tie a priest's shoe do likewise Father, I love Alice Rousillon.

Love is a holy thing, my son. Amare divinum as dead humanum. Father Beret, can you help me? Spiritually speaking, my son, I mean can you hide Mademoiselle Rousillon in some safe place if I take her out of the prison yonder? That's just what I mean. Can you do it?

Your question is a remarkable one. Have you thought upon? it from all directions, my son. Think of your position. Your duty as an officer. A shrewd, polemical expression beamed from Father Beret's eyes, and a very expert physiognomist

might have suspected duplicity from certain lines about the old man's mouth. I simply know that I cannot stand by and see Alice, Mademoiselle Rusillon, forced to suffer treatment too beastly for an Indian chief. That's the only direction there is for me to look at it from,

and you can understand my feelings, if you will. You know that very well, Father Beret. When a man loves a girl, he loves her. That's the whole thing. The quiet, inscrutable half-smile flickered once more on Father Berre's face, but he sat silent some time with a sinewy forefinger lying alongside his nose. When at last he spoke, it was a tone of voice indicative of small interest in what he was saying. His words rambled to their goal with the effect of happy accident. there are places in this neighborhood in which a human being would be as hard to find as the flag that you and governor hamilton have so diligently and unsuccessfully been in quest of for the past month or two really my son this is a mysterious little town farns were size widened and a flush rose in his swarthy cheeks damn the flag he exclaimed let it lie hidden forever what do i care i care i'm a size widened and a flush rose in his swarthy cheeks damn the flag he exclaimed let it lie hidden forever what do i care

I tell you, Father Beret, that Alice Rousillon is in extreme danger. Governor Hamilton means to put some terrible punishment on her. He has a devil's vindictiveness. He showed it to me clearly a while ago. You showed something of the same sort to me, once upon a time, my son. Yes, I did, Father Beret, and I got a load of slugs in my shoulder for it from that brave girl's pistol. She saved your life. Now I ask you to help me save hers.

Or if not her life, what is infinitely more? Her honor! Her honor! cried Father Beret, leaping to his feet so suddenly and with such energy that the cabin shook from base to roof. What do you say, Captain Farnsworth? What do you mean? The old man was transformed. His face was terrible to see with its narrow, burning eyes deep under the shaggy brows, its dark veins writhing snake-like on the temples and forehead, the projected mouth and chin the hard lines of the jaws, the iron-gray gleam from all the features. He looked like an aged tiger stiffened for a spring.

Farnsworth was made of right soldierly stuff, but he felt a distinct shiver flit along his back. His past life had not lacked thrilling adventures and strangely varied experiences with desperate men. Usually he met sudden emergencies rather calmly, sometimes with phlegmatic indifference. This passionate outburst on the priest's part, however, surprised him and awed him, while it stirred his heart with a profound sympathy unlike anything he had ever felt before.

Father Beret mastered himself in a moment, and, passing his hand over his face as if to brush away the excitement, sat down again on his stool. He appeared to collapse inwardly. You must excuse the weakness of an old man, my son, he said in a voice hoarse and shaking. But tell me what is going to be done with Alice. Your words, what you said, I did not understand. He rubbed his forehead slowly as one who has difficulty in trying to collect his thoughts. I do not know what Governor Hamilton means to do, Father Beret. It will be something devilish, however, something that must not happen, said Farnsworth.

Then he recounted all that Hamilton had done and said. He described the dreary and comfortless room in which Alice was confined, the miserable fare given her, and how she would be exposed to the leers and low remarks of the soldiers. She had already suffered these things, and now she could no longer have any protection what was to become of her. He did not attempt to overstate the case, but presented it with a blunt sincerity which made a powerful, realistic impression. Father Beret, like most men of strong feeling who have been subjected to long years of trial, hardship, multitudinous dangers at all sorts of temptation, and who have learned the lessons of self-control, had an iron will, and also an abiding distrust of weak men.

He saw Farnsworth's sincerity, but he had no faith in his constancy, although satisfied that while resentment of Hamilton's imperiousness lasted, he would doubtless remain firm in his purpose to aid Alice. Let that wear off, as in a short time it would, and then what? The old man studied his companion with eyes that slowly resumed their expression of smoldering and almost timid geniality. His priestly experience with desperate men was demanding of him a proper regard for that subtlety of procedure which had so often compassed most difficult ends. He listened in silence to Farnsworth's story. When it came to an end, he began to offer some but half-relevant suggestions in the form of indirect cross-questions, by means of which he gradually drew out a minute

description of Alice's prison, the best way to reach it, the nature of its door fastenings, where the key was kept, and everything indeed likely to be helpful to one contemplating a jail delivery. Farnsworth was inwardly delighted. He felt Father Beret's cunning approach to the central object in his crafty method of gathering details. The shades of evening thickened in the stuffy cabin room while the conversation went on. Father Beret presently lifted a puncheon in one corner of the Thorne got out a large bottle which bore a mildewed and faded French label, and with it a small iron cup. There was just light enough left to show a brownish sparkle when, after popping out the cork, he poured a draught in the fresh cup and in his own. We may think more clearly, my son,

if we taste this old liquor. I have kept it a long while to offer upon a proper occasion. The occasion is here. A ravishing bouquet quickly imbued the air. It was itself an intoxication. The brothers of St. Martin distilled this liquor, Father Beret added, handing the cup to Farnsworth, not for common social drinking, my son, but for times when a man needs extraordinary stimulation. It is said to be surpassingly good

because St. Martin blessed to the vine. The doughty captain felt a sudden and imperious thirst seized his throat. The liquor flooded his veins before his lips touched the cup. cup. He had been abstaining lately. Now his besetting appetite rushed upon him. At one gulp he took in the fiery yet smooth and captivating draft. Nor did he notice that Father Beret, instead of joining him in the potation, merely lifted his cup and set it down again, smacking his lips with gusto.

There followed a silence during which the aromatic breath of the bottle increased its dangerous fascination. Then Father Beret again failed Farnsworth's cup and said, Ah, the blessed monks Little thought that their matchless brew would ever be sipped in a poor Missionaries hut on the Wabash. But after all, my son, why not here, as well as in sunny France?

Our object justifies any impropriety of time and place. You are right, father. I drink to our object. Yes, I say. To our object. in fact the drinking preceded his speech and his tongue already had a loop in it the liquor stole through him a mist of bewildering and enchanting influence the third cup broke his sentences into unintelligible fragments the fourth made his under jaw sag loosely the fifth and six taken in close succession tumbled him limp on the floor where he slept blissfully all night long snugly covered with some of father berez bedclothes

per casum obliquum et per indirectum muttered the priest when he had returned the bottle and cup to their hiding-place the end justifies the means sleep well my son ah little alice little alice your old father will try we'll try he fumbled along the wall in the dark until he found the rapier which he took down then he went out and sat for some time motionless beside the door while the clouds thickened overhead. It was late when he arose and glided away shadow-like toward the fort over which the night hung black, chill and drearily silent. The moon was still some hours high,

but smothered by the clouds. A fog slowly drifted from the river. Meantime Hamilton and Helm had spent a part of the afternoon and evening, as usual, at cards. Helm broke off the game and went to his quarters rather early for him, leaving the governor alone

and in a bad temper because Farnsworth, when he had sent for him, could not be found. Three times his orderly returned in as many hours with the same report. The captain had not been seen or heard of. Naturally, this sudden and complete disappearance immediately after the reprimand suggested to Hamilton an unpleasant possibility. What if Farnsworth had deserted him? Down deep in his heart, he was conscious that the young man had good cause

for almost any desperate action. To lose Captain Farnsworth, however, would be just now. a calamity. The Indians were drifting over rapidly to the side of the Americans, and every day showed that the French could not long be kept quiet. Hamilton sat for some time after Helm's departure thinking over what he now feared was a foolish mistake. Presently, he buckled on Alice's rapier, which he had lately been wearing as his own, and went out into the main area of the stockade. A sentinel was tramping to and fro at the gate where a hazy lantern shone. The night was breathless and silent.

Hamilton approached the soldier on duty and asked him if he had seen Captain Farnsworth, and receiving a negative reply, turned about, puzzled and thoughtful to walk back and forth in the chill foggy air. Presently, a faint yellow light attracted his attention. It shone through a porthole in an upper room of the blockhouse at the farther angle of the stockade. In fact, Alice was reading by a sputtering lamp a book Farnsworth at center, a volume of Rondon. that he had picked up in Canada. Hamilton made his way in that direction, at first merely curious to know who was burning oil so late. But after a few paces, he recognized where the light came from,

and instantly suspected that Captain Farnsworth was there. Indeed, he felt sure of it. Somehow he could not regard Alice as other than a saucy hoyden, incapable of womanly virtue. His experience with the worst element of Canadian French life and his peculiar cast of mind and character colored his impression of her. He measured her by the women with whom the Courier de Bois and half-breed trappers consorted in Detroit and at the post-eastward to Quebec. Alice, unable to sleep, had sought forgetfulness of her bitter captivity in the old poet's charming lyrics. She sat on the floor, some blankets and furs drawn around her, the book on her lap, the stupidly dull lamp hanging beside

her on a part of the swivel. Her hair lay loose over her neck and shoulders and shimmered around her face with a cloud-like effect, giving to the features in their repose a setting that intensified their sweetness and sadness. In a very low but distinct voice, she was reading with a slightly quavering emotion. Mignon, allon voire de rose, that this matine a voire de close, her robe de popre on the popple on the sun. When Hamilton, after stealthily mounting the rough stairway, which led to her door, peeped in through a space between the slabs and felt a stroke of disappointment, seeing at a glance that Farnsworth was not there. He gazed for some time, not without a sense of villainy, while she continued her sweetly monotonous

reading. If his heart had been as hard as the iron swivel balls that lay beside Alice, he must still have felt a thrill of something like tender sympathy. She now showed no trace of the vivacious sauciness which had heretofore always marked her features when she was in his presence. A dainty gentleness, touched with melancholy, gave to her face an appealing look all the more powerful on account of its unconscious simplicity of expression. The man felt an impulse pure

and noble which would have borne him back down the ladder and away from the building had not a stronger one set boldly in the opposite direction. There was a short struggle with the seared remnant of his better nature, and then he tried to open the door, but it was locked. Alice

heard the slight noise in breaking off her reading turned to look. Hamilton made another effort to enter before he recollected that the wooden key or notched lever that controlled the cumbrous wooden lock hung on a peg beside the door. He felt for it along the wall and soon laid his hand on it. Then again he peeped through to see Alice, who was now standing upright near the swivel. She had thrown her hair back from her face and neck. The lamp's flickering light seemed suddenly to have magnified her stature and enhanced her beauty. Her book lay on the tumbled wraps at her feet and in either hand she grafted a swivel shot.

Hamilton's combative disposition came to the aid of his baser passion when he saw once more a defiant flash from his prisoner's face. It was easy for him to be fascinated by opposition. Helm had profited by this trait as much as others had suffered by it. But in the case of Alice, Hamilton's mingled resentment and admiration were but a powerful irritant to the coarsest and most dangerous side of his nature. After some fumbling and delay he fitted the key with a steady hand

and moved the wooden bolt creaking and jolting from its slot. Then flinging the clumsy door wide open, he stepped in. Alice started when she recognized the midnight intruder, and a second deeper look into his countenance made her brave heart recoil, while with a sinking sensation her breath almost stopped. It was but a momentary weakness, however, followed by vigorous action. "'What are you here for, sir?' she demanded. "'What do you want?'

"'I am neither a burglar nor a murder, murderer, mademoiselle, he responded, lifting his hat and bowing with a smile not in the least reassuring. You look like both. Stop where you are. Not so loud, my dear Miss Rousillon. I am not deaf. And besides, the garrison needs to sleep.

Stop, sir. Not another step. She poised herself, leaning slightly backward, and held the iron ball in her right hand ready to throw it at him. He halted, still smiling villainously. "'Mademoiselle, I assure you that your excitement is quite unnecessary. "'I am not here to harm you.' "'You cannot harm me, you cowardly wretch.'

"'Hump! Pride goes before a fall, wench,' he retorted taking a half-step backward. Then a thought arose in his mind which added a new shade to the repellent darkness of his countenance. "'Miss Rousillon,' he said in English and with a changed voice which seemed to grow harder, each word deliberately emphasized. I have come to break some bad news to you. You would scarcely bring me good news, sir, and I am not curious to hear the bad. He was silent for a little while,

gazing at her with the sort of admiration from which a true woman draws away appalled. He saw how she loathed him, saw how impossible it was for him to get a line nearer to her by any turn of force or fortune. Brave, high-headed, strong as a young leopard, pure and sweet as a roll she stood before him fearless, even aggressive, showing him by every

line of her face and form that she felt her infinite superiority and meant to maintain it. Her whole personal expression told him he was defeated. Therefore he quickly seized upon a suggestion caught from a transaction with long hair who had returned a few hours before from his pursuit of Beverly. It pains me, I assure you, Miss Rousillon, to tell you what will probably grieve you deeply, he presently added. but I have not been unaware of your tender interest in Lieutenant Beverly, and when I had bad news from him I thought it my duty to inform you. He paused, feeling with a devil's satisfaction the point of his statement to go home to the girl's heart.

The wind was beginning to blow outside, shaking open the dark clouds and letting gleams of moonlight flicker on the thinning fog. A ghostly ray came through a crack between the logs and lit Alice's face with a pathetic wanness. She moved her lips as if speaking, but Hamilton heard no sound. The Indian long hair, whom I sent upon Lieutenant Beverly's Trail, reported to me this afternoon that his pursuit had been quite successful. He caught his game. Alice's voice came to her now. She drew in a quivering breath of relief. Then he is here. He is—you have him a prisoner again. A part of him, Miss Rousillon. Enough to be quite sure that there is one traitor who was

trouble his king no more. Mr. Longhair brought in the lieutenant's scalp. Alice received this horrible statement in silence, but her face blanched and she stood as if frozen by the shock. The shifty moon glimmer and the yellow glow of the lamp showed Hamilton to what an extent his devilish cruelty hurt her, and somehow it chilled him as if by reflection. But he could not forego another thrust.

He deserved hanging, and would have got it had he been brought to me alive. So, after all, you should have to be. be satisfied. He escaped my vengeance and long hair got his pay. You see, I am the chief sufferer. These words, however, fell without effect upon the girl's ears in which was booming the awful storm-like roar of her excitement. She did not see her persecutor standing there. Her vision, unhindered by walls and distance, went straight away to a place in the wilderness where all mangled and disfigured Beverly lay dead. A low cry broke from her lips. She dropped the heavy swivel balls, and then, like a bird, swiftly with a rustling swoop, she went past

Hamilton and down the stair. For perhaps a full minute the man stood there motionless, stupefied, amazed, and when at length he recovered himself, it was with difficulty that he followed her. Everything seemed to hinder him. When he reached the open air, however, he quickly regained his activity of both mind and body and looked in all directions. The clouds were breaking into parallel masses with streaks of sky between. The moon, hanging a slant against the blue, peeped forth just in time to show him a flying figure which, even while he looked, reached the post-turn, opened it and slipped through. With but a breath of hesitation between giving the alarm and following Alice silently and

alone he chose the ladder. He was a swift runner and light-footed. With a few bounds he reached the little gate, which was still oscillating on its hinges, darted through and away, straining every muscle in desperate pursuit. Gaining rapidly in the race which bore eastward along the course twice before chosen by Alice in leaving the stockade. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Alice of Old Vesen by Maurice Thompson. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

17. A March through Cold Water On the 5th day of February 1779, Colonel George Rogers Clark led an army across the Cascassia River and camped. this was the first step in his march towards the wabash an army do not smile fewer than two hundred men it is true answered the roll call when father giebo lifted the cross and blessed them But every name told off by the company sergeants belonged to a hero, and every voice-making response struck a full note in the chorus of Freedom's Morning Song. It was an army, small indeed, but yet an army, even though so rudely equipped that could we now see it before us, we might wonder of what use it could possibly be in a military way.

We should nevertheless hardly expect that a hundred and seventy of our best men, even if furnished with the latest and most deadly engines of destruction, could do what those pioneers cheerfully undertook and gloriously accomplished in the savage wilderness, which was to be the great central area of the United States of America. We look back with a shiver of awe at the 300 Spartans for whom Simonides composed his matchless epitaph. They wrought and died gloriously. That was Greek. The 170 men who led by the backwoodsman Clark made conquest of an empire's area for freedom in the West

wrought and lived gloriously. that was American. It is well to bear in mind this distinction by which our civilization separates itself from that of old times. Our heroism has always been of life. Our heroes have conquered and lived to see the effect of conquest. We have fought all sorts of wars and have never yet felt defeat. Washington, Jackson, Taylor, Grant, all lived to enjoy after successful war or triumphant peace.

These Americans, said a witty friend. are either enormously lucky or possessed of miraculous vitality. You rarely kill them in battle, and if you wound them, their wounds are never mortal. Their history is but a chain of impossibilities easily accomplished. Their undertakings have been without preparation. Their success is in the nature of stupendous accidents. Such a statement may appear critically sound from a Gallic point of view, but it leaves out the dominant element of American character, namely, heroic efficiency.

From the first, we have had the courage to undertake, the practical common sense which overcomes the lack of technical training, and the vital force which never flags under the stress of adversity. Clark knew when he set out on his march to Vincent that he was not indulging a visionary impulse. The enterprise was when they called for all that manhood could endure, but not more. With the genius of a born leader he measured his task by his means. He was a He knew his own courage and fortitude and understood the best capacity of his men. He had genius. That is, he possessed the secret of extracting from himself and from his followers the last

refinement of devotion to purpose. There was a certainty from first to last that effort would not flag at any point short of the topmost possible strain. The great star of America was no more than a nebulous splendor on the horizon in 1779. It was a new world forming by the law of youth. The men who bore the burdens of its exacting life were mostly stalwart striplings, who before the down of adolescence fairly sprouted on their chins, could swing the axe, drive a plow, close with a bear or kill an Indian.

Clark was not yet twenty-seven when he made his famous campaign. A tall brawny youth whose frontier experience had enriched a native character of the best quality, he marched on foot at the head of his little column and was first to test every opposing danger. Was there a stream to wait or swim? Clark enthusiastically shouted, Come on, and in he plunged. Was there a lack of food? I'm not hungry, he cried.

Help yourselves, men. Had some poor soldier lost his blanket? Mine is in my way, said Clark. Take it, I'm glad to get rid of it. His men loved him and would rather die than fall short of his expectations. The march before them lay over a magnificent plain, mostly prairie, rich as the delta of the Nile, but extremely difficult to traverse.

