The Crossing
by Winston Churchill
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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But Mr. Jackson swept the room with his eyes and
then glared at the landlord so that he gave back.

``Where's my man?'' he demanded.

``Your man, Mr. Jackson?'' stammered the host.

``Great Jehovah!'' cried Mr. Jackson, ``I believe he's
afraid to race. He had a horse that could show heels to
my Nancy, did he? And he's gone, you say?''

A light seemed to dawn on the landlord's countenance.

``God bless ye, Mr. Jackson!'' he cried, ``ye don't mean
that young daredevil that was with Sevier?''

``With Sevier?'' says Jackson.

``Ay,'' says the landlord; ``he's been a-fightin with
Sevier all summer, and I reckon he ain't afeard of nothin'
any more than you. Wait--his name was Temple--
Nick Temple, they called him.''

``Nick Temple!'' I cried, starting forward.

``Where's he gone?'' said Mr. Jackson. ``He was
going to bet me a six-forty he has at Nashboro that his
horse could beat mine on the Greasy Cove track. Where's
he gone?''

``Gone!'' said the landlord, apologetically, ``Nollichucky
Jack and his boys left town an hour ago.''

``Is he a man of honor or isn't he?'' said Mr. Jackson,
fiercely.

``Lord, sir, I only seen him once, but I'd stake my oath
on it.

``Do you mean to say Mr. Temple has been here--
Nicholas Temple?'' I said.

The bewildered landlord turned towards me helplessly.

``Who the devil are you, sir?'' cried Mr. Jackson.

``Tell me what this Mr. Temple was like,'' said I.

The landlord's face lighted up.

``Faith, a thoroughbred hoss,'' says he; ``sech nostrils,
and sech a gray eye with the devil in it fer go--yellow
ha'r, and ez tall ez Mr. Jackson heah.''

``And you say he's gone off again with Sevier?''

``They rud into town'' (he lowered his voice, for the
room was filling), ``snapped their fingers at Tipton and
his warrant, and rud out ag'in. My God, but that was
like Nollichucky Jack. Say, stranger, when your Mr.
Temple smiled--''

``He is the man!'' I cried; ``tell me where to find him.''

Mr. Jackson, who had been divided between astonishment
and impatience and anger, burst out again.

``What the devil do you mean by interfering with my
business, sir?

``Because it is my business too,'' I answered, quite as
testily; ``my claim on Mr. Temple is greater than yours.''

``By Jehovah!'' cried Jackson, ``come outside, sir,
come outside!''

The landlord backed away, and the men in the tavern
began to press around us expectantly.

``Gallop into him, Andy!'' cried one.

``Don't let him git near no fences, stranger,'' said
another.

Mr. Jackson turned on this man with such truculence
that he edged away to the rear of the room.

``Step out, sir,'' said Mr. Jackson, starting for the door
before I could reply. I followed perforce, not without
misgivings, the crowd pushing eagerly after. Before
we reached the dusty street Jackson began pulling off his
coat. In a trice the shouting onlookers had made a ring,
and we stood facing each other, he in his shirt-sleeves.

``We'll fight fair,'' said he, his lips wetting.

``Very good,'' said I, ``if you are still accustomed to
this hasty manner. You have not asked my name, my
standing, nor my reasons for wanting Mr. Temple.''

I know not whether it was what I said that made him
stare, or how I said it.

``Pistols, if you like,'' said he.

``No,'' said I; ``I am in a hurry to find Mr. Temple. I
fought you this way once, and it's quicker.''

``You fought me this way once?'' he repeated. The
noise of the crowd was hushed, and they drew nearer to
hear.

``Come, Mr. Jackson,'' said I, ``you are a lawyer and a
gentleman, and so am I. I do not care to be beaten to a
pulp, but I am not afraid of you. And I am in a hurry.
If you will step back into the tavern, I will explain to you
my reasons for wishing to get to Mr. Temple.''

Mr. Jackson stared at me the more.