The distance, as the route led, was about 170 miles. On account of an open and rainy winter, all the basins and flatlands were inundated, often presenting leagues of water ranging in depth from a few inches to three or four feet. Cold winds blew, sometimes with spits of snow and dashes of sleet, while thin ice formed on the ponds and sluggish streams. By day, progress meant wading ankle-deep, knee-deep, breast-deep, with an occasional spurt of swimming. By night, the brave fellows had to sleep if sleep they could on the cold ground and soaked clothing under water-heavy blankets. They flung the leagues behind them, however, cheerfully stimulating one another by joke and challenge, defying all the bitterness of weather,

all the bitings of hunger, all the toil, danger and deprivation of a trackless and houseless wilderness looking only eastward, following their youthful and intrepid commander to one of most valuable victories gained by American soldiers during the war of the revolution. Colonel Clark understood perfectly the strategic importance of Vincennes as opposed to commanding the Wabash and as a base of communication with the many Indian tribes north of the Ohio and east of the Mississippi. Francis Vigot, may his name never fade, had brought him a comprehensive and accurate report of Hamilton's strength and the condition of the fort and garrison. This information confirmed his belief that it would be possible not only

to capture Vincent, but Detroit as well. Just seven days after the march began, the little army encamped for a night's rest at the edge of a wood. And here, just after nightfall, when the fires were burning merrily and the smell of broiling buffalo sticks burdened the damp air,

a wizened old man suddenly appeared. How, or from where nobody had observed. He was dirty and in every way disreputable in appearance, looking like an animated mummy, bearing a long rifle on his shoulder and walking with the somewhat halting activity of a very old yet vivacious and energetic simeon. Of course it was Uncle Jason. Uncle Jason, sui generis, as Father Beret had dubbed him.

Well, here I am, he cried approaching the fire by which Colonel Clark and some of his officers were cooking supper. But you can't guess in a mile or who I am to save your liver and lights. He danced a few stiff steps, which made the wall of the wall. gush out of his stattered moccasins, then doffed his nondescript cap, and nodded his scalpless head in salutation to the commander. Clark looked inquiringly at him while the old fellow grimaced and rubbed his shrunken chin. "'I smelt your fat afrying something like a mile away, and it set my innards to grumbling for a snack. So I just thought I'd drop in on ye and and shall we tools, will ye?' "'Your looks are decidedly against you,' remarked the colonel with a dry

smile. He had recognized Uncle Jazon after a little sharp scrutiny. I suppose, however, that we can let you gnaw the bones after we've got off the meat. Thanky, thanky, plenty good. A feller at the sunkry as I am can go through a bone like a fish through water. Clark laughed and said,

I don't see any teeth that you have worth mentioning, but your gums may be unusually sharp. Yes, but a sharp as your wit, Colonel Clare. and sharper in your eyes a long shot. You don't know me, do ye? Take another squint at me and see if you can remember a good-looking man. You have somewhat the appearance of an old scamp

by the name of Jazon that formerly loped around with a worthless gun on his shoulder and used to run from every Indian he saw down yonder in Kentucky. Clark held out his hand and added cordially. How are you, Jazon, my old friend? And where upon earth have you come from? uncle jason pounced upon the hand and gripped it in his own knotted fingers gazing delightedly up into clark's bronzed and laughing face where'd i come from i come from everwheres first time i ever got lost in all my born days i've been a trampin round in the water seems like a week crazy as a pizened rat not a noan north from south near my big toe for maternip who's got some tobacco

uncle jason's story when presently he told it interested clark deeply in the first place he was glad to hear that simon kenton had once more escaped from the indians and the news from beverly although bad enough left room for hope frontiersmen always regarded the chances better than even so long as there was life uncle jason furthermore had much to tell about the situation at vincennes the true feeling of the french inhabitants the lukewarm friendship of the larger part of the indians for hamilton and indeed, everything that Clark wished to know regarding the possibilities of success in his arduous undertaking. The old man's advent cheered the whole camp. He soon found acquaintances and friends among the French volunteers from Cascascia, with whom he exchanged Creole gestures and chatter with a vivacity apparently inexhaustible. He and Kenton had, with wise judgment separated on escaping from the Indian camp, Kenton striking out for Kentucky, while Uncle Jason went towards Cascascia. The information that Beverly would be shot as soon as he was returned to Hamilton

cause Colonel Clark's serious worry of mind. Not only the fact that Beverly, who had been a charming friend and a most gallant officer, was now in such imminent danger, but the impression, given by Uncle de Jazeau's account, that he had broken his parole, was deeply painful to the brave and scrupulously honorable commander. Still, friendship rose above a regret, and Clark resolved to push his little column forward all the more rapidly, hoping to arrive in time to prevent the impending execution. next morning the march was resumed at the break of dawn,

but a swollen stream caused some hours of delay, during which Beverly himself arrived from the rear, a haggard and weirdly unkept apparition. He had been for three days, following hard on the army's track, which he came to far westward. Oakler-Jazon saw him first in the distance, and his old but educated eyes made no mistake.

"'Heanders that youngster, Beverly,' he exclaimed. "'If it ain't I'm a time, nor did he parley further on the subject, but set off at a rickety trot to meet and assist the fagged and excited young man. Clark had given Uncle Jazon his flask, which contained a few gills of whiskey. This was the first thing offered to Beverly who wisely took but a swallow. Uncle Jazon was so elated that he waved his cap on high and unconsciously falling into French yelled in a piercing voice, "'Vive George Vassington.

Vive la banier "'d Alice Rossillon.' Seeing Beverly reminded him of Alice and the flag. As for Beverly, the sentiment braced him and the beloved name brimmed his heart with sweetness. Clark went to meet them as they came in.

He hugged the gaunt lieutenant with genuine fervor of joy, while Uncle Jazon went around them making a series of grotesque capers. The whole command, hearing Uncle Jazon's patriotic words, set up a wild shouting on the spur of a general impression that Beverly came as a messenger bearing glorious news

from Washington's army in the East. It was a great relief to Clark when he found out that his favorite lieutenant had not broken his parole, but had instead boldly re-surrendered himself, declaring the obligation no longer binding, and notifying Hamilton of his intention to go away with the purpose of returning and destroying him and his command.

Clark laughed heartily when his explanation brought out Beverly's tender interest in Alice, but he sympathized cordially, for he himself knew what love is. Although Beverly was half-starved and still suffering from the kicks and blows given him by long hair and his warriors, his exhausting run on the trail of Clark and his band had not worked him serious harm. All of the officers and men did their utmost to serve him. He was feasted without stint and furnished with everything that the scant supply of clothing on the pack-horses could afford for his comfort. He promptly asked for an assignment to duty in his company and took his place with such high enthusiasm that his companions regarded him with admiring wonder. None of them,

save Clark and Oaklajean, suspected that love for a fair-haired girl yonder in Vaisen was the secret of his amazing zeal and intrepidity. In one respect, Clark's expedition was sadly lacking in its equipment for the march. It had absolutely no means of transporting adequate supplies. The pack horses were not able to carry more than a little extra ammunition, a few articles of clothing, some simple cooking utensils, and such tools as were needed in improvising rafts and canoes. Consequently, although buffalo and deer were sometimes plentiful, they furnished no lasting supply of meat because it could not be transported, and as the army neared Vincent wild animals became scarce,

so that the men began to suffer from hunger when within but a few days of their journey's end. Clark made almost superhuman efforts in urging forward his chilled, water-soaked, foot-sore command, and when hunger added its torture to the already disheartening conditions, his courage and energy seemed to burn stronger and brighter. Beverly was always at his side ready to undertake any task except any risk. His ardor made his face glow and he seemed to thrive upon hardships. The two men were a source of inspiration. Their followers could not flag and hesitate while under the influence of their example. Toward the end of the long march, a decided fall of temperature added ice to the water through

which our dauntless patriots waited and swam for miles. The wind shifted northwestily, taking on a searching chill. Each gust, indeed, seemed to shoot wintry splinters into the very marrow of the men's bones. The weaker ones began to show the approach of utter exhaustion just at the time when a final spurt of unflinching power was needed. True, they struggled heroically, but nature was nearing the inexorable limit of endurance. Without food, which there was no prospect of getting, collapse was sure to come.

Standing nearly waist-deep in freezing water and looking out upon the muddy sea-like flood that stretched far away to the channel of the Wabash and beyond, Clark turned to Beverly and said, speaking low, so as not to be overheard by any other of his officers or men. Is it possible, Lieutenant Beverly, that we are to fail with Vesin almost in sight of us?

"'No, sir, it is not possible,' was the firm reply. "'Nothing must, nothing can stop us. "'Look at that brave child. "'He sets the heroic example.' "'Beverly pointed as he spoke at a boy but fourteen years old "'who was using his drum as a float to bear him up "'while he courageously swam beside the men. "'Clark's clouded face cleared once more.

"'You are right,' he said. "'Come on. We must win or die.' "'Sargent DeWitt,' he added, turning to an enormous, tall and athletic man nearby. Take that little drummer and his drum on your shoulder and lead the way. And, sergeant, make him pound that drum like the devil beating tan bark. The huge man caught the spirit of his commander's order. In a twinkling, he had the boy astride of his neck with the kettle drum resting on his head

and the rattling music began. Clark followed, pointing onward with his sword. The half-frozen and tottering soldiers sent up a shout that went back to where Captain Bowman, was bringing up their ear under orders to shoot every man that straggled or shrank from duty. Now came a time when not a mouthful of food was left. A whole day they floundered on, starving, growing fainter at every step, the temperature falling, the ice thickening. They camped on high land, and next morning they heard Hamilton's distant sunrise gun boom

over the water. One half rationed for the men, said Clark, looking disconsolately in the direction whence the sound had come. Just five mouthfuls apiece even, and all have Hamilton and his fort within forty-eight hours. We will have the provisions, Colonel, or I will die trying to get them, Beverly responded, Depend upon me. They had constructed some canoes in which to transport the weakest of the men. I will take a dug-out and some picked fallows. We will pull to the wood yonder, and there we shall find some kind of game which has been forced to shelter from the high water. It was a cheerful view of a forlorn hope.

Clark grasped the hand extended by Beverly, and they looked encouragement into each other's eyes. Uncle Jason volunteered to go in the pierrogue. He was ready for anything, everything. I can't shoot what a cent, he whined as they took their places in the cranky pierrogue, but I might just happen to kill us square or an elephant or something other.

Very well, shouted Clark in a loud cheerful, voice when they had paddled away to a considerable distance. Bring the meat to the woods on the hill yonder, pointing to a distant island like ridge far beyond the creeping flood. We'll be there ready to eat it. He said this for the ears of his men. They heard and answered with a straggling but determined chorus of approval. They crossed the rolling current of the Wabash by a tedious process of ferrying and at last

found themselves once more waiting in backwater up to their armpits, breaking ice an inch thick as they went. It was the closing struggle to reach the high wooded lands. Many of them fell exhausted, but their stronger comrades lifted them holding their heads above water and dragged them on. Clark, always leading, always inspiring, was first to set foot on dry land. He shouted triumphantly, waved his sword, and then fell to helping the men out of the freezing flood. This accomplished, he ordered fires built. But there was not a soldier of them all. But there was not a soldier of them all whose hands could clasp an axe handle so weak and numbed with cold, were they? He was not to be baffled, however. If fire could not be had, exercise must serve

its purpose. Hastily pouring some powder into his hand, he dampened it and blackened his face. Victory, men, victory! he shouted, taking off his hat and beginning to leap and dance. Come on, we'll have a war dance, and then a feast, as soon as the meat arrives that I have sent for. dance, you brave lads, dance. Victory! Victory! The strong men, understanding their colonel's purpose, took hold of the delicate ones, and the leaping, the capering,

the tumult of voices, and the stamping of slushy moccasins with which they assaulted that stately forest must have frightened every wild thing thereabout into a deadly rigor. Clark's irrepressible energy and optimism worked a veritable charm upon his faithful, but almost dying companions in arms.

Their trust in him made them feel sure that food would soon be forthcoming. The thought afforded a stimulus more potent than mine. It drove them into an ecstasy of frantic motion and shouting which soon warmed them thoroughly. It is said that fortune favors the brave.

The larger meaning of the sentence may be given thus. God guards those who deserve his protection. History tells us that just when Clark halted his command almost in sight of Vincennes, Just when hunger was about to prevent the victory so close to his grasp, a party of his scouts brought in the haunch of a buffalo captured from some Indians. The scouts were Lieutenant Beverly and Oakla Gazon,

and with the meat they brought Indian kettles in which to cook it. With consummate forethought, Clark arranged to prevent his men doing themselves injury by bolting their food or eating at half-cooked. Broth was first made and served hot. Then small bits of well-broiled steak were doled out until by degrees the fine effect of nourishment set in, and all the command felt the fresh courage of healthy reaction.

I ain't no general, nor coprol, nor nothing, remarked uncle Jason to Colonel Clark. But if I as you, I'd haste up every dad dinged old flag in the regiment when I got ready to show myself to him, and I'd make him think over yonder at the fort and I had about ninety thousand men. "'Hit it's scare that Sandy-Face governor over there

"'till he'd think his backbone was a-coming out in him by the roots.' "'Clark laughed, but his face showed that the old man's suggestion "'struck him forcibly and seriously. "'We'll see about that, presently, Uncle Jason. "'Wait till we reach the hill yonder, "'from which the whole town can observe our maneuvers, "'then we'll try it, maybe.' "'Once more the men were lined up,

"'the roll call gone through with satisfactorily, and the question put, Are we ready for another plunge through the mud and water? The answer came in the affirmative, with a unanimity not to be mistaken. The weakest heart of them all beat to the time of the charge step. Again, Clark and Beverly clasped hands and took the lead. When they reached the next high ground,

they gazed in silence across a slushy prairie plot to where, on a slight elevation, Old Vincennes and Fort Sackville lay in full view. Beverly stood apart. A rush of sensations affected him so that he shook like one whose strength is gone. His vision was blurred. Fort and town swimming in a mist

were silent and still. Save the British flag twinkling above Hamilton's headquarters, nothing indicated that the place was not deserted. And Alice? With the sweet names echo, Beverly's heart bounded high, then sank, fluttering at the recollection that she was either yonder at the mercy of Hamilton,

or already the victim of an unspeakable cruelty. Was it weakness for him to lift his clasped hands heavenward and send up a voiceless prayer? While he stood thus, Uncle Jason came softly to his side and touched his arm. Beverly started. The next thing'll be to shoot the everlasting gizzards out on a mootid, the old man inquired.

I'm just a itching to get a grip onto that governor. If I don't scalp him, I'm a squaw. Beverly drew a deep breath and came promptly back from his dream. It was now Uncle Jason's turn to assume a reflective, reminiscent mood. He looked about him with an expression of vague half-tenderness on his shrivelled features. I's jest a-thinking how time do run past a feller, he presently remarked. 27 years ago I camped right here with my wife. Ninth one, if I remember, correct.

Just fresh married to her. "'sort a honeymoon. "'Twas warm and sunshiny nice. "'She was a party, squaw, mighty party, "'and I was as happy as a tomp't it on a sugar-trough. "'We buy a sap yonder on them knobs under the maples. "'It was glorious. "'Had some several wives for and lots of em since.

"'But she was sweetest of them all. "'Strange how a feller members sit things "'and feels sort of lonesome-like.' The old man's mouth drooped at the corners, and he hitched up his buckskin trousers with a ludicrous suggestion of pathos in every line of his attitude. Unconsciously, he sidled closer to Beverly, remotely feeling that he was giving the young man very effective sympathy, well knowing that Alice was the sweet burden of his thoughts. It was thus, Uncle Jason honestly tried to fortify his friend against what probably lay in store

for him. But Beverly failed to catch the old man's crude comfort thus. flung at him. The analogy was not apparent. Uncle Jason probably felt that his kindness had been ineffectual, for he changed his tone and added. But I suppose a young fellow like ye can't understand, what it is to love a woman and have her quit ye for another fella on him a buck engine. Well, well, well, that's the way it do go. Of all the living things upon top of this year globe, the most uncertain crinkety, crankety and slippery thing

is a young woman that knows she's a party, and that every other man in the known world is blind, stavin crazy and love we are. Same as you are. She'll drop ye like a hot tatter for you know it, and then look at ye just pine-blank like she never knowed ye afore in her life. It's so, Lieutenant, sure's you're born. I know, for her. I've tried the odd number of them, and they're all just the same.

By this time, Beverly's ears were deaf to Uncle Jason's querulous, whining voice, and his thoughts once more followed his wistful gaze across the watery plain, to where the low roofs of the Creole town appeared dimly wavering in the twilight of Eventide, which was fast fading into night. The scene seemed unsubstantial. He felt a strange lethargy possessing his soul. He could not realize the situation. In trying to imagine Alice, she alluded him, so that a sort of cloudy void fell across

his vision with the effect of baffling and benumbing it. He made vain efforts to recall her voice, things that she had said to him, her face, her smiles. All he could do was to evoke an elusive, tantalizing, ghostly something, which made him shiver inwardly with a haunting fear that it meant the worst, whatever the worst might be. Where was she? Could she be dead? And this the shadowy message of her face?

darkness fell and a thin fog began to drift in wan streaks above the water. Not a sound, save the suppressed stir of the camp, broke the wide, dreary silence. Uncle Gazon babbled until satisfied that Beverly was unappreciative or at least unresponsive. Got to have some terbacker, he remarked and shambled away in search of it among his friends. A little later, Clark approached Tastellian and said, I have been looking for you. The march has begun. Bowman and Shaulville are moving. Come, there's no time to lose. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 of Alice of Old Vesen by Maurice Thompson. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Eighteen. A duel by moonlight.

When Hamilton, after running some distance, saw that he was gaining upon Alice and would soon overtake her, it added fresh energy to his limbs. He had quickly realized the foolishness of what he had done in visiting the room of his prisoner at so late an hour in the night. What would his officers and men think? To let Alice escape would be extremely embarrassing, and to be seen chasing her would give good ground for ridicule on the part of his entire command. Therefore, his first thought, after passing through the post-turn and realizing fully what sort of predicament threatened him, was to recapture her and return her to the prison room in the blockhouse without attracting attention. This now promised to be an easier task than he had at first feared, for in the moonlight,

which on account of the dispersing clouds was fast growing stronger, he saw her seem to falter and weaken. Certainly her flight was checked and took an eccentric turn as if some obstruction had barred her way. He rushed on, not seeing that as Alice swerved, a man intervened. Indeed, he was within a few strides of laying his hand on her when he saw her make the strange movement. It was as if springing suddenly aside, she had become two persons instead of one. But instantly, the figures coincided again, and in becoming taller, faced about and confronted him. Hamilton stopped short in his tracks.

The dark figure was about five paces from him. It was not Alice, and a sword flashed dimly but unmistakably in a ray of the moon. The motion visible was that of an expert swordsman placing himself firmly on his legs with his weapon at guard. Alice saw the man in her path just in time to avoid. running against him. Lately as a flying bird when it whisks itself in a short semicircle past a tree or about, she sprang aside and swung around to the rear of him where she could continue her course toward the town. But in passing she recognized him.