``By the eternal,'' said he, ``you are a cool man. Give
me my coat,'' he shouted to the bystanders, and they
helped him on with it. ``Now,'' said he, as they made to
follow him, ``keep back. I would talk to this gentleman.
By the heavens,'' he cried, when he had gained the room,
``I believe you are not afraid of me. I saw it in your
eyes.''

Then I laughed.

``Mr. Jackson,'' said I, ``doubtless you do not remember
a homeless boy named David whom you took to your
uncle's house in the Waxhaws--''

``I do,'' he exclaimed, ``as I live I do. Why, we slept
together.''

``And you stumped your toe getting into bed and
swore,'' said I.

At that he laughed so heartily that the landlord came
running across the room.

``And we fought together at the Old Fields School.
Are you that boy?'' and he scanned me again. ``By God,
I believe you are.''  Suddenly his face clouded once more.

``But what about Temple?'' said he.

``Ah,'' I answered, ``I come to that quickly. Mr.
Temple is my cousin. After I left your uncle's house
my father took me to Charlestown.''

``Is he a Charlestown Temple?'' demanded Mr.
Jackson. ``For I spent some time gambling and horse-
racing with the gentry there, and I know many of them.
I was a wild lad'' (I repeat his exact words), ``and I ran up
a bill in Charlestown that would have filled a folio volume.
Faith, all I had left me was the clothes on my back and a
good horse. I made up my mind one night that if I
could pay my debts and get out of Charlestown I would
go into the back country and study law and sober down.
There was a Mr. Braiden in the ordinary who staked me
two hundred dollars at rattle-and-snap against my horse.
Gad, sir, that was providence. I won. I left Charlestown
with honor, I studied law at Salisbury in North Carolina,
and I have come here to practise it.''

``You seem to have the talent,'' said I, smiling at the
remembrance of the Hump Gibson incident.

``That is my history in a nutshell,'' said Mr. Jackson.

``And now,'' he added, ``since you are Mr. Temple's cousin
and friend and an old acquaintance of mine to boot, I will
tell you where I think he is.''

``Where is that?'' I asked eagerly.

``I'll stake a cowbell that Sevier will stop at the Widow
Brown's,'' he replied. ``I'll put you on the road. But
mind you, you are to tell Mr. Temple that he is to come
back here and race me at Greasy Cove.''

``I'll warrant him to come,'' said I.

Whereupon we left the inn together, more amicably
than before. Mr. Jackson had a thoroughbred horse
near by that was a pleasure to see, and my admiration of
his mount seemed to set me as firmly in Mr. Jackson's
esteem again as that gentleman himself sat in the saddle.
He was as good as his word, rode out with me some distance
on the road, and reminded me at the last that Nick
was to race him.

CHAPTER VI

THE WIDOW BROWN'S

It was not to my credit that I should have lost the
trail, after Mr. Jackson put me straight. But the night
was dark, the country unknown to me, and heavily
wooded and mountainous. In addition to these things
my mind ran like fire. My thoughts sometimes flew back
to the wondrous summer evening when I trod the
Nollichucky trace with Tom and Polly Ann, when I first
looked down upon the log palace of that prince of the
border, John Sevier. Well I remembered him, broad-
shouldered, handsome, gay, a courtier in buckskin.
Small wonder he was idolized by the Watauga settlers,
that he had been their leader in the struggle of Franklin
for liberty. And small wonder that Nick Temple should
be in his following.

Nick! My mind was in a torment concerning him.
What of his mother? Should I speak of having seen her?
I went blindly through the woods for hours after the
night fell, my horse stumbling and weary, until at length
I came to a lonely clearing on the mountain side, and a
fierce pack of dogs dashed barking at my horse's heels.
There was a dark cabin ahead, indistinct in the starlight,
and there I knocked until a gruff voice answered me and
a tousled man came to the door. Yes, I had missed the
trail. He shook his head when I asked for the Widow
Brown's, and bade me share his bed for the night. No, I
would go on, I was used to the backwoods. Thereupon
he thawed a little, kicked the dogs, and pointed to where
the mountain dipped against the star-studded sky. There
was a trail there which led direct to the Widow Brown's,
if I could follow it. So I left him.