It was father Beret and how grim he looked. The discovery was made in the twinkling of an eye and its effect was instantaneous, not only checking the force of her flight, but stopping her and turning her about to gaze before she had gone five paces farther. hamilton's nerve held startled as he was when he realized that an armed man stood before him naturally he fell into the error of thinking that he had been running after this fellow all the way from the little gate where he supposed alice had somehow given him the slip it was a mere flash of brain light so to call it struck out by the surprise of this curious discovery he felt his bellicose temper leap up furiously at being balked in a way so unexpected and withal so inexplicable of course he did not stand there really but he did not stand there really but he felt his bellicose temper leap up furiously at being balked in a way so unexpected and withal so inexplicable of course he did not stand there really reasoning it all out. The rush of impressions came, and at the same time he acted with promptness. Changing the rapier, which he held in his right hand over into his left, he drew a small pistol from the breast of his coat and fired. The report was sharp and loud, but it caused

no uneasiness or inquiry in the fort owing to the fact that Indians invariably emptied their guns when coming into the town. Hamilton's aim, although hasty, was not bad. The bullet from his weapon cut through Father Beret's clothes between his left arm and his body, slightly creasing the flesh on a rib. Beyond him, it struck heavily and audibly. Alice fell limp and motionless to the soft wet ground

where cold puddles of water were splintered over with ice. She lay pitifully crumpled, one arm outstretched in the moonlight. Father Beret heard the bullet hit her and turned in time to see her stagger backward with a hand convulsively pressed over her heart. Her face, slightly upturned as she reeled,

gave the moon a pallid target for its strengthening rays. Sweet, beautiful, its rigid features flashed for a second, and then half turned away from the light and went down. Father Beret uttered a short, thin cry and moved as if to go to the fallen girl, but just then he saw Hamilton's sword pass over again into his right hand and knew that there was no time for anything but death or fight. The good priest did not shirk what might have made the readiest of soldiers nervous. Hamilton was known to be a great swordsman,

and proud of the distinction. Father Beret had seen him fence with Farnsworth in remarkable form, touching him at will, and in ministering to the men in the fort he had heard them talk of the governor's incomparable skill. A priest is, in perhaps all cases, but the last out of a thousand a man of peace not to be forced into a fight. But the exceptional one out of the ten hundred, it is well not to stir up if you are looking for an easy victim. Hamilton was in the habit of considering every antagonist immediately conquerable. His domineering spirit could not, when opposed, reckon with any possibility of disaster. As he sprang toward Father Beret there was a mutual recognition, and we speak guardedly,

something that sounded exactly like an exchange of furious execrations. As for Father Beret's words, they may have been a mere, priestly formula of objugation. The moon was accommodating. With a beautiful white splendor it entered a space of cloudless sky, where it seemed to slip along the dusky blue surface among the stars far over in the west. "'It's you, is it?' Hamilton exclaimed between teeth that almost crushed one another. "'You prowling hypocrite of hell!' "'Father Beret said something. It was not complimentary, and it sounded sulfurous, if not profane.

Remember, however, that a priest can scarcely hope to be better than Peter, and Peter did actually make the Simon Pure remark when hard-pressed. At all events, Father Beret said something with vigorous emphasis and met Hamilton halfway. Both men stimulated to the fingertips by a draft of imperious passion fairly plunged to the inevitable conflict. Ah, if Alice could have seen her beautiful weapons cross, if she could have heard the fine, far-reaching clink, clink, clink, while sparks leaped forth dazzling even in the moonlight. If she could have noted the admirable, nay, the amazing play as the men, regaining coolness, to some extent, gathered their forces and fell cautiously to the deadly work, it would have

been enough to change the cold shimmer of her face to a flash of warm delight. For she would have understood every faint, lunge, Perry, and seen at a glance how Father Beret set the pace and led the race at the beginning. She would have understood, for Father Beret had taught her all she knew about the art of fencing. Hamilton quickly felt, and with a sense of its strangeness the priest's masterly command of his weapon. surprise called up all his caution and cleverness. Before he could adjust himself to such an unexpected condition, he came near being spitted outright by a pretty pass under his guard. The narrow escape, while it put him on his best medal, sent a wave of superstition through his brain.

He recalled what Barlow had jocularly said about the doings of the devil priest, or priest's devil at Rousillon Place on that night when the patrol guard attempted to take Gaspar Roussion. Was this, indeed, Father Beret, that gentle old man now before him, or was it an avenging demon from the shades? The thought flitted electrically across his mind while he deftly parried, fainted, lunched, giving his dark antagonist all he could do to meet the play. Priest or devil, he thought he cared not which he would reach its vitals presently. Yet there lingered with him a haunting half-fear or tenuous awe, which may have aided rather than hindered his excellent. swordmanship. Underfoot it was slushy with mud, water, and ice, the consistency varying from a somewhat solid crust to puddles that half-inundated Hamilton's boots and quite overflowed Father

Beres' moccasins. Inexecurable field for the little matter in hand. They gradually shifted position. Now it was the governor, then the priest, who had advantage as to the light. For some time, Father Beres seemed quite the shiftier and surer fighter, but was at his age telling on. him, he lost perceptibly in suppleness. Still, Hamilton failed to touch him. There was a baffling something in the old man's escape now and again from what ought to have been an inevitable stroke. Was it luck? It seemed to Hamilton more than that, a sort of uncanny evasion. Or was it supreme mastery, the last and subtlest reach of the fencer's craft? Youth forced age slowly backward in the struggle, which at times took on spurts so furious that the slender blades, becoming mere glints

of a secular steel, split the moonlight back and forth, up and down, so that their meetings, following one another in a well-nigh continuous strokes and a jarring noise through the air. Father Beret lost inch by inch until the fighting was almost over the body of Alice. And now, for the first time, Hamilton became aware of that motionless something with the white, luminous face in profile against the ground. But he did not let even that unsettle his fencing gaze which followed the sunken and dusky eyes of his adversary. A perspiration suddenly flooded his body, however, and began to drip across his face. His arm was tiring. A doubt crept like a chill into his heart. Then the priest appeared to add a cubit to his stature and waver strangely in the

soft light. Behind him, low against the sky, a wide-winged owl shot noiselessly cross just above the prairie. The soul of a true priest is double. It is the soul of a saint, and the soul of a worldly man. What is most beautiful in this duality is the supreme courage with which the saintly spirit attacks the worldly and so often heroically masters it. In the beginning of the fight, Father Berrell let a passion of the earthly body take him by storm. It was well for Governor Henry Hamilton that the priest was so wrought upon as to unsettle his nerves. Otherwise, there would have been an evil heart impaled midway of Father Beret's rapier. A little later, the saintly spirit began to assert itself, feebly indeed, but surely.

Then it was that Father Beret seemed to be losing agility for a while as he back stepped away from Hamilton's increasing energy of assault. In his heart, the priest was saying, I will not murder him. I must not do that. He deserves death, but vengeance is not mine. I will disarm him. Step by step he retreated, playing erratically to make an opening for a trick he meant to use. It was singularly loose play, a sort of wavering, shifting, incomprehensible show of carelessness, that caused Hamilton to entertain a doubt which was really a fear as to what was going to happen, for notwithstanding all this neglect of due

precaution on the priest's part, to touch him seemed impossible, miraculously so, and every plan of attack dissolved into futility in the most maddening way. "'Preece, devil or ghost!' raged Hamilton with a froth gathering around his mouth. "'I'll kill you, or!' He made a lunge when his adversary left an opening which appeared absolutely beyond defense. It was a quick, dexterous, vicious thrust. The blade leaped toward Father Beret's heart with a twinkle like lightning. At that moment, although warily alert and hopeful that his opportunity was at hand,

Father Beret came near losing his life, for as he sidestepped and easily parried Hamilton's thrust which he had invited, thinking to entangle his blade and disarm him, he caught his foot in Alice's skirt and stumbled, nearly falling across her. It would have been easy for Hamilton to run him through had he instantly followed up the advantage. But the moonlight on Alice's face struck his eyes, and by that indirect ray of vision which is often strangely effective, he recognized her lying there. It was a disconcerting thing for him, but he rallied instantly and sprang aside, taking a new position just in time to face Father Beret again. A chill crept up his back.

The horror which he could not shake off and raged him beyond measure. Gathering fresh energy, he renewed the assault with desperate steadiness, the highest product of absolutely molten fury. Father Beret felt the dangerous access of power in his antagonist's arm, and knew that a crisis had arrived. He could not be careless now. Here was a swordsman of the best school calling upon him for all the skill and strength and cunning that he could command.

again the saintly element was near being thrown aside by the worldly in the old man's breast alice lying there seemed mutely demanding that he avenge her a riotous something in his blood clamored for a quick and certain act in this drama by moonlight a tragic close by a stroke of terrible yet perfectly fitting justice there was but the space of a breath for the conflict in the priest's heart yet during that little time he reasoned the case and quoted scripture to himself dominie percutimus inglario rang through his mind lord shall we smite with the sword hamilton seemed to make answer to this with a dazzling display of skill the rapier sang a strange song above the sleeping girl a lullaby with coruscations of death in every keen note father beret was thinking of alice his brain playing double calculated with lightning swiftness the chances and movements of that whirlwind rush of fight while at the same time it swept through a retrospect of all the years since Alice came into his life. How he had watched her grow and bloom. How he had taught her, trained her mind and soul and body to high things, loved her with a fatherly passion unbounded, guarded her from the coarse and lawless influences of her surroundings. Like the tolling of an infinitely melancholy bell, all this

went through his breast and brain, and, blending with a furious current of whatever passions were deadly dangerous in his nature, swept as a stooped as a state. storm bearing its awful force into his sword arm. The Englishman was a lion, the priest a gladiator. The stars aloft in the vague, dark yet splendid amphitheater were the audience. It was a question. Would the thumbs go down, or up? Life and death held the chances even, but it was at the will of heaven, not of the stars.

Huck Abet, must follow the stroke ordered from beyond the astral clusters and the dusky blue. Hamilton pressed, Nay, rushed the fight with a weight and at a pace which could not last. But Father Beret bested him so firmly that he made no farther headway. He even lost some ground a moment later. You damned a Jesuit hypocrite, he snarled. You lowest of a vile brotherhood of liars! Then he rushed again, making a magnificent show of strength, quickness, and accuracy.

The sparks hissed and crackled from beyond the rasping and wringing blade. "'Father Beret was in truth a Jesuit and as such a zealot, "'but he was not a liar or a hypocrite. "'Being human, he resented an insult. "'The saintly spirit in him was strong, "'yet not strong enough to breast the indignation "'which now dashed against it. "'For a moment it went down.

"'Layer and scoundrel yourself!' "'He retorted hoarsely, forcing the words out of his throat. "'Spawn of a beastly breed!' "'Hamilton saw and felt a chain, pass over the spirit of the old priest's movements instantly the sword leaping against his own seemed endowed with a subtle cunning and malignant treachery before this it had been difficult enough to meet the fine play and hold fairly even now he was startled and confused but he rose to the emergency with admirable will power and cleverness

murder of a poor orphan girl father beret added with a hot concentrated accent death is too good for you hamilton felt nearer his grave than ever before in all his wild experience for somehow doom shadowy and formless like the atmosphere of an awful dream enlisted those words but he was no weakling to quit at the height of desperate conflict he was strong expert and game to the middle of his heart i'll add a traitor jesuit to my list of dead he panted forth rising yet again to the extremist tension of his power as he did this father beret settled himself as you have seen a mighty horse do in the home stretch of a race both men knew that the moment had arrived for the final act in their impromptu play it was short a duel condensed and crowded into fifteen seconds of time and it was rapid beyond the power of words to describe a bystander had there been one could not have seen what was finally done or how it was done. Father Beres' sword seemed to be revolving. It was a halo in front of Hamilton for a mere point of time.

The old priest seemed to crouch and then make a quick motion as if about to leap backward. A wrench and a snip, as of something violently jerked from a fastening, were followed by a semi-circular flight of Hamilton's rapier over Father Beret's head to stick in the ground ten feet behind him. The duel was over, and the whole terrible struggle had occupied, less than three minutes. With his wrists strained and his fingers almost broken, Hamilton stumbled forward and would have impaled himself had not Father Berret turned the point of his weapon aside as he lowered it. Surrender or die. That was a strange order for a priest to make, but there could

be no mistaking its authority or the power behind it. Hamilton regained his footing and looked dazed, wheezing and puffing like a porpoise, but he clearly understood what was demanded of him. "'If you call out, I'll run you through,' Father Beret added, seeing him move his lips as if to shout for help. The level rapier now reinforced the words. Hamilton let the breath go noiselessly from his mouth and waved his hand in token of enforced submission.

"'Well, what do you want me to do?' he demanded after a short pause. "'You seem to have me at your mercy, what are your terms?' Father Beret hesitated. It was a question difficult to answer. Give me your word as a British officer that you will never again try to harm any person, not an open-armed enemy in this town. Hamilton's gorge rose perversely. He erected himself with lofty reserve and folded his arms.

The dignity of a lieutenant-governor leaped into him and took control. Father Beret correctly interpreted what he saw. My people have borne much, he said, and the killing of that poor child. there will be awfully avenged if I what say the word. Besides, I can turn every Indian in this wilderness against you in a single day. You are indeed at my mercy, and I will be merciful if you will satisfy my demand. He was trembling with emotion while he spoke, and the desire to kill the man before him

was making a frightful struggle with his priestly conscience, but conscience had the upper hand. Hamilton stood gazing fixedly, pale as a ghost, his thoughts becoming more and more clear and logical. He was in a bad situation. Every word that Father Beret had spoken was true and went home with force. There was no time for parley or subterfuge. The sword looked as if eager to find his heart it could not be held back another moment. But the wan, cold face of the girl had more power than the rapier's hungry point. It made an abject coward of him. i am willing to give you my word he presently said and let me tell you he went on more rapidly i did not shoot at her she was behind you your word as a british officer hamilton again stiffened and hesitated but only for the briefest space then said yes my word as a british officer father beret waved his hand with impatience go then back to your place in the fort and disturb my

people no more. The soul of this poor little girl will haunt you forever. Go. Hamilton stood a little while, gazing at the face of Alice with the horrible wistfulness of remorse. What he would not have given to rub his eyes and find it all a dream. He turned away. The cloud scuttled across the moon. Here and yonder in the dim town, cocks crowed with a lonesome desultory effect. Father Beret plucked up the rapier that he had wrenched from Hamilton's hand. It suggested something.

Hold, he called out. Give me the scabbard of this sword. Hamilton, who was striding vigorously in the direction of the fort, turned about as the priest hastened to him. Give me the scabbard of this rapier. I want it. Take it off. The command was not gently voiced.

A horse half-whisper winged every word with an imperious threat. Hamilton obeyed. His hands were not firm. His fingers fumbled nervously, but he hurried and Father Beret soon had the rapier sheath and secured at his belt beside its mate. A good and true priest

is a burden-bearer. His motto is, Altair alterias oner-a-portate. Bear ye one another's burdens. His soul is enriched with the cast-off sorrows of those whom he relieves. Father Beret

scarcely felt the weight of Alice's body when he lifted it from the ground, so heavy was the pressure of his grief. All that her death meant, not only to him, but to every person who knew her, came into his heart as the place of refuge consecrated

for the indwelling of pain. He lifted her and bore her as far toward Rousillon Place as he could, but his strength fell short just in front of the little Bursier cottage, and half dead he staggered across the verandah to the door where he sank exhausted.

After a breathing spell, he knocked. The household, passed asleep, did not hear, but he persisted until the door was open to him and his burden. Captain Farnsworth unclosed his bloodshot eyes at about eight o'clock in the morning quite confused as to his place and surroundings. He looked about drowsily with a sheepish half knowledge of having been very drunk. A purring in his head and a dull ache reminded him him an abused stomach. He yawned and stretched himself, then sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair.

Father Beret was on his knees before the cross, still as a statue his clasped hands extended upward. Farnsworth's face lighted with recognition, and he smiled rather bitterly. He recalled everything and felt ashamed, humiliated self-debased. He had outraged even a priest's hospitality with his brutish appetite,

and he hated himself for it. Disgust, nauseated his soul apace with the physical sinking and squirming that grew upon him. I'm a shabby, worthless dog, he muttered with petulant accent. Why don't you kick me out, father? The priest turned a collapsed and bloodless gray face upon him, smiled in a tired, perfunctory way, crossed himself absently and said, You have rested well, my son.

Hard as the bed is, you have done it a compliment in the way of sleeping. You young soldiers understand how to get the most out of things. You are too generous, father, and I can't appreciate it. I know what I deserve, and you know it, too. Tell me what a brute and fool I am. It will do me good. Punch me a solid jolt in the ribs like the one you gave me not long ago.

Quisine, peccato est, primus lapida mitat, said the priest. Let him, who is without sin, cast the fir stone. He had gone to the hearth and was taking from the embers an earthen saucer, or shallow bowl, in which some fragrant broth simmered and steamed. The man who has slept as long as you have, my son, usually has a somewhat delicate appetite. Now here is a soup,

not especially satisfying to the taste of a gourmet like yourself, but possessing the soothing quality that is good for one just aroused from an unusual nap. I offer it, my son, propped their stomach tumultuum to us infirmatates, on account of thy stomach and thine often infirmities. the soup will go to the right spot while speaking he brought the hot bowl to farnsworth and set it on the bed cover before him then fetched a big horn spoon the fragrance of pungent roots and herbs blent with a savoury waft of buffalo meat greeted the captain's sense and the anticipation itself cheered his aching throat it made him feel greedy and in a hurry the first spoonful a trifle bitter was not so pleasant at the beginning but a moment after he swallowed it a hot prickly

sat in and seemed to dart through him from extremity to extremity. Slowly, as he ate, the taste grew more agreeable, and all the effects of his debauch disappeared. It was like magic. His blood warmed and glowed as if touched with mysterious fire. What is in this soup, Father Beret, that makes it so searching and refreshing? He demanded when the bowl was empty. Father Beret shook his head and smiled at Rolly. That I cannot divulge, my son, owing to a promise I had to make to the aged Indian who gave me the secret.

It is the elixir of the Miami's. Only their consecrated medicine men hold the recipe. The stimulation is but temporary. Just then someone knocked at the door. Father Beret opened it to one of Hamilton's aides. Your pardon, father, but hearing Captain Farnsworth's voice, I made bold to knock. What is it, Bobby?

Farnsworth called out. nothing only the governor has been having you looked for in every nook and corner of the fort and town you'd better report at once or he'll be having us drag the river for your body all right lieutenant go back and keep mum that's a dear boy and i'll shuffle into colonel hamilton's august presence before many minutes the aide laughed and went his way whistling a merry tune now i am sure to get what i deserve with usury at forty per cent in advance said farnsworth drive shrugging his shoulders with undissembled dread of Hamilton's wrath. But the anticipation was not realized. The governor received Farnsworth stiffly enough, yet in a way that suggested a suppressed desire to avoid explanations on the captain's part and a reprimand on his own.