Once the fear had settled deeply of missing Nick at the
Widow Brown's, I put my mind on my journey, and
thanks to my early training I was able to keep the trail.
It doubled around the spurs, forded stony brooks in diagonals,
and often in the darkness of the mountain forest I
had to feel for the blazes on the trees. There was no
making time. I gained the notch with the small hours of
the morning, started on with the descent, crisscrossing,
following a stream here and a stream there, until at length
the song of the higher waters ceased and I knew that I
was in the valley. Suddenly there was no crown-cover
over my head. I had gained the road once more, and I
followed it hopefully, avoiding the stumps and the deep
wagon ruts where the ground was spongy.

The morning light revealed a milky mist through which
the trees showed like phantoms. Then there came stains
upon the mist of royal purple, of scarlet, of yellow like a
mandarin's robe, peeps of deep blue fading into azure as
the mist lifted. The fiery eye of the sun was cocked
over the crest, and beyond me I saw a house with its logs
all golden brown in the level rays, the withered cornstalks
orange among the blackened stumps. My horse stopped
of his own will at the edge of the clearing. A cock crew,
a lean hound prostrate on the porch of the house rose to
his haunches, sniffed, growled, leaped down, and ran to
the road and sniffed again. I listened, startled, and
made sure of the distant ring of many hoofs. And yet I
stayed there, irresolute. Could it be Tipton and his men
riding from Jonesboro to capture Sevier? The hoof-
beats grew louder, and then the hound in the road gave
tongue to the short, sharp bark that is the call to arms.
Other dogs, hitherto unseen, took up the cry, and turning
in my saddle I saw a body of men riding hard at me
through the alley in the forest. At their head, on a
heavy, strong-legged horse, was one who might have
stood for the figure of turbulence, and I made no doubt
that this was Colonel Tipton himself,--Colonel Tipton,
once secessionist, now champion of the Old North State
and arch-enemy of John Sevier. At sight of me he reined
up so violently that his horse went back on his haunches,
and the men behind were near overriding him.

``Look out, boys,'' he shouted, with a fierce oath,
``they've got guards out!''  He flung back one hand to
his holster for a pistol, while the other reached for the
powder flask at his belt. He primed the pan, and, seeing
me immovable, set his horse forward at an amble, his pistol
at the cock.

``Who in hell are you?'' he cried.

``A traveller from Virginia,'' I answered.

``And what are you doing here?'' he demanded, with
another oath.

``I have just this moment come here,'' said I, as calmly
as I might. ``I lost the trail in the darkness.''

He glared at me, purpling, perplexed.

``Is Sevier there?'' said he, pointing at the house.

``I don't know,'' said I.

Tipton turned to his men, who were listening.

``Surround the house,'' he cried, ``and watch this
fellow.''

I rode on perforce towards the house with Tipton and
three others, while his men scattered over the corn-field
and cursed the dogs. And then we saw in the open door
the figure of a woman shading her eyes with her hand.
We pulled up, five of us, before the porch in front of her.

``Good morning, Mrs. Brown,'' said Tipton, gruffly.

``Good morning, Colonel,'' answered the widow.

Tipton leaped from his horse, flung the bridle to a
companion, and put his foot on the edge of the porch to
mount. Then a strange thing happened. The lady
turned deftly, seized a chair from within, and pulled it
across the threshold. She sat herself down firmly, an
expression on her face which hinted that the late lamented
Mr. Brown had been a dominated man. Colonel Tipton
stopped, staggering from the very impetus of his charge,
and gazed at her blankly.

``I have come for Colonel Sevier,'' he blurted. And
then, his anger rising, ``I will have no trifling, ma'am.
He is in this house.''