In fact, Hamilton was hoping that something would turn up to shield him from the effect of his terrible midnight adventure, which seemed the darker the more he thought of it. He had a slow, numb conscience lying deep where it was hard to reach, and when a qualm somehow entered it, he endured in secret what most men would have cast off or confessed. He was haunted, if not with remorse, at last, by a dread of something most disagreeable in connection with what he had done. Alice's white face had impressed itself indelibly on his memory, so that it met his inner vision at every turn. He was afraid to converse with Farnsworth

lest she should come up for discussion. Consequently, their interview was curt and formal. It was soon discovered that Alice had escaped from the stockade and some show of search was made for her by Hamilton's order, but Farnsworth looked to it that the order was not carried out. He thought he saw at once that his chief knew where she was. The mystery perplexed and pained the young man and caused him to fear all sorts of evil. But there was a chance that Alice had found a safe retreat, and he knew that nothing but ill could befall her if she were discovered and brought back to the fort. Therefore his search for her became his own secret and for his own heart's ease. And doubtless he would

have found her, for even handicapped and distorted love like his is link-eyed and sure on the track of its object, but a great event intervened and swept away his opportunity. Hamilton's uneasiness, which was that of a strong, misguided nature trying to justify itself amid a confusion of unmanageable doubts and misgivings, now vented itself in a resumption of the repairs he had been making at certain points in the fort. These he completed just in time for the coming of Clark. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

19. The Attack It has already been mentioned that Indians arriving singly or in squads to report at Hamilton's headquarters were in the habit of firing their guns before entering the town or the fort, not only as a signal of their approach, but in order to bid their weapons of their charges preliminary to cleaning them before setting out upon another scalp-hunting expedition. A shot, therefore, or even a volley heard on the outskirts of the village

was not a noticeable incident in the daily and nightly experience of the garrison. Still, for some reason, Governor Hamilton started violently when, just after nightfall, five or six rifles cracked sharply a short distance from the stockade. He and Helm, with two other officers were in the midst of a game of cards, while a kettle, swinging on a crane in the ample fireplace, sang a shrill promise of hot apple-jack toady. By Jove! exclaimed Farnsworth, who, although not in the game, was amusing himself with looking on. You jump like a fine lady. I almost fancied I heard a bullet hit you. You may all jump while you can, remarked Helm. That's Clark, and your time's short.

You'll have this fort tumbling on your heads before daylight of tomorrow morning comes. As he spoke, he arose from his seat at the card table and went to look after the toady, which, as an expert he had under supervision. Hamilton frowned. The mention of Clark was disturbing. Ever since the strange disappearance of Lieutenant Barlow, he had nursed the fear that possibly Clark's scouts had captured him, and that the American forces might be much nearer than Cascascia.

Besides, his nerves were unruly, as they had been ever since the encounter with Father Beret, and his vision persisted in turning back upon the accusing cold face of Alice lying in the moonlight. One little detail of that scene almost maddened him at times. It was a sheeny crinkled wisp of warm-looking hair looped across the cheek in which he had often seen a saucy dimple dance when Alice spoke or smiled.

He was bad enough, but not wholly bad, and the thought of having darkened those merry eyes and still those sweet dimples tore through him with a cold, rasping pang. Just as soon as this toddy is properly mixed and tempered, said Helm, with a magnetic jocosity beaming from his genius. face. I'm going to propose a toast to the banner of Alice Rousillon, which a whole garrison

of British Braves has been unable to take. If you do, I'll blow a hole through you as big as the south door of hell, said Hamilton in the voice fairly shaken to a husky quaver with rage. You may do a great many insulting things, but not that.

Helm was in a half-stooping attitude with a ladle in one hand, a cup and the other. He had met Hamilton's glowering look with a peculiarly innocent smile as if to say, What in the world is the matter now? I never felt in a better humor in all my life. Can't you take a joke, I wonder?

He did not speak, however, for a rattling volley of musket and rifle shots hit the top of the clay-dobbed chimney, sending down into the toddy a shower of soot and dirt. In a wink, every man was on his feet and staring. Gentlemen, said Helm with an impressive oath, that is Clark's soldiers, and they will take your fort. but they ought not to have spoiled this apple toddy.

Oh, the devil, said Hamilton forcibly resuming a calm countenance, it is only a squad of drunken Indians coming in. We'll forego excitement. There's no battle on hand, gentlemen. I'm glad you think so, Governor Hamilton, Helm responded. But I should imagine that I ought to know the crack of a Kentucky rifle. I've heard one occasionally in my life. Besides, I got a whiff of freedom just now.

Captain Helm is right, observed Farnsworth. That is an attack. Another volley this time nearer and more concentrated convinced Hamilton that he was indeed at the opening of a fight. Even while he was giving some hurried orders to his officers, a man was wounded at one of the portholes. Then came a series of yells answered by a ripple of sympathetic French shouting that ran through the town. The patrol guards came straggling in, breathless with excitement. They swore to having seen a thousand men marching across the water-covered meadows. Hamilton was brave. The approach of danger stirred him like a trumpet strain.

His fighting blood rose to full tide, and he gave his orders with the steadiness and commanding force of a born soldier. The officers hastened to their respective positions. On all sides sounds indicative of rapid preparations for the fight mingled into a confused strain of military energy. Men marched to their places. Cannon were wheeled into positions. and soon enough the firing began in good earnest. Late in the afternoon, a rumor of Clark's approach had gone abroad through the village, but not a French lip breathed it to a friend of the British. The Creoles were loyal to the cause of freedom.

Moreover, they cordially hated Hamilton, and their hearts beat high at the prospect of a change in masters at the fort. Every cabin had its hidden gun and supply of ammunition despite the order to disarm issued by Hamilton. There was a hustling to bring these forth, which was accompanied with a guarded yet irrepressible chattering, delightfully French and infinitely volatile. "'Tien, I va frotting my fuzzi. I've v'I've seen a sange,' said Jacques Borsi to his daughter, the pretty Adirienne,

who was coming out of the room in which Alice lay. "'I saw a monkey just now, I must rub up my gun. He could not be solemn, not he. The thought of an opportunity to get even with Hamilton was like wine in his blood.' If you had seen those hearty and sinewy Frenchmen gliding in the dusk of evening from cottage to cottage, passing the word that the Americans had arrived, saying airy things and pinching one another as they met and hurried on, you would have thought something very amusing at Holy Jacund was in preparation for the people of Beisen. There was a current belief in the town that Gasparusillon never missed a good thing and always somehow got the lion's share.

He went out with the Ebb to return on the flood. Nobody was surprised, therefore, when he suddenly appeared in the midst of his friends, armed to the teeth, and emotionally warlike to suit the occasion. Of course, he took charge of everybody and everything. You could have heard him whisper a bow-shot away. Te-zon, he hissed, whenever he met an acquaintance. We will surprise the fort and scalp the whole garrison. O'armes, the Ameriquet vien, vien. At his own house he knocked and called in vain. He shook the door violently,

for he was thinking of the stores under the floor of the grimy bottles of the fragrant Bordeaux. Ah, his throat how it throbbed. But where was Madame Rousillon? Where was Alice? Jean! Jean! He cried, forgetting all precaution.

Come here, you, scamp, and let me in this minute. A profoundly impressive silence gave him to understand that his home was deserted. Sheaf, frightened and gone to stay with Madame Goder, suppose, and I so thirsty. Bah, hum, hum, after the vain, la batise,

Zeef. He kicked in the door and groped his way to the liquors. While he hastily swigged and smacked, he heard the firing begin with a crackling desultory volley. He laughed jovially there in the dark between draughts and deep sighs of enjoyment. And me also, he murmured, like the vast murmur of the sea, I want to be in that dance.

Pardon, monsieur? "'Mas, I ve danse, if you please.' And when he had filled himself, he plunged out and rushed away, wrought up to the extreme fighting pitch of temper. "'Diard! If he could but come across that lieutenant barlow, how he would smash him and mangle him.

In magnifying his prowess with the lens of imagination, he swelled and puffed as he lumbered along. The firing sounded as if it were between the fort and the river. But presently, when one of Hamilton's cannon spoke, Mr. Rousillon saw the yellow spike of flame from its muzzle leaped directly toward the church, and he thought it best to make a wide detour to avoid going between the firing lines. Once or twice he heard the whine of a stray bullet high overhead.

Before he had gone very far, he met a man hurrying toward the fort. It was Captain Francis Maisonville, one of Hamilton's chief scouts, who had been out on a reconnaissance and cut off from his party by some of Clark's forces was trying to make his way to the main gate of the stockade. Mr. Rousillon knew Maisonville as a somewhat desperate character, a leader of Indian forays and a traitor in human scalps. Surely the fellow was a legitimate prey. Zief, Diabe de Grident, he snarled and leaping upon him choked him to the ground.

I'll go you scalpe immediately. Clerk's plan of approach showed masterly strategy. Lieutenant Bailey, with fourteen regulars, made a show of attack on the east, while Major Bowman led a company through the town on a town, on a line near where Main Street in Vincennes is now located to a point north of the stockade. Charles Leville, a brave Creole, who was at the head of some daring fellows,

by a brilliant dash, got position under cover of a natural terrace at the edge of the prairie opposite the fort's southwestern angle. Lieutenant Beverly, in whom the commander placed highest confidence, was sent to look for a supply of ammunition and to gather up all the Frenchmen in the town who wished to join in the attack. Uncle Jazon and ten other available men

went with him. They all made a great noise when they felt that the place was completely invested. Nor can we deny, much as we would like to, the strong desire for vengeance which raised those shouting voices and nerved those steady hearts to do or die in an undertaking which certainly had a desperate look. Patriotism of the purest strain those men had, and that alone would have borne them up, but the recollection of smouldering cabin homes in Kentucky, of women and children murdered and scalped, of men brave and true burned at the stage, and and of all the indescribable outrages of Indian warfare incited and rewarded by the commander of the Fort Yonder, added to patriotism the terrible urge of that dark passion which clamors for

blood to quench the fire of wrath. Not a few of those wit half-frozen emaciated soldiers of freedom had experienced the sole rending shock of returning from a day's hunting in the forest to find home in ashes and loved ones brutally murdered and scalped, or dragged away to unspeakable outrage under circumstances is too harrowing for description, the bare thought of which turns our blood-cold, even at this distance. Now the opportunity had arrived

for a stroke of retaliation. The thought was tremendously stimulating. Beverly, with the aid of Uncle Jason, was able to lead his little company as far as the church before the enemy saw him. Here, a volley from the nearest angle of the stockade had to be answered, and pretty soon a cannon began to play upon the position.

We can do better some "'Merzaise,' was Uncle Jason's laconic remark, "'flung back over his shoulder as he moved briskly away from the spot "'just swept by a six-pounder. "'Come this year, way, Lieutenant. "'I hear some of the thallers talking loud "'just beyond the Grasse's place. "'There ain't no sort of sense

"'trying to hit anything a shooting in the dark, no how.' "'When they reached the thick of the town, "'there was a strange stir in the dusky streets. "'Men were slipping from house to house, "'arming themselves and joining their nose, neighbors. Clark had sent an order earlier in the evening forbidding any street demonstration by the inhabitants, but he might as well have ordered the wind not to blow or the river to stand still. Uncle Jason knew every man whose outlines he could see or whose voice he heard. He called each one by name.

Here, Roger, Fallin. Come, Louis, Elphonse, Victor, Octave, finish here's the American Army. Come with me. His rapid French phrases leaped forth as if shot from a pistol and his shrill voice familiar to every year in Vaisen, drew the Creole militiamen to him, and soon Beverly's company had doubled its numbers, while at the same time its enthusiasm and ability to make a noise had increased in a far greater proportion. In accordance with an order from Clark,

they now took position near the northeast corner of the stockade and began firing, although in the darkness there was but little opportunity for marksmanship. Uncle Jazon had found citizens Le Grasse and Bosseron and through them Clark's men were supplied with ammunition, of which they stood greatly in need, their powder having got

wet during their long, watery march. By nine o'clock, the fort was completely surrounded, and from every direction the riflemen and musketeers were pouring in volley after volley. Beverly with his men took the cover of a fence in some houses sixty yards from the stockade. Here, to their surprise, they found themselves below the line of Hamilton's cannon,

which being planted on the second floor of the fort, could not be sufficiently depressed to bear upon them. A well-directed fire, however, fell from the loopholes of the blockhouses, the bullets rattling merrily against the cover behind which the attacking forces lay. Beverly was thinking of Alice during every moment

of all this stir and tumult. He feared that she might still be a prisoner in the fort exposed to the very bullets that his men were discharging at every crack and cranny of those loosely constructed buildings. Should he ever see her again? Would she care for him? What would be the end of all this terrible suspense?

Those remote forebodings of evils formless, shadowy, ineffable, which have harried the lover's heart since time began, crowded all pleasant anticipations out of his mind. Clark, in passing hurriedly from company to company around the line, stopped for a little while when he found Beverly. Have you plenty of ammunition? Was his first inquiry.

"'A mighty sight to morn we can see to shoot with,' spoke up Uncle Jason. "'It's a right, smart, dad, burn, foolishness to be wasting it on nothing. Seems like to me that we'd better set the dastard fort of fire and smoke the skunks out.' "'Speak when you are spoken to, my man,' said the Colonel a trifle hotly and trying by a sharp scrutiny to make him out in the gloom where he crouched. "'Vandrebleu. I'm not asking you, Colonel Clark, nor no one. other man when I should speak. I talks whenever I gets ready, and I shoots just the same way. So ye'd better go on about your business like a white man. Close up your own whopper-jawed mouth

if you want anything shut up. Oh, ho, is that you, Jazon? You're so little I didn't know you. Certainly talk your whole damned under jaw off for all I care, Clark replied, assuming a jocose tone. Then turning to Beverly, keep up the firing-out. and the noise, the fort will be hours in the morning. What's the use of waiting till morning? Beverly demanded with impatience. We can tear that stockade to pieces with our hands in half an hour. I don't think so, Lieutenant.

It is better to play for the sure thing. Keep up the racket and be ready for him if they rush out. We must not fail to capture the Hare-Byer-General. He passed on with something cheerful to say whenever he found a squad of his devoted men. He knew how to humor and manage those independent and undisciplined yet heroically brave fellows. What to see and hear, what to turn aside as a joke, what to insist upon with inflexible mastery, he knew by the fine instantaneous sense of genius. There were many men of Uncle Jason's cast, true as steel, but refractory as Flint,

who could not be dominated by any person no matter of what stamp or office. To them an order was an insult, but a suggestion pleased and captured them. Strange as it may seem, theirs was the conquering spirit of America, the spirit which has survived every turn of progress and built up the great body of our independence. Beverly submitted to Clark's plan with what patience he could, and all night long fired shot for shot with the best rifleman in his squad. It was a fatiguing performance, with apparently little result beyond forcing the garrison now and again to close the embrasures, thus periodically silencing the cannon. Toward the close of the night, a relaxation showed itself in the shouting and firing all round the line. Beverly's men, especially the Creoles, held out bravely in the matter of noise. But even they flagged at length, their volatility simmering down to desultory bubbling and half-sleepy chattering and chafing.

Beverly leaned upon a rude fence and for a time neglected to reload his hot rifle. Of course, he was thinking of Alice. He really could not think in any other direction, but it gave him a little. a shock and a start when he presently heard her name mentioned by a little Frenchman near him on the left. "'There'll never be another such girl in post-Vincennes as Alice Rousillon,' the fellow said in the soft Creole patois, "'and to think of her being shot like a dog.' "'And by a man who calls himself a governor, too,' said another.

"'And as for myself, I'm in favor of burning him alive when we capture him. "'That's me.' "'A moi also,' chimed in a third voice, That poor girl must be avenged. The men who shot her must die. Holy virgin, but if Gaspar Rousillon were only here. But he is here. I saw him just after Doc.

He was in great fighting temper that terrible man. Oof! But I should not like to be the Colonel Hamilton and fall in the way of that Gaspar Roussion. More Blue, I should say not. You may leave me out of a chance like that. I shouldn't mind seeing Gaspar handle the governor, though. Ah, that would be too good.

He'd pay him up for shooting Mademoiselle Alice. Beverly could scarcely hold himself erect by the fence. The smoky, foggy landscape swam round him heavy and strange. He uttered a groan which brought Uncle Jason to his side in a hurry. "'Kave you? What's the matter?' The old man demanded with quick sympathy. "'Have they hit ye? Lieutenant, erie hurt much.' "'Beverly did not hear the old man's words

"'did not feel his kindly touch. "'Alice, Alice,' he murmured. "'Dead, dead. "'Yes,' drawled Uncle Jason. "'I heard about it as soon as I got into town. "'It's a sorry thing, a mighty sorry thing. "'But maybe I won't do a little something to that.' "'Beverly straightened himself and lifted his gun,

"'forgetting that he had not reloaded it since firing. last. He leveled it at the fort and touched the trigger. Simultaneously with his movement, an embrasure opened and a cannon flashed its roar flanked on either side by a crackling of British muskets. Some bullets struck the fence and flung splinters into Uncle Jazon's face. A cannonball knocked a ridge pole from the roof of a house hard by and set it whirling through the air. "'Vantrebleu and after? What the devil next?' "'Better knock a feller's eyes out,' the old man cried. I ain't a-doing nothing to ye.

He capered around rubbing his leathery face after the manner of a scalded monkey. Beverly was struck in the breast by a flattened and spent ball that glanced from a fence-picket. The shock caused him to stagger and drop his gun, but he quickly picked it up and turned to his companion. Are you hurt, Uncle Jason? he inquired. Are you hurt?

Not a bit. Just scare most into a duck, feet. Thought a cannonball had knocked my whole d'clock. dang face down my throat. Nothing but a handful of splinters in my porty countenance, making my head feel like a porcupine. But I sort of thought I heard something give you a diff. Something did hit me, said Beverly, laying a hand on his breast,

but I don't think it was a bullet. They seemed to be getting our range at last. Tell the men to keep well under cover. They must not expose themselves until we are ready to charge. The shock had brought him back to his deal. as a leader of his little company, and with the funeral bell of all his life's happiness tolling in his agonized heart, he turned afresh to directing the fire upon the blockhouse. About this time, a runner came back from Clark with an order to cease firing and let a returning

party of British scouts under Captain Lamut re-enter the fort unharmed. A strange order, it seemed, to both officers and men, but it was implicitly obeyed. Clark's genius here made another fine strategic flash. He knew that unless he let the scouts go back into the stockade, they would escape by running away, and might possibly organize an army of Indians with which to succor Hamilton. But if they were permitted to go inside, they could be captured with the rest of the garrison, hence his order. A few minutes passed in dead silence. Then Captain Lamut and his party marched close by where Beverly Squad was lying concealed. It was a difficult task to restrain the Creoles for some of them hated Lamut.

uncle jason squirmed like a snake while they filed past all unaware that an enemy lurked so near when they reached the fort ladders were put down for them and they began to clamor over the wall crowding and pushing one another in wild haste uncle jason could hold in no longer yeah yeah he yelled look out the ladder is a fallen with ye then all the lurking crowd shouted as one man and sure enough down came a ladder men and all in a crashing heap silence silence beverly commanded but he could not check the wild jeering and laughing while the bruised and frightened scouts hastily erected their ladder again fairly tumbling over one another in their haste to ascend and so cleared the wall falling into the stockade to join the garrison "'Venter blue!' shrieked Uncle Jazon. "'They've gone to bed. But we'll wake him up at the crack a day "'and give him a breakfast a hot lead.' Now the fighting was resumed with redoubled spirit and noise

and when morning came, affording sufficient light to bring out the bead sights on the Kentucky rifles, the matchless marksman in Clark's band forced the British to close the embrasures and entirely ceased trying to use their cannon. But the fight with small arms went merrily on until the middle of the forenoon.