``La! you don't tell me,'' answered the widow, in a tone
that was wholly conversational.

``He is in this house,'' shouted the Colonel.

``I reckon you've guessed wrong, Colonel,'' said the
widow.

There was an awkward pause until Tipton heard a titter
behind him. Then his wrath exploded.

``I have a warrant against the scoundrel for high
treason,'' he cried, ``and, by God, I will search the house
and serve it.''

Still the widow sat tight. The Rock of Ages was
neither more movable nor calmer than she.

``Surely, Colonel, you would not invade the house of an
unprotected female.''

The Colonel, evidently with a great effort, throttled his
wrath for the moment. His new tone was apologetic but
firm.

``I regret to have to do so, ma'am,'' said he, ``but both
sexes are equal before the law.''

``The law!'' repeated the widow, seemingly tickled
at the word. She smiled indulgently at the Colonel.
``What a pity, Mr. Tipton, that the law compels you to
arrest such a good friend of yours as Colonel Sevier.
What self-sacrifice, Colonel Tipton! What nobility!''

There was a second titter behind him, whereat he swung
round quickly, and the crimson veins in his face looked
as if they must burst. He saw me with my hand over
my mouth.

``You warned him, damn you!'' he shouted, and turning
again leaped to the porch and tried to squeeze past
the widow into the house.

``How dare you, sir?'' she shrieked, giving him a
vigorous push backwards. The four of us, his three men
and myself, laughed outright. Tipton's rage leaped its
bounds. He returned to the attack again and again, and
yet at the crucial moment his courage would fail him and
he would let the widow thrust him back. Suddenly I
became aware that there were two new spectators of this
comedy. I started and looked again, and was near to
crying out at sight of one of them. The others did cry
out, but Tipton paid no heed.

Ten years had made his figure more portly, but I knew
at once the man in the well-fitting hunting shirt, with the
long hair flowing to his shoulders, with the keen, dark
face and courtly bearing and humorous eyes. Yes, humorous
even now, for he stood, smiling at this comedy played
by his enemy, unmindful of his peril. The widow saw
him before Tipton did, so intent was he on the struggle.

``Enough!'' she cried, ``enough, John Tipton!''
Tipton drew back involuntarily, and a smile broadened
on the widow's face. ``Shame on you for doubting a lady's
word! Allow me to present to you--Colonel Sevier.''

Tipton turned, stared as a man might who sees a ghost,
and broke into such profanity as I have seldom heard.

``By the eternal God, John Sevier,'' he shouted, ``I'll
hang you to the nearest tree!''

Colonel Sevier merely made a little ironical bow and
looked at the gentleman beside him.

``I have surrendered to Colonel Love,'' he said.

Tipton snatched from his belt the pistol which he might
have used on me, and there flashed through my head the
thought that some powder might yet be held in its pan.
We cried out, all of us, his men, the widow, and myself,--
all save Sevier, who stood quietly, smiling. Suddenly,
while we waited for murder, a tall figure shot out of the
door past the widow, the pistol flew out of Tipton's hand,
and Tipton swung about with something like a bellow, to
face Mr. Nicholas Temple.

Well I knew him! And oddly enough at that time
Riddle's words of long ago came to me, ``God help the
woman you love or the man you fight.''  How shall I
describe him? He was thin even to seeming frailness,--
yet it was the frailness of the race-horse. The golden
hair, sun-tanned, awry across his forehead, the face the
same thin and finely cut face of the boy. The gray eyes
held an anger that did not blaze; it was far more dangerous
than that. Colonel John Tipton looked, and as I live
he recoiled.

``If you touch him, I'll kill you,'' said Mr. Temple.
Nor did he say it angrily. I marked for the first time
that he held a pistol in his slim fingers. What Tipton
might have done when he swung to his new bearings is
mere conjecture, for Colonel Sevier himself stepped up on
the porch, laid his hand on Temple's arm, and spoke to him
in a low tone. What he said we didn't hear. The
astonishing thing was that neither of them for the moment
paid any attention to the infuriated man beside them. I
saw Nick's expression change. He smiled,--the smile
the landlord had described, the smile that made men and
women willing to die for him. After that Colonel Sevier
stooped down and picked up the pistol from the floor of
the porch and handed it with a bow to Tipton, butt first.
Tipton took it, seemingly without knowing why, and at
that instant a negro boy came around the house, leading a
horse. Sevier mounted it without a protest from any one.

``I am ready to go with you, gentlemen,'' he said.

Colonel Tipton slipped his pistol back into his belt,
stepped down from the porch, and leaped into his saddle,
and he and his men rode off into the stump-lined alley in
the forest that was called a road. Nick stood beside the
widow, staring after them until they had disappeared.

``My horse, boy!'' he shouted to the gaping negro, who
vanished on the errand.

``What will you do, Mr. Temple?'' asked the widow.

``Rescue him, ma'am,'' cried Nick, beginning to pace up
and down. ``I'll ride to Turner's. Cozby and Evans
are there, and before night we shall have made Jonesboro
too hot to hold Tipton and his cutthroats.''

``La, Mr. Temple,'' said the widow, with unfeigned
admiration, ``I never saw the like of you. But I know
John Tipton, and he'll have Colonel Sevier started for
North Carolina before our boys can get to Jonesboro.''

``Then we'll follow,'' says Nick, beginning to pace
again. Suddenly, at a cry from the widow, he stopped
and stared at me, a light in his eye like a point of steel.
His hand slipped to his waist.

``A spy,'' he said, and turned and smiled at the lady,
who was watching him with a kind of fascination; ``but
damnably cool,'' he continued, looking at me. ``I wonder
if he thinks to outride me on that beast? Look you,
sir,'' he cried, as Mrs. Brown's negro came back struggling
with a deep-ribbed, high-crested chestnut that was
making half circles on his hind legs, ``I'll give you to the
edge of the woods, and lay you a six-forty against a pair
of moccasins that you never get back to Tipton.''

``God forbid that I ever do,'' I answered fervently.

``What,'' he exclaimed, ``and you here with him on
this sneak's errand!''

``I am here with him on no errand,'' said I. ``He and his
crew came on me a quarter of an hour since at the edge
of the clearing. Mr. Temple, I am here to find you, and
to save time I will ride with you.''

``Egad, you'll have to ride like the devil then,'' said
he, and he stooped and snatched the widow's hand and
kissed it with a daring gallantry that I had thought to
find in him. He raised his eyes to hers.

``Good-by, Mr. Temple, she said,--there was a tremor
in her voice,--``and may you save our Jack!''

He snatched the bridle from the boy, and with one
leap he was on the rearing, wheeling horse. ``Come on,''
he cried to me, and, waving his hat at the lady on the
porch, he started off with a gallop up the trail in the
opposite direction from that which Tipton's men had
taken.

All that I saw of Mr. Nicholas Temple on that ride to
Turner's was his back, and presently I lost sight of that.
In truth, I never got to Turner's at all, for I met him
coming back at the wind's pace, a huge, swarthy, determined
man at his side and four others spurring after, the
spume dripping from the horses' mouths. They did not
so much as look at me as they passed, and there was
nothing left for me to do but to turn my tired beast and
follow at any pace I could make towards Jonesboro.

It was late in the afternoon before I reached the
town, the town set down among the hills like a caldron
boiling over with the wrath of Franklin. The news of
the capture of their beloved Sevier had flown through the
mountains like seeds on the autumn wind, and from north,
south, east, and west the faithful were coming in, cursing
Tipton and Carolina as they rode.

I tethered my tired beast at the first picket, and was no
sooner on my feet than I was caught in the hurrying
stream of the crowd and fairly pushed and beaten towards
the court-house. Around it a thousand furious men were
packed. I heard cheering, hoarse and fierce cries, threats
and imprecations, and I knew that they were listening to
oratory. I was suddenly shot around the corner of a
house, saw the orator himself, and gasped.