Meantime, Gaspar Rousillon had tied Francis Maisonville's hands fast and hard with the strap of his bullet pouch. Now I'll scalp you, he said in a rumbling tone terrible to hear, and with his words out came his hunting knife from its sheath. Oh, have mercy, my dear Monsieur Rousillon, cried the panting captive. Have mercy. Merci, yes, like your colonel's. That's what you'll get. You stand by that Forbant, that Celera, that bandit and help him.

Oh, yes, you'll get mercy. Yes, the same mercy that he showed to my poor Alice. Your scalp, monsieur, if you please. Small matter, it won't hurt much. But for the sake of old friendship, Gaspar, for the sake. Zee, poor little Alice. But I swear to you that I, "'Tue de ma'am, monsieur,

"'I've vae've been you scalped, "'in fact he had taken off "'a part of Maisonville's scalp, "'when a party of soldiers, "'among whom was Maisonville's brother, "'a brave fellow and loyal to the American cause, "'were attracted by his cries and came to his rescue. "'Monsieuruxie-Haw struggled savagely

"'insisting upon completing his cruel performance. "'But he was at last overpowered, "'partly by brute force "'and partly by the pleading of Maisonville's brother "'and made to desist. "'The big of his brother, man wept with rage when he saw the bleeding prisoner protected. "'Eh bien, I'll keep what I've got,' he roared.

"'And I'll take the rest of it next time.' He shook the tupped of hair at Maisonville and glared like a mad bull. Two or three other members of Lamot's band were captured about the same time by some of the French militiamen, and Clark, when on his round cheering and directing his forces, discovered that these prisoners were being used as shields. some young Creoles, gay with drink and the stimulating effect of fight, had bound the poor fellows and were firing from behind them. Of course, the commander promptly put an end to this cruelty,

but they considered it exquisite fun while it lasted. It was in broad daylight, and they knew that the English in the fort could see what they were doing. It's shameful to treat prisoners in this way, said Clark. I will not permit it. Shoot the next man that offers to do such a thing. one of the Creole youths, a handsome swarthy adonis and buckskin tossed his shapely head with a debonair smile and said,

"'To be sure, mon colonel, but what have they been doing to us? We have amused them all winter. It's but fair that they should give us a little fun now.' Clark shrugged his broad shoulders and passed on. He understood perfectly what the people of Vincent had suffered under Hamilton's brutal administration. At nine o'clock an order was passed to cease firing, and a flag of truce was seen going from Clark's headquarters to the fort.

It was a peremptory demand for unconditional surrender. Hamilton refused, and fighting was fiercely resumed from behind rude breastworks meantime erected. Every loophole and opening of whatever sort was the focus into which the unerring backwood rifles sent their deadly bullets. Men began to fall in the fort, and every moment Hamilton expected an assault in force on all sides of the stockade. this, if successful, would mean inevitable massacre. Clark had warned him of the terrible consequences of holding out until the worst should come. Four, said he in his note to the governor, If I am obliged to storm, you may depend upon such treatment as is justly due to a murderer.

Historians have wondered why Hamilton became so excited and acted so strangely after receiving the note. The phrase, justly due to a murderer, is the key to the mystery. When he read it, his heart sank and a terrible fear seized him. Justly due to a murderer. Ah, that calm, white, beautiful, girlish face dead in the moonlight with a wisp of shining hair across it. Such treatment as is justly due to a murderer. Cold drops of sweat broke out on his forehead and a shiver went through his body. During the truce, Clark's weary yet still enthusiastic besiegers enjoyed a good breakfast prepared for

them by the loyal dames of Vincennes. Little Adrian Borsier was one of the handmaidens of the occasion. She brought to Beverly's squad a basket almost as large as herself, heaped with high, roasted duck and warm wheat and bread, while another girl bore two huge jugs of coffee, fragrant and steaming hot. The men cheered them lustily and complimented them without reserve, so that before their service was over, their faces were glowing with delight. And yet, Adrian's heart was uneasy and full of long.

to hear something of René de Ronville. Surely some one of her friends must know something about him. And there was Uncle Jazon. Doubtless he could tell her all that she wanted to know. She lingered after the food was distributed and Shale inquired.

Ain't seed this scamp, said Uncle Jazon, only he used the petroix most familiar to the girl's ear. Keeled and skilped long ago, I reckon. His mouth was so full that he spoke mumblingly

and with utmost difficult nor did he glance at Adrianne whose face took on as great pallor as her brown complexion could show. Beverly ate but little of the food. He sat apart on a piece of timber that projected from the rough breastwork and gave himself over to infinite misery of spirit, which was trebled when he took Alice's locket from his bosom, only to discover that the bullet which had struck him almost entirely destroyed the face of the miniature. He gripped the dinted and twisted case and gazed at it with the stare of a blind man. His heart almost ceased to beat,

and his breath had the rustling sound we hear when a strong man dies of a sudden wound. Somehow, the defacement of the portrait was taken by his soul as the final touch of fate, signifying that Alice was forever and completely obliterated from his life. He felt a blur pass over his mind. He tried in vain to recall the face and form so dear to him.

He tried to imagine her voice. but the whole universe was a vast hollow silence. For a long while he was cold, staring, rigid. Then the inevitable collapse came, and he wept as only a strong man can who is hurt to death yet cannot die. Adrian approached him, thinking to speak to him about René,

but he did not notice her, and she went her way, leaving beside him a liberal supply of food. End of Chapter 19. Chapter 20 of Alice of Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Twenty. Alice's flag.

Governor Hamilton received the note sent him by Colonel Clark and replied to it with curt dignity, but his heart was quaking. As a soldier he was true to the military tradition, and nothing could have induced him to surrender his command with dishonor. Lieutenant Governor Hamilton, he wrote to Clark, begs leave to acquaint Colonel Clark that he and his garrison are not disposed to be awed into any action unworthy of British subjects. Very brave words, said Helm, when Hamilton read the note to him, but you'll sing a milder tune before many minutes, or you and your whole garrison will perish in a bloody heap.

Listen to those wild yells. Clark has enough men to eat you all up for breakfast. You'd better be reasonable and prudent. It's not bravery to court massacre. Hamilton turned away without a word and sent the message. But Helm saw that he was excited and could be still further wrought up. "'You are playing into the hands of your bitterest enemies, the frog-eaters,' he went on. "'These Creoles, over whom you've held a hot poker all winter, are crazy to be turned loose upon you,

and you know that they've got good cause to feel like giving you the extreme penalty. They'll give it to you without a flinch if they get the chance. You've done enough.' Hamilton whirled about and glared ferociously. "'Helm, what do you mean?' He demanded in a passion as hollow as it was full of desperate passion. The genial captain laughed as if he had heard a good joke. "'You won't catch any fish if you swear, and you look blasphemous.'

He said with the lightness of humor characteristic of him at all times, "'You'd better say a prayer or two. Just reflect a moment upon the awful sins you have committed and—' A crash of coalescing volleys from every direction broke off his. his levity. Clark was sending his response to Hamilton's lofty note. The guns of freedom rang out a prophecy of triumph, and the hissing bullets clucked sharply as they entered the solid logs of walls or whist through an aperture and bowled over a man. The British musketeers returned the fire as best they could, with a courage and a stubborn

coolness which Helm openly admired, although he could not hide his satisfaction whenever one of them was disabled. "'Lamut and his men are refusing to obey orders,' said Farnsworth a little later, hastily approaching Hamilton, his face flushed and a gleam of hot anger in his eyes. "'They're in a nasty mood. I can do nothing with them. They have not fired a shot.' "'Mutiny,' Hamilton demanded. "'Not just that. They say they do not wish to fire on their kinsmen and friends. They are all French, you know, and they see their cousins, brothers, uncles and old. They're acquaintances out there in Clark's rabble. I can do nothing with them.

Shoot the scoundrels, then. It will be a toss-up, which of us will come out on top if we try that. Besides, if we begin a fight inside, the Americans will make short work of us. Well, what in the hell are we to do, then? Oh, fight, that's all, said Farnsworth, apathetically turning to a small loophole and leveling a field-glass through it. We might make a rush from the gates and stamp them, he presently added. Then he uttered an exclamation of great surprise.

There's Lieutenant Beverly out there, he exclaimed. You're mistaken, you're excited. Hamilton half sneeringly remarked, yet not without a shade of uneasiness in his expression. You forget, sir. Look for yourself, it's easily settled, and Farnsworth preferred the glass. He's there, to a certainty, sir. I saw Beverly an hour ago, said I knew all the time that he'd be on hand. It was a white lie. Captain Helm was as much surprised as his captress at what he heard, but he could not resist the temptation to be annoying.

Hamilton looked as Farnsworth directed, and sure enough, there was the young Virginian lieutenant, standing on a barricade his hat off, cheering his men with a superb show of zeal. Not a hair if his head was missing, so far as the class could be relied upon to show. Uncle Jason's quick old eyes saw the gleam of the telescope tube in the loophole. I never could shoot much, he muttered, and then a little bullet sped with absolute accuracy

from his disreputable-looking rifle and shattered the object lens, just as Hamilton moved to withdraw the glass, uttering an ejaculation of intense excitement. Such devils of marksmen, said he and his face was haggard. That infernal Indian lied. I could have told you all the time that the scalp long hair brought to you was not Beverly's, said Helm indifferently. I recognized Lieutenant Barlow's hair as soon as I saw it. This was another piece of offhand romance. Helm did not dream that he was accidentally sketching a horrible truth. Barlow's, exclaimed Farnsworth.

Yes, Barlow's, no mistake. Two more men reeled from a porthole the blood spinning far out of their wound. Indeed, through every aperture in the walls, the bullets were now humming like mad hornets. Close that porthole, stormed Hamilton. Then turning to Finesworth, he added, We cannot endure this long. Shut up every place large enough for a bullet to get through. Go all around, give strict orders to all. See that the men do not foolishly expose themselves.

Those ruffians out there have located every crack. His glimpse of Beverly and the sinister. a remark of Helm had completely unmanned him before his men fell. Now it rushed upon him that if he would escape the wrath of the maddened creoles and the vengeance of Alice's lover, he must quickly throw himself upon the mercy of Clark. It was his only hope. He chafed inwardly but bore himself with stern coolness. He presently sought Farnsworth, pulled him aside, and suggested that something must be

done to prevent an assault and a massacre. The sounds outside seemed to forebode a gathering for a death of a death. desperate rush, and in his heart he felt all the terrors of awful anticipation. We are completely at their mercy, that is plain, he said, shrugging his shoulders and gazing at the wounded men writhing in their agony. What do you suggest? Captain Farnsworth was a shrewd officer. He recollected that Philip de Jean, Justice of Detroit, was on his way down the Wabash from that post, and probably near at hand with a flotilla of men and supplies. Why not ask for a few days of truce?

It could do no harm, and if agreed to, might be their salvation. Hamilton jumped at the thought, and forthwith drew up a note which he sent out with a white flag. Never before in all his military career had he been so comforted by a sudden cessation of fighting. His soul would grovel in spite of him. Alice's cold face now had Beverly's beside it in his field of inner vision. a double assurance of impending doom, it seemed to him. There was a short delay in the arrival of Colonel Clark's reply, hastily scrawled on a bit of soiled paper.

The request for a truce was flatly refused, but the note closed thus. If Mr. Hamilton is desirous of a conference with Colonel Clark, he will meet him at the church with Captain Helms. The spelling was not very good, and there was a redundancy of capital letters, yet Hamilton understood it all, and it was very difficult for him to come.

conceal his haste to attend the proposed conference. But he was afraid to go to the church. The thought chilled him. He could not face Father Beret, who would probably be there. And what if there should be evidences of the funeral? What if... He shuddered and tried to break away from the vision in his tortured brain. He sent a proposition to Clark to meet him on the esplanade before the main gate of the fort, but Clark declined insisting upon the church. and thither he at last consented to go. It was an immense brace to his spirit to have helm beside him during that walk, which, although but eighty yards in extent, seemed to him a matter of leagues.

On the way he had to pass near the new position taken up by Beverly and his men. It was a fine test of nerve when the lieutenant's eyes met those of the governor. Neither man permitted the slightest change of countenance to betray his feelings. In fact, Beverly's face was as rigid as marble. He could not have changed it. But with Uncle Jason it was a different affair. He had no dignity to preserve,

no fine military bearing to sustain, no terrible tug of conscience, no paralyzing grip of despair on his heart. When he saw Hamilton going by, bearing himself so superbly, it affected the French volatility in his nature to such an extent

that his tongue could not be controlled. Votter en Bette, Fort Bon, murdrier. Skin out from him. beast robber murderer he cried in his keen screech-owl voice i'll get that scalp a yorna for sundown see if i don't yorn a regal killer and hair the blood in hamilton's veins caught no warmth from these remarks but he held his head high and passed stolidly on as if he did not hear a word helm turned the tail of an eye upon uncle jazzo and gave him a droll quizzical wink of approval In response, the old man with grotesque solemnity drew his buckhorn-handled knife, licked its blade, and returned it to its sheath.

A bit of pantomime well understood and keenly enjoyed by the on-looking Creoles. Poutreau, they jeered. Guja, Poulteron. Beverly heard the taunting racket, but did not realize it, which was well enough, for he could not have restrained the bitter effervescence. He stood like a statue, gazing fixedly at the now-receding figure, the lofty, cold-faced man in whom centered his hate of hates. Clark had requested him to be present at the conference in the church, but he declined, feeling

that he could not meet Hamilton and restrain himself. Now he regretted his refusal, half wishing that, no, he could not assassinate an enemy under a white flag. In his heart he prayed that there would be no surrender that Hamilton would reject every offer. To storm the fort and revel in butchering its garrison seemed the only desirable thing left for him in life. Father Beret was indeed present at the church as Hamilton had dreaded,

and the two duelists gave each other a rapier-like eye-thrust. Neither spoke, however, and Clark immediately demanded a settlement of the matter in hand. He was brusque and imperious to a degree, apparently rather anxious

to repel every peaceful advance. It was a laconic interview crisp as autumn ice and bitter as Galbert, Colonel Clark had no respect whatever for Hamilton, to whom he had applied the imperishable adjective, Hare-Byer-General. On the other hand, Governor Hamilton, who felt keenly the disgrace of having to equalize himself officially and discussed terms of surrender with a rough-backed woodsman, could not conceal his

contempt of Clark. The five men of history, Hamilton, Helm, Hay, Clark, and Bowman were not distinguished diplomats. They went at their work rather after the hammer and tongs fashion. Clark bluntly demanded unconditional surrender. Hamilton refused. They argued the matter. Helm put in his oar trying to soften the situation,

as was his custom on all occasions, and received from Clark a stinging reprimand with a reminder that he was nothing but a prisoner on parole and had no voice at all in settling the terms of surrender. I release him, sir, said Hamilton. He is no longer a prisoner. I am quite willing to have Captain Helm join freely in our contract. "'And I refuse to permit his acceptance of your favor,' responded Clark.

"'Captain Helm, you will return with Mr. Hamilton to the fort and remain his captive until I free you by force. Meantime, hold your tongue.' Father Beret, suave-looking and quiet, occupied himself at the little altar, apparently altogether indifferent to what was being said, but he lost not a word of the talk. "'Qui abed orias, audience, diodiat.' He inwardly repeated, smiling blandly.

Godate in Iladilla dia and exultate. Hamilton rose to go. Deep lines of worry creased his face. But when the party had passed outside, he suddenly turned upon Clark and said, Why do you demand impossible terms of me? I will tell you, sir, was the stern answer in a tone in which there was no mercy or compromise.

I would rather have you refuse. I desire nothing so much. as an excuse to wreak full and bloody vengeance on every man in that ford who has engaged in the business of employing savages to scalp brave patriotic men and defenseless women and children. The cries of the widows and the fatherless on our frontiers require the blood of the Indian partisans at my hands. If you choose to risk the massacre of your garrison to save those despicable red-handed partisans have your pleasure. Would you have done you know better than I do. I have a duty to perform. You may be able to soften its nature. I may take it into my head

to send for some of our bereaved women to witness my terrible work and see that it is well done, if you insist upon the worst. Major Hay, who was Hamilton's Indian agent now with some difficulty clearing his throat, spoke up. "'Pray, sir,' said he, "'who is it that you call Indian partisans?' "'Sir,' replied Clark, seeing that his words had gone solid. "'Pray, sir,' said he, "'who is it that you call Indian partisans?' "'Sir,' replied Clark, seeing that his words had gone solubes. solidly home. I take Major Hay to be one of the principles. This seemed to strike hay with deadly force. Clark's report says that he was pale and trembling, scarcely able to stand, and that Hamilton blushed, and I observed was much affected at his behavior.

Doubtless, if the doughty American commander had known more about the governor's feelings just then, he would have added that an awful fear, even greater than the Indian agents, did more than anything else to congest the veins in his face. The parties separated without reaching an agreement, but the end had come. The terror in Hamilton's soul was doubled by a wild scene enacted under the walls of his fort. A scene which, having no proper place in this story, strong as its historical interest unquestionably is, must be but outlined. A party of Indians returning from a scalping expedition in Kentucky and along the Ohio was captured on the outskirts of the town by some of Clark's men, who proceeded to kill and scalp them within full view of the beleaguered garrison,

after which their mangled bodies were flung into the river. If the British commander needed further wine of dread to fill his cup with all, it was furnished by an ostentatious marshalling of the American forces for a general assault. His spirit broke completely, so that it looked like a godsend to him when Clark finally offered terms of honorable surrender, the consummation of which was to be postponed until the following morning. He accepted promptly, appending to the articles of capitulation the following reasons for his action. The remoteness from succor. The state and quantity of provisions, etc. unanimity of officers and men in its expediency, the honorable terms allowed, and, lastly, the

confidence in a generous enemy. Confidence in a generous enemy. Abject fear of the vengeance just wreaked upon his savage emissaries would have been the true statement. beverly read the paper when clark sent for him but he could not join in the extravagant delight of his fellow-officers and their brave men what did all this victory mean to him hamilton to be treated as an honourable prisoner of war permitted to strut forth from the fort with his sword at his side his head up the scalpire the murderer of alice what was patriotism to the crushed heart of a lover Even if his vision had been able to pierce the future and realize the splendor of Anglo-Saxon civilization which was to follow that little triumph at Fincennes, what pleasure could it have afforded him? Alice, Alice, only Alice, no other thought had influence save the recurring surge of desire for vengeance upon her murderer. And yet that night Beverly slept, and so forgot his despair for many hours, even dreamed a pleasant dream of home. where his childhood was spent, of the stately old house on the breezy hilltop,

overlooking a sunny plantation with a little river lapsing and shimmering through it. His mother's dear arms were around him. Her loving breath stirred his hair, and his stalwart grey-headed father sat on the veranda comfortably smoking his pipe, while away in the wide fields the negro sang at the plough and the hoe. Sweater and sweeter grew the scene, soft to the air, tenderer the blending sounds of the water murmur, leaf rustle, bird-song, and slave-song, until hand in hand he wandered with Alice in greening groves where the air was trembling with the ecstasy of spring. A young officer awoke him with an order from Clark to go on duty at

once with Captains Worthington and Williams, who under Colonel Clark himself were to take possession of the fort. Mechanically he obeyed. The sun was far up, shining between clouds of a lead and watery hue by the time everything was ready for the important ceremony. Beside the main gate of the stockade, two companies of patriots under Bowman and McCarty were drawn up as guards, while the British garrison filed out and was taken in charge. This bit of formality ended, Governor Hamilton, attended by some of his officers, went back into the fort and the gate was closed. Clark now gave orders that preparations be made for hauling down the British flag and hoisting

the young banner of liberty in its place, when everything should be ready for a salute of thirteen guns from the captured battery. Helm's round face was beaming. Plainly it showed that his happiness was supreme. He dared not say anything, however, for Clark was now all sternness and formality. It would be dangerous to take any liberties, but he could smile and roll his coat of tobacco from cheek to cheek. Hamilton and Farnsworth, the latter slightly wounded in the left arm which was bandaged, stood together somewhat apart from their fellow officers, while preliminary steps for celebrating their defeat and capture were in progress. They looked forlorn enough to have excited deep sympathy under fairer conditions. Outside the

fort, the Creoles were beginning a noise of jubilation. The rumor of what was going to be done had passed from mouth to mouth until every soul in the town knew and thrilled with expectancy. Men, women, and children came swarming to the sight and to hear at close range the crash of the cannon. They shouted in a scattering way. They shouted in a scattering way. at first, then the tumult grew swiftly to a solid rolling tide that seemed beyond all comparison with the population of Ves-en. Hamilton heard it and trembled inwardly, afraid lest the mop should prove too strong for the guard. One Leonine voice roared distinctly high above the noise. It was a sound familiar to all the Creoles, that bellowing shout of Gaspar Roussions. He was

roaming around the stockade, having been turned back by the guard when he tried to pass through the main gate. They shut me out. He bellowed furiously. I am Gaspar, Rousillon, and they shut me out. Me. Zif, me voicy, I vae, je vae ventr immediately, me. He attracted but little attention, however.

The people and the soldiery were all too excited by the special interest of the occasion, and too busy with making a racket of their own for any individual, even the great Rousillon, to gain their eyes or ears. he in turn scarcely heard the tumult they made so self-centered were his burning thoughts and feelings a great occasion in vesen and he gaspar rousillon not recognize as one of the large factors in it ah no never and he strode along the wall of the stockade turning the corners and heavily shambling over the inequalities till he reached the post-turn it was not fastened someone having passed through just before him Zeef, he ejaculated,

stepping into the area and shaking himself after the manner of a dusty mastiff. "'Cseme, "'Gespé, Rousillon.' His mass of underjaw was set like that of a vice, yet it quivered with rage,

a rage which was more fiery condensation of self-approval than anger. Outside, the shouting, singing and hussas gathered strength and volume until the sound became a hoarse roar. Clark was uneasy. He had overheard

much of a threatening character during the siege. The Creoles were, he knew, justly exasperated, and even his own men had been showing a spirit which might easily be fanned into a dangerous flame of vengeance. He was very anxious to have the formalities of taking possession of the fort over with, so that he could the better control his forces. Sending for Beverly, he assigned him

to the duty of hauling down the British flag and running up that of Virginia. It was an honor of no doubtful sort, which under different circumstances would have made the lieutenant's, heart glow. As it was, he proceeded without any sense of pride or pleasure, moving as a mere machine in performing an act significant beyond any other done west of the mountains, in the great struggle for American independence and the control of American territory. Hamilton stood a little

way from the foot of the tail flagpole his arms folded on his breast, his chin slightly drawn in, his brow is contracted, gazing steadily at Beverly while he was untying the haliard, which had been wound round the pole's base about three feet above the ground. The American troops in the fort were disposed so as to form three sides of a hollow square facing inward. Uncle Jason, serving as the ornamental extreme of one line, was conspicuous for his outlandish garb and unmilitary bearing. The silence inside the stockade offered a strong contrast to the tremendous roar of voices outside. Clark made a signal, and at the tap of a drum, Beverly shook the ropes loose and began to lower the British colors. Slowly, the bright emblem of Earth's mightiest nation crept down in token of the fact that a

handful of backwoodsmen had won an empire by a splendid stroke of pure heroism. Beverly detached the flag and saluting handed it to Colonel Clark. Hamilton's breast heaved and his iron jaws tightened their pressure until the lines of his cheeks were deep furrows of pain. Father Beret, who had just been admitted, quietly took a place at one side near the wall. There was a fine, warm, benignant smile on his old face, yet his powerful shoulders drooped as if weighted down with a heavy load. Hamilton was aware when he entered, and instantly the scene of their conflict came into his memory with awful vividness,

and he saw Alice lying outstretched, stark and cold, the shining strand of hair fluttering across her pallid cheek. Her ghost overshadowed him. Just then there was a bird-like movement, a wing-like rustle, and a light figure flitted swiftly across the area. All eyes were turned upon it. Hamilton recoiled as pale as death half-flipping his hands as if toward off a deadly blow,

and then a gay flag was flung out over his head. He saw before him the girl he had shot, but her beautiful face was not waxen now, nor was it cold or lifeless. The rich red blood was strong under the brown yet delicate skin. The eyes were bright and brave. The cherry lips slightly apart, gave a glimpse of pearl-white teeth and the dimples. Those roguish dimples twinkled sweetly.

Colonel Clark looked on in amazement and in spite of himself in admiration. He did not understand. The sudden incident bewildered him. But his virile nature was instantly and wholly charmed. Something like a breath of violet shook the tenderest cords of his heart. Alice stood firmly, a statue of triumph. her right arm outstretched, holding the flag high above Hamilton's head. And close by her side, the little hunchback Jean was posed in his most characteristic attitude, gazing at the banner which he himself had stolen and kept hidden for Alice's sake and because he loved it.

There was a dead silence for some moments during which Hamilton's face showed that he was ready to collapse. Then the keen voice of Uncle Jason broke forth. Vive Azores Vassington! "'Vive the banier of Alice Rousillon.' He sprang to the middle of the area and flung his old cap high in air with a shrill war-hoop. "'He's it, he's-tit! He's-tit! He's-e'-the-a-band-moiselle, Alice Rousion! "'Vola, that's glorious, this banier-laire la. "'Heist it, he is-tit!'

"'He was dancing with a rickety liveliness, his goatish legs and shrivelled body giving him the look of an emaciated satyr. Clark had been told by some of his creole officers the story of how Alice raised the flag when Helm took the fort, and how she snatched it from Hamilton's hand, as it were, and would not give it up when he demanded it. The whole situation pretty soon began to explain itself,

as he saw what Alice was doing. Then he heard her say to Hamilton while she slowly swayed the rippling flag back and forth, I said, as you will remember, Monsieur le Governor, that when you next should see this flag, I should wave it over your head. Well, look, I am waving it. Vive la Republic.

Vive, George Washington. What do you think of it, Monsieur le Gouverneur? The poor little hunchback Jean took off his cap and tossed it in rhythmical emphasis keeping time to her words. And now from behind the hollow square came a mighty voice. "'Cet moi, Gaspar, Rousillon.

"'Mevoise, monsieur.' There was a spirit in the air which caught from Alice a thrill of romantic energy. The men in the ranks and the officers in front of them felt a wave of irresistible sympathy sweep through their hearts. Her picturesque beauty, her fine temper, the fitness of the incident to the occasion, had an instantaneous power which moved all men alike. "' Raise her flag! Run up the young lady's flag!' someone shouted, and then every voice seemed to echo the words. Clark was a young man of noble type

in whose veins throbbed the warm, chivalrous blood of the cavaliers. A waft of the suddenly prevailing influence bore him also quite off his feet. He turned to Beverly and said, Do it. It will have a great effect. It is a good idea. Get the young lady's flag and her permission to run it up. Before he finished speaking, indeed at the first glance,

he saw that Beverly, like Hamilton, was white as a dead man. And at the same time, it came to his memory that his young friend had confided to him, during the awful march through the prairie wilderness, a love story about this very Alice Ocean. In the worry and stress of this subsequent struggle, he had forgotten the tender basis upon which Beverly

had rested his excuse for leaving Vaisen. Now it all reappeared in justification of what was going on. It touched the romantic core of his southern nature. "'I say, Lieutenant Beverly,' he repeated, "'beg the young lady's permission to use her flag upon this glorious occasion. Or shall I do it for you?' There were no miracles in those brave days, and the strain of life with its terrible realities

braced all men and women to meet sudden explosions of surprise, whether of good or bad effect with admirable equipoise. But Beverly's trial, it must be admitted, was extraordinary. still he braced himself quickly and his whole expression changed when Clark moved to go to Alice. For he realized now that it was indeed Alice in flesh and blood standing there, the center of admiration, filling the air with her fine magnetism and crowning a great triumph with her beauty. He gave her a glad, flashing smile as if he had just discovered her, and walked straight to

her, his hands extended. She was not looking toward him, but she saw him and turned to her. to face him. Hers was the advantage, for she had known for some hours of his presence in Vincennes, and had prepared herself to meet him courageously and with maidenly reserve. There is no safety, however, when love lurks. Neither Beverly nor Alice was as much agitated as Hamilton, yet they both forgot what he remembered, that a hundred grim frontier soldiers were looking on. Hamilton had his personal and official dignity to sustain, and he fairly did it, under what a pressure of he was.

humiliating and surprising circumstances we can fully comprehend. Not so with the two young people, standing as it were in a suddenly bestowed and incomparable happiness, on the verge of a new life, each to the other an unexpected, unhoped-for resurrection from the dead. To them there was no universe, save the illimitable expanse of their love. In that moment of meeting, all that they had suffered on account of love was transfused and poured forth. A glowing libation for love's sake. A flood before which all barriers broke. Father Beret was looking on with a strange fire in his eyes, and what he feared what happened did happen. Alice let the flag fall at Hamilton's feet, when Beverly came near her smiling that great glad smile,

and with a joyous cry leaped into his outstretched arms. Jean snatched up the fallen banner and ran to Colonel Clark with it. Two minutes later it was made. fast and the haliard began to squeak through the rude pulley at the top of the pole. Up, up, climbed the gay little emblem of glory, while the cannon crashed from the embrasures of the blockhouse hard by, and outside the roar of voices redoubled. Thirteen guns boomed the salute, though it should have been fourteen. The additional one for the great northwestern territory, that day annexed to the domain of the Young American Republic.

The flag went up at Old Misen, never to come down again. and when it reached its place at the top of the staff, Beverly and Alice stood side by side looking at it, while the sun broke through the clouds and flashed on its shining folds, and love unabashed glorified the two strong young faces. End of Chapter 20. Chapter 21 of Alice of Old Minson by Maurice Thompson. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

21. Some transactions in scalpes. History would be a very orderly affair could the dry-as-dust historians have their way, and doubtless it would be thrillingly romantic at every turn if the novelists were able to control its current. Fortunately, neither one nor the other has much influence, and the result in the long run is that most novels are shockingly tame, while the large body of history is loaded down with picturesque incidents,

which, if used in fiction, would be thought absurdly romantic and improbable. Were our simple story of Old Vincennes a mere fiction, we should hesitate to bring in the explosion of a magazine at the fort with a view to sudden confusion and, by that means, distracting attention from our heroine while she betakes herself out of a situation which, although delightful enough, for a blessed minute, has quickly become an embarrassment quite unendurable. But we simply adhere to the established facts in history. Owing to some carelessness, there was indeed an explosion of 26-6-pound cartridges, which made a mighty roar and struck the newly installed garrison into a heap, so to say, scattering

things terribly and wounding six men, among them captains Bowman and Worthington. After the thunderous crash came a momentary silence, which embraced both the people within the fort and the wild crowd outside. Then the rush and noise were indescribable. Even Clark gave way to excitement, losing command of himself and of course of his men. There was a stampede toward the main gate by one wing of the truely. in the hollow square. They literally ran over Beverly and Alice, flinging them apart and jostling them hither and yonder without mercy. Of course, the turmoil quickly subsided. Clark and Beverly got

hold of themselves and sang out their peremptory orders with excellent effect. It was like oil on raging water. The men obeyed in a straggling way, getting back into ranks as best they could. "'Ventre blue!' squeaked Uncle Jason. "'If I didn't think the whole world had busted into a a million pieces. He was jumping up and down not three feet from Beverly's toes, waving his cap excitedly. But wasn't I scared? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Vive la banyard of Alice Rocion. Vive George Vassington. Hearing Alice's name caused Beverly to look around. Where was she? In the distance he saw Father Beret hurrying to the spot where some of the men burnt and wounded by the explosion were being stripped and cared for.

hamilton stood like a statue he appeared to be the only cool person in the fort where is alice miss rousillon where did miss rousillon go beverly exclaimed staring around like a lost man where is she dono said uncle jason resuming his habitual expression of droll dignity she shot a pass me just as that thing busted loose and she went like her a humming-bird skitch just that way and i didn't see her no more "'Cause I was scared mighty nigh into seven feats.' "'Speck that explosion blowed her clean away. "'Vandrebleu. "'Never was so plum-outen-breadth and dead crazy week of being a field.' "'Lieutenant Beverly,' roared Clark in his most commanding tone. "'Go to the gate and settle things there.

"'That mob outside is trying to break in.' "'The order was instantly obeyed, but Beverly had relapsed. Once more his soul groped in darkness while the whole of his life seemed unreal, a wavering misty hollow dream. And yet his military duty was all real enough. He knew just what to do when he reached the gate. Back there at once.

He commanded, not loudly, but with intense force, back there. This to the inward surging wedge of excited outsiders. Then to the guard. Shoot the first man who crosses the line. Zeef, me voise. "'Mois, Gaspar Rousillon, "'Lessie me pass, monsieur.'

A great body hurled itself frantically past Beverly and the guard, going out through the gateway against the wall of the crowd, bearing everything before it and shouting, "'Bank, fools, you'll all be killed. The powder is on fire. Zee, run!' Wild as a march hare, he bristled with terror

and foamed at the mouth. He stampeded the entire mass. There was a wild howl. A rush in the other direction followed, and soon enough the esplanade and all the space back to the barricades and beyond were quite deserted. Alice was not aware that a serious accident had happened. Naturally, she thought the great rattling, crashing noise

of the explosion a mere part of the spectacular show. When the rush followed separating her and Beverly, it was a great relief to her in some way, for a sudden recognition of the boldness of her action in the little scene just ended, came over her and bewildered her. An impulse sent her running away from the spot where it seemed to her she had invited public derision. The terrible noises all around her were she now fancied, but the jeering and hooting of rude men who had seen her unmaidenly forwardness. With a burning face she flew to the post-turn and slipped

out, once more taking the course which had become so familiar to her feet. She did not slacken her speed until she reached the Borsier cabin, where she had to her. had made her home since the night when Hamilton's pistol ball struck her. The little domicile was quite empty of his household, but Alice entered and flung herself into a chair, where she sat quivering and breathless when Adrienne also much excited came in, preceded by a stream of patois that sparkled continuously. The fort is blown up, she cried gesticulating in every direction at once. Her petite figure comically dilated with the importance of her statement.

A hundred men are killed and the powder is on five. She pounced into Alice's arms, still talking as fast as her tongue could vibrate, changing from subject to subject without rhyme or reason, her prattle making its way by skips and shies until what was really uppermost in her sweet little heart disclosed itself. And, oh, Alice, Renée has not come yet. She plunged her dusky face between Alice's cheek and shoulder. Alice hugged her sympathetically and said,

But Renée will come. I know he will, dear. Oh, but do you know it? Is it true? Who told you? When will he come? Where is he? Tell me about him.

Her head popped up from her friend's neck, and she smiled brilliantly through the tears that were still sparkling on her long black lashes. I didn't mean that I had heard from him, and I don't know where he is. But they always come back. You say that because your man, because Lieutenant Beverly has returned.

It is always so. You have everything to make you happy. Well, I... Again, her eyes spilled their shower, and she hid her face in her hands, which Alice tried in vain to remove. Don't cry, Adrienne. You didn't see me crying?

No, of course not. You didn't have a thing to cry about. Lieutenant Beverly told you just where he was going, and just what... But think, Adrian, only think of the awful story they told, that he was killed. that Governor Hamilton had paid long hair for killing him and bringing back his scalp. Oh, dear, just think.

And I thought it was true. Well, I'd be willing to think and believe anything in the world if René would come back, said Adrianne, her face now uncovered showing pitiful lines of suffering. Oh, Alice, Alice, and he never, never will come. Alice exhausted every device to cheer and courage and comfort her. adrianne had been so good to her when she lay recovering from the jocke of hamilton's pistol bullet which although it came near killing her made no serious wound only a bruise in fact it was one of those fortunate accidents or providentially ordered interferences which once in a while save a life the stone disc worn by alice chanced to lie exactly in the missile's way and while it was not broken the ball already somewhat checked by passing through several foes of father bhaer's garments flattened itself upon it with a shone to lie exactly in the missile's way and while it was not broken the ball already somewhat checked by passing through several foes of father bhaire's garments flattened itself upon it with a shaltened itself upon it with a shalt which somehow struck Alice senseless.

Here again history in the form of an ancient family document, a letter written in 1821 by Alice herself, gives us the curious brace of incidents to wit, the breaking of the miniature on Beverly's breast by a British musketball, and the stopping of Hamilton's bullet over Alice's heart by the Indian charmstone. Which shows the goodness of God, the letter goes on. It also seems to sustain the Indian legend concerning the stone that whoever might wear it could not be killed.

guild. Unquestionable, Mr. Hamilton shot, which was aimed at poor dear old Father Beret would have pierced my heart, but for that charmstone. As for my luck it did not, as some have reported, save Fitzhue's life when the musket ball was stopped. The ball was so spent that the blow was only hard enough to spoil temporary the face of the miniature, which was afterwards restored fairly well by an artist in Paris. When it did actually save Fitzhue's life was out on the Illinois plain. The savage long hair, piece to his memory, worked the miracle of restoring to me. Here, a fold in the paper has destroyed a line of the writing. The letter is a sacred family paper and there is not justification for going farther into

its faded and, in some parts, almost obliterated writing. But so much may pass into these pages as a pleasant authentication of what otherwise might be altogether too sweet a double nut for the critic's teeth to crack. While Edrianne and Alice were still discussing the probability, of René de Ronville's return, Monsieur Rousillon came to the door. He was in search of Madame, his wife,

whom he had not yet seen. He gathered the two girls in his mighty arms, tousing them with rough tenderness. Alice returned his affectionate embrace and told him where to find Madame Rousillon, who was with Dame Goddard,

probably at her house. Nobody killed, he said in answer to Alice's inquiry about the catastrophe at the fort. Some of them hurt and burt a little. Great big scails.

about nearly nothing. Zeef, my children, you should have seen me quiet things. I put out my hands this way. Come so, poof! It was all over. The people went home. His gestures indicated

that he had borne back an army with open hands. Then he chucked Adrian under the chin with his finger and added in his softest voice. I saw somebody's lover the other day, over yonder, in the Indian village.