It was Nicholas Temple. There was something awe-
impelling in the tall, slim, boyish figure that towered above
the crowd, in the finely wrought, passionate face, in the
voice charged with such an anger as is given to few men.

``What has North Carolina done for Franklin?'' he
cried. ``Protected her? No. Repudiated her? Yes.
You gave her to the Confederacy for a war debt, and the
Confederacy flung her back. You shook yourselves free
from Carolina's tyranny, and traitors betrayed you again.
And now they have betrayed your leader. Will you
avenge him, or will you sit down like cowards while they
hang him for treason?''

His voice was drowned, but he stood immovable with
arms folded until there was silence again.

``Will you rescue him?'' he cried, and the roar rose
again. ``Will you avenge him? By to-morrow we shall
have two thousand here. Invade North Carolina, humble
her, bring her to her knees, and avenge John Sevier!''

Pandemonium reigned. Hats were flung in the air,
rifles fired, shouts and curses rose and blended into one
terrifying note. Gradually, in the midst of this mad
uproar, the crowd became aware that another man was
standing upon the stump from which Nicholas Temple
had leaped. ``Cozby!'' some one yelled, ``Cozby!''  The
cry was taken up. ``Huzzay for Cozby! He'll lead us
into Caroliny.''  He was the huge, swarthy man I had
seen riding hard with Nick that morning. A sculptor
might have chosen his face and frame for a type of the
iron-handed leader of pioneers. Will was supreme in the
great features,--inflexible, indomitable will. His hunting
shirt was open across his great chest, his black hair
fell to his shoulders, and he stood with a compelling hand
raised for silence. And when he spoke, slowly, resonantly,
men fell back before his words.

``I admire Mr. Temple's courage, and above all his
loyalty to our beloved General,'' said Major Cozby. ``But
Mr. Temple is young, and the heated counsels of youth
must not prevail. My friends, in order to save Jack
Sevier we must be moderate.''

His voice, strong as it was, was lost. ``To hell with
moderation!'' they shouted. ``Down with North Carolina!
We'll fight her!''

He got silence again by the magnetic strength he had
in him.

``Very good,'' he said, ``but get your General first. If
we lead you across the mountains now, his blood will be
upon your heads. No man is a better friend to Jack
Sevier than I. Leave his rescue to me, and I will get
him for you.''  He paused, and they were stilled perforce.
``I will get him for you,'' he repeated slowly, ``or North
Carolina will pay for the burial of James Cozby.''

There was an instant when they might have swung
either way.

``How will ye do it?'' came in a thin, piping voice from
somewhere near the stump. It may have been this that
turned their minds. Others took up the question,
``How will ye do it, Major Cozby?''

``I don't know,'' cried the Major, ``I don't know. And
if I did know, I wouldn't tell you. But I will get
Nollichucky Jack if I have to burn Morganton and rake the
General out of the cinders!''

Five hundred hands flew up, five hundred voices cried,
``I'm with ye, Major Cozby!''  But the Major only shook
his head and smiled. What he said was lost in the roar.
Fighting my way forward, I saw him get down from the
stump, put his hand kindly on Nick's shoulder, and lead
him into the court-house. They were followed by a score
of others, and the door was shut behind them.

It was then I bethought myself of the letter to Mr.
Wright, and I sought for some one who would listen to
my questions as to his whereabouts. At length the
man himself was pointed out to me, haranguing an excited
crowd of partisans in front of his own gate. Some twenty
minutes must have passed before I could get any word
with him. He was a vigorous little man, with black eyes
like buttons, he wore brown homespun and white stockings,
and his hair was clubbed. When he had yielded
the ground to another orator, I handed him the letter.
He drew me aside, read it on the spot, and became all
hospitality at once. The town was full, and though he
had several friends staying in his house I should join
them. Was my horse fed? Dinner had been forgotten
that day, but would I enter and partake? In short, I
found myself suddenly provided for, and I lost no time
in getting my weary mount into Mr. Wright's little
stable. And then I sat down, with several other gentlemen,
at Mr. Wright's board, where there was much guessing
as to Major Cozby's plan.