He spoke to me about somebody. "'Eh, my petite, what "'What do you do? "'Oh, Papa Rousillon, we were just talking about René,' cried Alice. "'Have you seen him?' "'I saw you, you little minks, "'jumping into a man's arms right under the eyes of a whole garrison. "'Bah, I could not believe it was my little Lallis.'

"'He let go a grand guffar which seemed to shake the cabin's walls.' "'Alice blushed cherry-red. "'Adrian too bashful to inquire, about René was trembling with anxiety. The truth was not in Gaspar Rousillon just then, or if it was it stayed in him, for he had not seen René de Ronville. It was his generous desire to please

and to appear opulent of knowledge and sympathy that made him speak. He knew what would please Adrian, so why not give her at least a delicious foretaste? Surely, when a thing was so cheap, one need not be so parsimonious as to withhold a mere anticipation? He was off before the girls could press

him into details, for indeed he had none. There now, what did I tell you? cried Alice when the big man was gone. I told you, René would come? They always come back. Father Beret came in a little later. As soon as he saw Alice, he frowned and began to shake his head. But she only laughed and imitating his hypocritical scowl,

yet fringing it with a twinkle of merry lines and dimples, pointed a taper finger at him and exclaimed, You bad bad man! Why did you pretend to me that Lieutenant Beverly was dead? What sinister ecclesiastical motive prompted you to describe how long hair scalped him? Ah, father! The priest laid a broad hand over her saucy mouth. Something or other seems to have excited you mightily, my fee.

You are a trifle impulsively inclined today. Yes, Father Beret. Yes, I know, and I am ashamed. My heart shrinks when I think of what I did. But I was so glad. Such a grand joy came all over me when I saw him, so strong and brave and beautiful, coming toward me,

smiling that warm, glad smile in holding out his arms. Ah, when I saw all that, when I knew for sure that he was not dead, I— Why, father, I just had to. I couldn't help it. Father Berer laughed in spite of himself,

but quickly managed to resume his severe countenance. "'Tah, tar,' he exclaimed, "'it was a bold thing for a little girl to do.' "'So it was, so it was. "'But it was also a bold thing for him to do, "'to come back after he was dead and scalped "'and look so handsome and grand. "'I'm ashamed and sorry, father.

"'But—but I'm afraid I might do it again if—' "'Well, I don't care if I did. "'So there now.' "'But what in the world are you talking about?' interposed Adrienne. Evidently they were discussing a most interesting matter of which she knew nothing

and that did not suit her feminine curiosity. Tell me. She pulled Father Beret's sleeve. Tell me, I say. It is probable that Father Beret would have pretended to betray Alice's source

of mingled delight and embarrassment had not the rest of the bourseier household returned in time to break up the conversation. A little later, Alice gave Adrienne a vividly dramatic account of the whole season. "'Ah, my God!' exclaimed the petite brunette after she had heard the exciting story.

"'That was just like you, Alice. You always do superb things. You were born to do them. You shoot Captain Farnsworth. You wound to Lieutenant Barlow. You climb onto the fort and set up your flag. You take it down again and run away with it. You get shot and you do not die.

You kiss your lover right before a whole caresson. "'Bon Dieu, if I could but do all those things.' She clasped her tiny hands before her and added rather dejectedly. "'But I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't kiss a man in that way.' Late in the evening news came to Rousillon place where Gaspar Roussillon was once more happy in the midst of his little family that the Indian long hair had just been brought to the fort and would be shot on the following day. A scouting party captured him as he approached the town bearing at his belt the fresh scalp of a white man.

He would have been killed forthwith, but Clark, who wished to avoid a repetition of the savage vengeance meted out to the Indians on the previous day, had given strict orders that all prisoners should be brought into the fort where they were to have a fair trial by court-martial. Both Helm and Beverly were at Rousillon Place, the former sipping wine and chatting with Gaspar, the latter, of course, hovering around Alice, after the manner of a hungry bee around a particularly sweet and deliciously refractory flower. It was raining slowly, the fine drops coming straight down through the cold still February air.

But the two young people found it pleasant enough for them on the veranda where they walked back and forth, making fair exchange of the exciting experiences which had befallen them during their long separation. Between the lines of these mutual recitals, sweet, fresh echoes of the old, old story went from heart to heart, an amabean loveboat like that of spring birds calling to tenderly back and forth in the blooming Maytime woods. Both Captain Helm and Monsieur Rousillon were delighted to hear of Longhairs' capture and certain fate,

but neither of them regarded the news as of sufficient importance to need much comment. They did not think of telling Beverly and Alice. Jean, however, lying awake in his little bed, overheard the conversation which he repeated to Alice next morning with great circumstantiality. Having the quick insight bred of frontier experience, Alice instantly caught the terrible significance of the dilemma in which she and Beverly would be placed by Longhair's situation. Moreover, something in her heart arose with irresistible power demanding the final, the absolute human sympathy and gratitude.

No matter what deeds Longhair had committed that were evil beyond forgiveness, he had done for her the all-atoning thing. He had saved Beverly and sent him back to her. With a start and a chill of dread, she thought, "'What if it is all ready too late?' But her nature could not hesitate. To feel the demand of an exigency was to act. She snatched a rap from its peg on the wall

and ran as fast as she could to the fort. People who met her flying along, wondered staring after her what could be urging her so that she saw nobody, checked herself for nothing, ran splashing through the puddles in the street, gazing ahead of her, as if pursuing some flying object from which she dared not turn her eyes. and there was indeed a call for her utmost power of flight if she would be of any assistance to longhair who even then stood bound to a stake in the fort's area while a platoon of riflemen those unerring shots from kentucky and virginia were ready to make a target of him at a range of but twenty yards

beverly greatly handicapped by the fact that the fresh scalp of a white man hung at long hair's belt had exhausted every possible argument to avert or mitigate the sentence promptly spoken by the court-martial of which colonel clark was the ruling spirit he had succeeded barely to the extent of turning the mode of execution from tomahawking to shooting all the officers in the fort approved killing the prisoner and it was difficult for colonel clark to prevent the men from making outrageous assaults upon him so exasperated were they at the same sight of the scalp. Uncle Jason proved to be one of the most refractory among those who demanded tomahawking and scalping as the only treatment due long hair. The repulsive savage stood up before them, stolid, resolute, defiant, proudly flaunting the badge which testified to his horrible efficiency as an emissary of Hamilton's. It had been left in his belt by Clark's order as the best justification

of his doom. "'Hell me hack his damned head!' Uncle Jason pleaded. I just hankers to chop a hole into it. And besides, I want his scalp to hang up with mine and that of the Indian what scalped me. He kicked me in the ribs the stinking vermint. Beverly pleaded eloquently and well,

but even the genial Major Helm laughed at his sentiment of gratitude to a savage who at best but relented at the last moment, for Alice's sake and concluded not to sell him to Hamilton. It is due to the British commander to, record here that he must positively and with what appear to be high sincerity, denied the charge of having offered rewards for the taking of human scalps. He declared that his purposes and practices were humane, and that while he did use the Indians as military allies, his orders to them were that they must forego cruel modes of warfare and refrain from savage outrage upon prisoners.

Certainly, the weight of contemporary testimony seems overwhelmingly against him, but we enter his denial. Longhair himself, however, taunted him with accusations of unfaithfulness in carrying out some very inhuman contracts, and to add a terrible sting, volunteered the statement that poor Barlow's scalp had served his turn in the place of Beverly's. With conditions so hideous to contend against, Beverly, of course, had no possible means of succoring the condemned savage. "'Him kicking your ribs clean in terry, and a makein'y run the guntlet, and here ye are trying to save his life,' wind Uncle Jean.

reason. Why, man, I thought he had some sent torments. Dast his Indian liver. I can feel them kicks when he gav me till you. Ventre blue, what diablo wolde. Clark simply pushed Beverly's pleadings aside as not worth a moment's consideration. He easily felt a fine bit of gratitude at the bottom of it all, but there was too much in the other side of the balance. Justice, the discipline and confidence of his little army, and the claim of the women and children on the frontier demanded firmness in dealing with a case like long hairs. No, no, he said to Beverly.

I would do anything in the world for you, Fitz, except to swerve an inch from duty to my country and the defenseless people down yonder in Kentucky. I can't do it. There's no use to press the matter further. The dye is gassed. That brute's got to be killed and killed dead. Look at him. Look at that scalp.

"'I'd have him killed if I drop dead for it the next instant.' Beverly shuddered. The argument was horribly convincing, and yet somehow, the desire to save long hair overbore everything else in his mind. He could not cease his efforts. It seemed to him as if he were pleading for Alice herself. Captain Farnsworth, strange to say, was the only man in the fort who leaned to Beverly's side.

But he was reticent, doubtless feeling that his position as a British prisoner gave him no right to speak, especially when every lip around him was muttering something about infamous scalp buyers and Indian partisans, with whom he was prominently counted by the speakers. As Clark had said, the die was cast. Longhair bound to a stake, the scalp, still dangling at his side, grimly faced his executioners who were eager to fire. He appeared to be proud of the fact that he was going to be killed. One thing I can say of him, Helm remarked to Beverly. He's the grandest specimen of the animal, I might say the brute man that I ever saw red, white or black. Just look at his body and limbs. Those muscles are perfectly marvelous.

He saved my life, and I must stand here and see him murdered. The young man replied with intense bitterness. It was all he could think, all that he could say. He felt inefficient and dejected, almost desperate. Clark himself, not willing to cast responsibility of upon a subordinate made ready to give the fatal order. Turning to long hair first, he demanded of him as well as he could in the Indian dialect of which he had a smattering what he had to say at his last moment. The Indian straightened his already upright form, and, by a strong bulging of his muscles snapped the thongs that bound him. Evidently he had not tried thus to free himself. It was rather a spasmodic expression of savage dignity and pride. One arm and both his

legs still were partially confined by the bonds, but his right hand he lifted with a gesture of immense self-satisfaction and pointed at Hamilton. Indian brave, white man coward, he said scowling scornfully. Long hair tell truth. White man lie, damn. Hamilton's countenance did not change its calm, cold expression. Long hair gazed at him fixedly for a long moment, his eyes flashing most concentrated hate and contempt. Then he tore the scalp from his belt and flung it with great force straight toward the captive governor's face. It fell short, but the look that went with it did not, and Hamilton recoiled. At that moment Alice arrived. Her coming was just in time to interrupt

Clark, who had turned to the waiting platoon with the order of death on his lips. She made no noise, save the fluttering of her skirts, and her loud and rapid panting on account of her long, hard run. She sprang before long hair and faced the platoon. You cannot. You shall not kill this man, she cried in a voice loaded with excitement. Put away those guns. Woman never looked more thrillingly beautiful to man that she did just then to all those rough stern backwoodsmen. During her flight her hair had fallen down and it glimmered like soft sunlight around her face. Something compelling flashed out of her eyes, an expression between a triumphant smile and a

a ray of irresistible beseechment. It took Colonel Clark's breath when he turned and saw her standing there and heard her words. This man saved Lieutenant Beverly's life, she presently added getting better control of her voice and sending into it a thrilling timber.

You shall not harm him. You must not do it. Beverly was astounded when he saw her. The thing was so unexpected, so daring, and done with such high imperious force. Still, it was but a realization of what he had imagine she would be upon occasion.

He stood gazing at her, as did all the rest, while she faced Clark and the platoon of riflemen. To hear his own name pass her quivering lips in that tone and in that connection seemed to him a consecration. Would you be more savage than your Indian prisoner? She went on. Less grateful than he for a life saved. I did him a small, a very small service once, and in memory of that he saved Lieutenant

Beverly's life, because, because, she faltered for a single breath, then added clearly and with magnetic sweetness, because Lieutenant Beverly loved me, and because I loved him. This Indian long hair showed a gratitude that could overcome his strongest fashion. You white men should be ashamed to fall below his standout. Her words went home. It was as if the beauty of her face, the magnetism of her lism and symmetrical form, the sweet fire of her eyes and the passionate appeal of her voice gave what she said a new and irresistible force of truth. When she spoke of Beverly's love for her and declared her love for him,

there was not a manly heart in all the garrison that did not suddenly beat quicker and feel a strange sweet-wft of tenderness. A mother, somewhere, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a sweetheart, called through that voice of absolute womanhood. Beverly, what can I do? muttered Clark, his bronze face as pale as it could possibly become. "'Do!' thundered Beverly. "'Do! You cannot murder that man. Hamilton is the man you should shoot. He offered large rewards. He inflamed the passions and fed the love of rum and cupidity

of poor wild men like the one standing yonder. Yet you take him prisoner and treat him with distinguished consideration. Hamilton offered a large sum for me taken alive, a smaller one for my scalp. Long hair saved me. You let Hamilton stand yonder in perfect safety while you shoot the Indian. Shame on you, Colonel Clark. Shame on you if you do it. Alice stood looking at the stalwart commander while Beverly was pouring forth his torrent

of scathing reference to Hamilton, and she quickly saw that Clark was moved. The moment was ripe for the finishing stroke. They say it is genius that avails itself of opportunity. Beverly knew the fight was won when he saw what followed. Alice suddenly left Longhair and ran to Colonel Clark, who felt her warm, strong arms loop round him for a single point of time, never to be effaced from his memory. Then he saw her kneeling at his feet, her hands upstretched,

her face a glorious prayer while she pleaded the Indian's cause, and won it. Doubtless, while we all rather feel that Clark was weak to be thus swayed by a girl, we cannot quite blame him. Alice's flag was over him. He had heard her history from Beverly. his cunning lips. He actually believed that Hamilton was the real culprit, and besides he felt not a little nauseated with executing Indians. A good excuse to have an end of it all did not go begging. But Longhair was barely gone over the horizon from the fort as free and as villainous

as savage as ever trod the earth, when a discovery made by Uncle Jason caused Clark to hate himself for what he had done. The old scout picked up the scalp, which Longhair had flung at Hamilton and examined it with odious curiosity. He had lingered on the spot with no other purpose than to get possession of that ghastly relic. Since losing his own scalp, the subject of crown locks had grown upon his mind until its fascination was irresistible.

He studied the hair of every person he saw as a physiognomist studies faces. He held the gruesome thing up before him, scrutinizing it with the expression of a connoisseur who had discovered on a grimy canvas, the signature of an old master. sack bleu he presently broke forth well i'll be look y'er george clark come here and look ye've been sold again take a squint if ye please colonel clark with his hands crossed behind him his face thoughtfully contracted was walking slowly to and fro a little way off he turned about when uncle jason spoke what now jason a mighty heap right now that's what

Come here and let me show ye. You're a fine sort of eget, now ain't ye? The two men walked toward each other and met. Uncle Jason held up the scalp with one hand, pointing at it with the index finger of the other. This here scalp come off and René de Ronville's head. And who is he? Who's he? He may well ask that.

He was a Frenchman. He was a fine young fellow of this town. He killed a corporal of Hamilton's and tucked her the wood a month or two ago. Hamilton offered a lot of money for him or his scalp, and long hair went in for getting it. Now he knows the whole racket. And he lets that engine go. And that same engine he mightnigh kicked my ribs into my stomach. Uncle Jason's feelings were visible and audible.

But Clark could not resent the contempt of the old man's looks and words. He felt that he deserved far more than he was receiving. Nor was Uncle Jazon wrong. René Doronville never came back to Little Adirienne Borsier, although being kept entirely ignorant of her lover's fate, she waited and dreamed and hoped throughout more than two years, after which there is no further record of her life. Clark, Beverly and Uncle Jazon, consulted together

and agreed among themselves that they would hold profoundly secret the story of the scalp. To have made it public would have exasperated, the Creoles and set them violently against Clark, a thing heavy with disaster for all his future plans. As it was, the release of long hair caused a great deal of dissatisfaction and mutinous talk. Even Beverly now felt that the execution ordered by the commander ought to have been sternly carried out. A day or two later, however, the whole dark affair was closed forever by a bit of confidence on the part of Uncle Jason when Beverly dropped into his hut one evening to have a

smoke with him. The rain was over, the sky shone like one vast luminary, with a nearly full moon and a thousand stars reinforcing it. Up from the south poured one of those balmy accidental wind floods, sometimes due in February on the Wabash, full of tropical dream hints, yet edged with a winter chill that smacks of treacher. Uncle Chazone was unusually talkative. He may have had a draught of liquor. At all events, Beverly had little room for a word. "'Well, being as it's twixt us, as is bosom friends,' the old fellow presently said, "'I'll just show you something party.'

He pricked the wick of a lap and took down his bunch of scalps. "'I have been a add in one more to keep company of mine and others.' He separated the latest acquisition from the rest of the wisp and added with a heinous chuckle. "'This is long hairs.' "'And so it was. Beverly knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose to go. When they kick your Uncle Jazon's ribs, the old man added, they just as well lay down and give up, for he's going to salervate him.

Then after Beverly had passed out of the cabin, Uncle Jazon chirruped after him. Maybe you'd better not tell Little Alice. The poor little girl if it were enough. End of Chapter 21. Chapters 22 and 23 of Alice of Old Vesen by Maurice Thompson. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. 22. Clark advises Alice.

A few days after the surrender of Hamilton, a large boat, the willing, arrived from Kaskaskia. It was well manned and heavily armed. Clark fitted it out before beginning his march and expected it to be of great assistance to him in the reduction of the fort. But the high waters and the floating drift would delayed its progress, so that its disappointed crew saw Alice's flag floating bright and high when their eyes first looked upon the dull little town from far down the swollen river. There was much rejoicing, however, when they came ashore and were enthusiastically greeted by the garrison ant populace. A courier whom they had picked up on the Ohio came with them.

He bore dispatches from Governor Henry of Virginia to Clark and a letter from Beverly from his father. With them appeared also Simon Kenton, greatly to the delight of Uncle who had worried much about his friends since their last Freden, as he called it, with the Indians. Meantime, an expedition under Captain Helm had been sent up the river with the purpose of capturing a British flotilla from Detroit. Gaspar Rousillon, immediately after Clark's victory, thought he saw a good opening favorable to festivity at the riverhouse, for which he soon began to make some of his most ostentatious preparations. Fate, however, as usual, in his case, interfered.

fate seemed to like pulling the big Frenchman's ear now and again, as if to remind him of the fact, which he was apt to forget, that he lacked somewhat of omnipotence. Zeef, I've done a banquet to all mon, he cried, hustling and bustling hither and thither. A scout from up the river announced the approach of Philip de Jean with his flotilla richly laden, and what little interest may have been gathering in the direction of Monsieur Roussien's festal proposition, vanished like the flame of a lamp in a puff of wind. when this news reached Colonel Clark and became known in town. Beverly and Alice sat together in the main room of the Rousillon cabin.