``No other man west of the mountains could have
calmed that crowd after that young daredevil Temple had
stirred them up,'' declared Mr. Wright.

I ventured to say that I had business with Mr. Temple.

``Faith, then, I will invite him here,'' said my host.
``But I warn you, Mr. Ritchie, that he is a trigger set on
the hair. If he does not fancy you, he may quarrel with
you and shoot you. And he is in no temper to be trifled
with to-day.''

``I am not an easy person to quarrel with,'' I answered.

``To look at you, I shouldn't say that you were,'' said
he. ``We are going to the court-house, and I will see if
I can get a word with the young Hotspur and send him
to you. Do you wait here.''

I waited on the porch as the day waned. The tumult
of the place had died down, for men were gathering in
the houses to discuss and conjecture. And presently,
sauntering along the street in a careless fashion, his spurs
trailing in the dust, came Nicholas Temple. He stopped
before the house and stared at me with a fine insolence,
and I wondered whether I myself had not been too hasty
in reclaiming him. A greeting died on my lips.

``Well, sir,'' he said, ``so you are the gentleman who
has been dogging me all day.''

``I dog no one, Mr. Temple,'' I replied bitterly.

``We'll not quibble about words,'' said he. ``Would it
be impertinent to ask your business--and perhaps your
name?''

``Did not Mr. Wright give you my name?'' I exclaimed.

``He might have mentioned it, I did not hear. Is it
of such importance?''

At that I lost my temper entirely.

``It may be, and it may not,'' I retorted. ``I am David
Ritchie.''

He changed before my eyes as he stared at me, and
then, ere I knew it, he had me by both arms, crying
out:--

``David Ritchie! My Davy--who ran away from me
--and we were going to Kentucky together. Oh, I have
never forgiven you,''--the smile that there was no
resisting belied his words as he put his face close to mine
--``I never will forgive you. I might have known you--
you've grown, but I vow you're still an old man,--Davy,
you renegade. And where the devil did you run to?''

``Kentucky,'' I said, laughing.

``Oh, you traitor--and I trusted you. I loved you,
Davy. Do you remember how I clung to you in my
sleep? And when I woke up, the world was black. I
followed your trail down the drive and to the cross-
roads--''

``It was not ingratitude, Nick,'' I said; ``you were all
I had in the world.''  And then I faltered, the sadness of
that far-off time coming over me in a flood, and the
remembrance of his generous sorrow for me.

``And how the devil did you track me to the Widow
Brown's?'' he demanded, releasing me.

``A Mr. Jackson had a shrewd notion you were there.
And by the way, he was in a fine temper because you had
skipped a race with him.''

``That sorrel-topped, lantern-headed Mr. Jackson?''
said Nick. ``He'll be killed in one of his fine tempers.
Damn a man who can't keep his temper. I'll race him, of
course. And where are you bound now, Davy?''

``For Louisville, in Kentucky, at the Falls of the Ohio.
It is a growing place, and a promising one for a young
man in the legal profession to begin life.''

``When do you leave?'' said he.

``To-morrow morning, Nick,'' said I. ``You wanted once
to go to Kentucky; why not come with me?''

His face clouded.

``I do not budge from this town,'' said he, ``I do not
budge until I hear that Jack Sevier is safe. Damn Cozby!
If he had given me my way, we should have been forty
miles from here by this. I'll tell you. Cozby is even
now picking five men to go to Morganton and steal Sevier,
and he puts me off with a kind word. He'll not have me,
he says.''

``He thinks you too hot. It needs discretion and an
old head,'' said I.

``Egad, then, I'll commend you to him,'' said Nick.