You could scarcely find them separated during those happy days, and Alice was singing to the soft tinkle of a guitar, a creole ditty with a merry smack in its scarcely intelligible nonsense. She knew nothing about music beyond that Monsieur Rousillon, a jag of all traits, had been able to teach her. A few simple chords to accompany her songs picked up at haphazard. but her voice, like her face and form, irradiated witchery. It was sweet, firm, deep with something haunting in it.

The tone of a hermit-thrush, marvellously pure and clear, carried through a gays train like the mockingbirds. Of course, Beverly thought it divine. And when a message came from Colonel Clark bidding him report for duty at once, he felt an impulse toward mutiny of the rank of sort. He did not dream that a military expedition could be on hand, but upon reaching headquarters the first thing he heard was report to captain helm you are to go with him up that river and intercept a British force move lively Helm is waiting for you probably there was no time for explanations evidently Clark expected neither questions nor delay Beverly's love of adventure and his patriotic desire to serve his country came to his aid vigorously enough still with Alice's love song ringing in his heart there was a chord pulling him back from duty to the sweetest of all life's joys. Helm was already at the landing where a little fleet of

boats was being prepared. A thousand things had to be done in short order. All hands were stimulated to highest exertion with the thought of another fight. Swivels were mounted in boats, ammunition and provisions stored abundantly, flags hoisted, and oars dipped. Never was an expedition of so great importance more swiftly organized and set in motion, nor did one ever have a more prosperous voyage or complete or triumph. Philippe de Jean, justice of Detroit, with his men, boats and rich cargo, was captured easily, with not a shot fired, nor a drop of blood spilled in doing it. If Alice could have known all this before it happened, she would probably have saved herself

from the mortification of a rebuke administered very kindly, but not the less thoroughly by Colonel Clark. The rumor came to her, a brilliant Creole rumor, duly inflated, that an overwhelming British force was descending the river, and that Beverly, with a few men, not sufficient to base the expedition on a respectable forlorn hope, would be sent to meet them. Her nature, as was its want, flared into high indignation. What right had Colonel Clark to send her lover away to be killed just at a time when he was all the whole world to her? Nothing could be more outrageous. She would not suffer it to be done. Not she. Colonel Clark greeted her pleasantly when she came somewhat

abruptly to him, where he was directing a squad of men at work making some repairs in the picketing of the fort. He did not observe her excitement until she began to speak, and then it was noticeable only and not very strongly in her tone. She forgot to speak English and her French was Greek to him. "'I am glad to see you, mademoiselle,' he said rather inconsequently, lifting his hat and bowing with rough grace while he extended his right hand cordially. "'You have something to say to me? Come with me to my office. She barely touched his fingers. Yes, I have something to say to you. I can tell it here, she said, speaking English now with softest Creole accent. I wanted. I came to. It was not so easy as she had imagined it would

be to utter what she had in mind. Clark's steadfast, inscrutable eyes, kindly, y' not altogether sympathetic, met her own and beat them down. Her voice failed. He offered her his arm and gravely said, We will go to my office. I see that you have some important communication to make. There are too many ears here. Of a sudden, she felt like running home. Somehow the situation broke upon her

with a most embarrassing effect. She did not take Clark's arm and she began to tremble. He appeared unconscious of this and probably was, for his mind had a fine tangle of great schemes in it just then. But he turned toward his office and bidding her follow him walked away in that direction. She was helpless. Not the slightest trace of her usual brilliant self-assertion was at her command.

Saving the squad of men sawing and hacking, digging and hammering, the fort appeared as deserted as her mind. She stood gazing after Clark. He did not look back, but strode right on. If she would speak with him, she must follow. It was a surprise to her, for herefore she had always had her own way, even if she found it necessary to use force. and where was Beverly? Where was the garrison? Colonel Clark did not seem to be at all concerned about the approach of the British, and yet those repairs. Perhaps he was making ready for a desperate resistance.

She did not move until he reached the door of his office where he stopped and stepped aside, as if to let her pass in first. He even lifted his hat, then looked a trifle surprise when he saw that she was not near him, frowned slightly, changed the frown to a smile and said, lifting his voice so that she felt a certain imperative meaning in it. Did I walk too vast for you? I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. He stood waiting for her as a father waits for a lagging, willful child. Come, please, he added, if you have something to say to me, my time just now is precious, I have a great deal to do.

She was not of a nature to retreat under fire, and yet the panic in her breast came very near mastering her will. Clark saw a look in her face which made him speak again. I assure you, mademoiselle, that you need not feel embarrassed. You can rely upon me, too. She made a gesture that interrupted him. At the same time, she almost ran toward him, gathering in breath as one does who is about to force out a desperately resisting and riotous thought.

The strong, grave man looked at her with a full sense of her fascination, and at the same time he felt a vague wish to get away from her, as if she were about to cast and welcome responsibility upon him. Where is Lieutenant Beverly? She demanded, now close to Clark, face to face and gazing straight into his eyes. I want to see him. Her tone suggested intense excitement.

She was trembling visibly. Clark's face changed its expression. He suddenly recalled to mind Alice's rapturous public greeting of Beverly on the day of the surrender. He was a cavalier, and it did not agree with his sense of high propriety for girls to kiss their lovers out in the open air before a gazing army. True enough, he himself had been hoodwinked by Alice's beauty and boldness in the matter of long hair.

He confessed this to himself mentally, which may have strengthened his present disapproval of her personal inquiry about Beverly. At all events, he thought she ought not to be coming into the stockade on such an errand. Lieutenant Beverly is absent acting under my orders, he said with perfect respectfulness, yet in a tone suggesting military finality. He meant to set an indefinite yet effective rebuke in his words. Absent, she echoed. Gone.

You sent him away to be killed? You had no right, you... Miss Rousillon, said Clark, becoming almost stern. You had better go home and stay there. Young girls oughtn't to run around hunting men in places like this. His blunt severity of speech was accompanied by a slight frown and a gesture of impatience. Alice's face blazed red

to the roots of her sunny hair. The color ebbed, giving place to a pallor like death. She began to tremble, and her lips quivered pitifully, but she braced herself and tried to force back the choking sensation in her throat.

You must not misconstrue my words, Clark quickly added. I simply mean that men will not rightly understand you. They will form impressions very harmful to you. Even Lieutenant Beverly might not see you in the right light.

What? What do you mean? She gasped, shrinking from him, a burning spot reappearing under the dimpled skin of each cheek. Pray, miss, do not get excited. There is nothing to make you cry. He saw tears shining in her eyes. Beverly is not in the slightest danger. All will be well and he'll come back in a few days.

The expedition will be but a pleasure trip. Now you go home. and Beverly is amply able to take care of himself. And let me tell you, if you expect a good man to have great confidence in you, stay home and let him hunt you up instead of you hunting him. A man likes that better. It would be impossible to describe Alice's feelings

as they just then rose like a whirling storm in her heart. She was humiliated, she was indignant, she was abashed. She wanted to break forth with a tempest of denial, self-vindication, resentment. She wanted to cry with her face hidden in her hands. What she did was to stand helplessly gazing at Clark with two or three

bright tears on either cheek, her hands clenched, her eyes flashing. She was going to say some wild thing, but she did not. Her voice lodged fast in her throat. She moved her lips, unable to make a sound. Two of Clark's officers relieved the situation

by coming up to get orders about some matter town government, and Alice scarcely knew how she made her way home. Every vein in her body was humming like a bee when she entered the house and flung herself into a chair. She heard Madame Rousillon and Father Beret chatting in the kitchen, whence came a fragrance of broiling buffalo steak be sprinkled with garlic. It was Father Beret's favorite dish, wherefore his tongue ran freely, almost as freely as that of his hostess, and when he heard Alice come in he called gaily to her through the kitchen door. "'Come here, my

"'and lend us old folks your appetite. "'Nus have a tranche at the Bordolese.' "'I am not hungry,' she managed to say. "'You can eat it without me.' The old man's quick ears caught the quaver of trouble in her voice "'much as she tried to hide it. "'A moment later he was standing beside her

"'with his hand on her head. "'What is the matter now, little one?' "'He tenderly demanded. "'Tell your old father.' she began to cry laying her face in her crossed arms the tears gushing her whole frame a quiver and heaving great sobs she seemed to shrink like a trodden flower it touched father beret deeply he suspected that beverly's departure might be the cause of her trouble but when presently she told him what had taken place in the fort he shook his head gravely and frowned colonel clark was right my daughter he said in a short silence and it is time for you to ponder well upon the significance of his words. You can't always be a willful, headstrong little girl,

running everywhere and doing just as you please. You have grown to be a woman in stature. You must be one in fact. You know I told you at first to be careful how you acted with. Father, dear old father, she cried, springing from her seat and throwing her arms around his neck. Have I appeared forward and unwomanly? "'Tell me, father, tell me. I did not mean to do anything.'

"'Quietly, my child, don't give way to excitement.' He gently put her from him and crossed himself, a habit of his when suddenly perplexed, then added, "'You have done no evil, but there are proprieties which a young woman must not overstep. You are impulsive, too impulsive, and it will not do to let a young man see that you—that you—' father i understand she interrupted and her face grew very pale madame rousillon came to the door flushed with stooping over the fire and announced that the stake was ready bring the wine alice she added a bottle of bordeaux she stood for a breath or two her red hands on her hips looking first at father bery then at alice quarrelling again about the romances she inquired she's been at it again she's found a man again? Yes, said Father Beret with a queer, dry smile. More romance. Yes, she's been at it again. Now fetch the Bordeaux, little one. The following days were cycles of torture to Alice.

She groveled in the shadow of a great dread. It seemed to her that Beverly could not love her, could not help looking upon her as a poor, wild, foolish girl, unworthy of consideration. She magnified her faults and crudities. She paraded before her inner vision her recent improprieties, as they had been disclosed to her, until she saw herself a sort of monstrosity at which all mankind was gazing with disgust. Life seemed dry and shriveled,

a mere jaundice shadow while her love for Beverly took on a new growth, luxuriant, all-embracing, uncontrollable. The ferment of spirit going on in her breast was the inevitable process of self-recognition, which follows the terrible unfolding of the passion flower, in a nature almost absolutely simple and unsophisticated. Vincennes held its breath while waiting for news from Helm's expedition.

Every day had its nimble yet wholly imaginary account of what had happened, skipping from mouth to mouth and from cabin to cabin. The French folk ran hither and thither in the persistent rain industriously improving the dramatic interest of each groundless report. Alice's disturbed imagination reveled in the kaleidoscopic terrors conjured up by these swift changes of the form and color of the stories from

the front, all of them more or less tragic. Today, the party is reported as having been surprised and massacred to a man. Tomorrow, there had been a great fight, many killed, the result in doubt. Next day, the British are defeated, and so on.

The volatile spirit of the Creoles fairly surpassed itself in ringing the changes on stirring rumors. Alice scarcely left the house during the whole period of excitement and suspense. Like a wounded bird, she withdrew herself from the light and noisy chatter of her friends, seeking only solitude and crepuscular nooks in which to suffer silently.

Jean brought her every picturesque bit of the ghastly gossip, thus heaping calls on the fire of her torture. But she did not grow pale and thin. Not a dimple fled from cheek or chin. Not a ray of saucy sweetness vanished from her eyes. her riot health was unalterable indeed the only change in her was a sudden ripening and mellowing of her beauty by which its colours its lines its subtle undercurrents of expression were spiritualized as if by some powerful clarifying process tremendous is the effect of a soul surprised by passion and brought hard up against an opposing force which dashes it back upon itself with a flare and explosion of self-revealment nor shall we ever be able to foretell just how smaller circumstance just how slight an exigency will suffice to bring on the great change the shifting of a smile to the gloom of a frown the snap of a string on the lute of our imagination just at the point when a rich melody is culminating the waving of a hand

a vanishing face. Any eclipse of tender, joyous expectation dashes a nameless sense of despair into the soul. And a young girl's soul? Who shall uncover its sacred depths of sensitiveness or analyze its capacity for suffering under such a stroke? On the fifth day of March, back came the victorious helm, having surrounded and captured seven boats, richly loaded with provisions and Dejean's whole force. Then again the little Creole, went wild with rejoicing.

Alice heard the news and the noise, but somehow there was no response in her heart. She dreaded to meet Beverly. Indeed, she did not expect him to come to her. Why should he? Monsieur Housillon, who had volunteered to accompany helm, arrived in a mood of unlimited proportions so far as expressing self-admiration

and abounding delight was concerned. You would have been sure that he had done the whole deed single-handed and brought the flotilla and captives to town on his back. But Uncle Jason for once held his tongue, being too disgusted for words at not having been permitted to fire a single shot. What was the use of going to fight

and simply meeting and escorting down the river a lot of non-combatants? There is something inscrutably delightful about a girl's way of thinking one thing and doing another. Proversity, thy name is maidenhood. And maidenhood, thy name is delicious,

in consequence. When Alice heard that Beverly had come back, safe, victorious to be greeted as one of the heroes of an important adventure, she immediately ran to her room, frightened and full of vague, shadowy dread to hide from him, yet feeling sure that he would not come.

Moreover, she busied herself with a preposterous task of putting on her most attractive gown, the buff brocade which she wore that evening at the River House. How long ago it seemed! When Beverly thought her the queenliest beauty in the world,

and she was putting it on so as to look her prettiest while hiding from him it is a toss-up where happiness will make its nest the palace the hut the great lady's garden the wild lass's bower skip here a light there the secret of it may never be told and love and beauty find lodgment by the same inexplicable route in the same extremes of circumstances the wind bloweth where it listeth finding many a matchless flower and many a ravishing fragrance in the wildest nooks of the world no sooner did beverly land at the little wharf than rushing to his quarters he made a hasty exchange of water-soaked apparel for something more comfortable and then bolted in the direction of rousillon place now alice knew by the beating of her heart that he was coming in spite of all she could do trying to hold on hard and fast to her doubt and gloom a tide of rich sweetness began to course through her heart and break in splendid expectation from her eyes as they looked through the little unglazed window toward the fort, nor had she long to wait. He came up the narrow wet street striding like a tall actor in the height of a melodrama, his powerful figure erect as an Indian's, and his face glowing with the joy of a genuine, impatient lover who is proud of himself because of the image he bears in his heart. When Alice flung wide the door, which was before Beverly could cross the veranda,

she had quite forgotten how she had gowned and bedecked herself, and so without a trace of self-conscious she flashed upon him a full-blown flower, to his eyes the loveliest that ever opened under heaven. Gaspar Rousillon, still overflowing with the importance of his part in the capture of Dejean, came puffing homeward just in time to see a man at the door holding Alice a tiptoe in his arms. Zeeve! He cried as he pushed open the little front gate of the yard. En voila, see, vogue la galare. The two forms disappeared within the house as if moved by his roaring voice. The letter to Beverly from his father was somewhat disturbing.

It bore the tidings of his mother's failing health. This made it easier for the young lieutenant to accept from Clark the assignment to duty with a party detailed for the purpose of escorting Hamilton, Farnsworth, and several other British officers to Williamsburg, Virginia. It also gave him a most powerful assistance in persuading Alice to marry him at once, so as to go with him on what proved to be a delightful wedding journey through the great wilderness to the old dominion. Springs Verger burst abroad on the sunny hills

as they slowly went their way. The mating birds sang in every blooming break and grove by which they passed, and in their joyous hearts they heard the bubbling of love's eternal fountain. 23. And so, it ended. Our story must end here because at this point its current flows away forever from old Vincennes, and it was only of the post on the Wabash that we set

to make a record. What befell Alice and Beverly after they went to Virginia we could go on to tell, but that would be another story. Suffice it to say, they lived happily ever after, or at least somewhat beyond three score and ten, and left behind them a good name and numerous descendants. How Alice found out her family in Virginia we are not informed, but after a lapse of some years from the date of her marriage, there appears in one of her letters a reference to an estate inherited from her Tarleton ancestors, and her name appears in old record signed in full, Alice Charlton Beverly. A descendant of her still treasures the Locket with its broken miniature and battered crest which won Beverly's life from Longhair the Savage. Beside it, as carefully

guarded, is the Indian charm stone that stopped Hamilton's bullet over Alice's heart. The rapiers have somehow disappeared, and there is a tradition in the Tarleton family that they were given by Alice to Gaspar Rousillon, who, after Madame Roussion's death in 1790, went to New Orleans, where he stayed a year or two before embarking for France, whither he took with him the beautiful pair of Collie Schmard and Jean the hunchback. Uncle Jazon lived in Vincennes many years after the war was over, but he died at Natchez, Mississippi when 93 years old. He said, with almost his last breath, that he couldn't shoot very well, even in his best days, but that he had upon various occasions, just kind of happened to hit an engine in the left eye.

They used to tell his story as late as General Harrison's stay in Vaisen, about how Uncle Jazon buried his collection of scalps with great funeral solemnity, as his part of the celebration of peace and independence about the year 1784. Good old father Beret died suddenly soon after Alice's marriage and departure for Virginia. He was found lying face downward on the floor of his cabin. Near him, on a smooth part of a puncheon were the mildewed fragments of a letter which he had been arranging as if to read its contents.

Doubtless, it was the same letter brought to him by René de Rondville as recorded in an early chapter of our story. The fragments were gathered up and buried with him. His dust lies under the present church of St. Xavier, the dust of as noble a man and as true a priest has ever sacrificed himself for the good of humanity. In after years, Simon Kenton, visited Beverly and Alice in their Virginia home. To his dying day, he was fond of describing

their happy and hospitable welcome and the luxuries to which they introduced him. They lived in a stately white mansion on a hill overlooking a vast tobacco plantation, where hundreds of Negro slaves worked and sang by day and frolic by night. Their oldest child was named Fitzhue Gespal. Kenton died in 1836. There remains but one little fact worth recording before we close the book. In the year 1800 on the 4th of July, a certain leading French family of Vincennes held a patriotic reunion

during which a little old flag was produced and its story told. Someone happily proposed that it be sent to Mrs. Alice Tarleton Beverly with a letter of explanation and in profound recognition of the glorious circumstances which made it the true flag of the great Northwest. And so it happened that Alice's little

banner went to Virginia and is still preserved in an old mansion not very far from Monticello. But it seems likely that the Wabash Valley will soon again possess the precious relic. The marriage engagement of Miss Alice Beverly to a young Indiana officer distinguished for his patriotism and military ardor has been announced at the old Beverly homestead on the hill and the high contracting parties have planned that the wedding ceremony shall take place under the famous little flag on the anniversary of Clark's capture of post-Ves-en. When the bride shall be brought to her. her new home on the banks of the Wabash, the flag will come with her. But Uncle

Jazon will not be on hand with this false set or shout. Vive la Banner of Alice Rossion! Viv, George Vassington! End of chapters 22 and 23. End of Alice of Alde Vesen by Maurice Thompson.