``Now,'' I said, ``it's time for you to tell me something
of yourself, and how you chanced to come into this
country.''

`` 'Twas Darnley's fault,'' said Nick.

``Darnley!'' I exclaimed; ``he whom you got into the
duel with--''  I stopped abruptly, with a sharp twinge of
remembrance that was like a pain in my side. 'Twas
Nick took up the name.

``With Harry Riddle.''  He spoke quietly, that was
the terrifying part of it. ``David, I've looked for that
man in Italy and France, I've scoured London for him,
and, by God, I'll find him before he dies. And when I
do find him I swear to you that there will be no such
thing as time wasted, or mercy.''

I shuddered. In all my life I had never known such a
moment of indecision. Should I tell him? My conscience
would give me no definite reply. The question
had haunted me all the night, and I had lost my way in
consequence, nor had the morning's ride from the Widow
Brown's sufficed to bring me to a decision. Of what use
to tell him? Would Riddle's death mend matters?
The woman loved him, that had been clear to me; yet,
by telling Nick what I knew I might induce him to desist
from his search, and if I did not tell, Nick might some day
run across the trail, follow it up, take Riddle's life, and
lose his own. The moment, made for confession as it
was, passed.

``They have ruined my life,'' said Nick. ``I curse him,
and I curse her.''

``Hold!'' I cried; ``she is your mother.''

``And therefore I curse her the more,'' he said. ``You
know what she is, you've tasted of her charity, and you
are my father's nephew. If you have been without
experience, I will tell you what she is. A common--''
I reached out and put my hand across his mouth.

``Silence!'' I cried; ``you shall say no such thing. And
have you not manhood enough to make your own life for
yourself?''

``Manhood!'' he repeated, and laughed. It was a laugh
that I did not like. ``They made a man of me, my
parents. My father played false with the Rebels and fled
to England for his reward. A year after he went I was
left alone at Temple Bow to the tender mercies of the
niggers. Mr. Mason came back and snatched what was
left of me. He was a good man; he saved me an annuity
out of the estate, he took me abroad after the war on a
grand tour, and died of a fever in Rome. I made my
way back to Charlestown, and there I learned to gamble,
to hold liquor like a gentleman, to run horses and fight
like a gentleman. We were speaking of Darnley,'' he
said.

``Yes, of Darnley,'' I repeated.

``The devil of a man,'' said Nick; ``do you remember
him, with the cracked voice and fat calves?''

At any other time I should have laughed at the recollection.

``Darnley turned Whig, became a Continental colonel,
and got a grant out here in the Cumberland country of
three thousand acres. And now I own it.''

``You own it!'' I exclaimed.

``Rattle-and-snap,'' said Nick; ``I played him for the
land at the ordinary one night, and won it. It is out here
near a place called Nashboro, where this wild, long-faced
Mr. Jackson says he is going soon. I crossed the mountains
to have a look at it, fell in with Nollichucky Jack, and
went off with him for a summer campaign. There's a man
for you, Davy,'' he cried, ``a man to follow through hell-
fire. If they touch a hair of his head we'll sack the State
of North Carolina from Morganton to the sea.''

``But the land?'' I asked.

``Oh, a fig for the land,'' answered Nick; ``as soon as
Nollichucky Jack is safe I'll follow you into Kentucky.''
He slapped me on the knee. ``Egad, Davy, it seems like
a fairy tale. We always said we were going to Kentucky,
didn't we? What is the name of the place you are to
startle with your learning and calm by your example?''

``Louisville,'' I answered, laughing, ``by the Falls of
the Ohio.''

``I shall turn up there when Jack Sevier is safe and I
have won some more land from Mr. Jackson. We'll have
a rare old time together, though I have no doubt you can
drink me under the table. Beware of these sober men.
Egad, Davy, you need only a woolsack to become a full-
fledged judge. And now tell me how fortune has buffeted
you.''

It was my second night without sleep, for we sat
burning candles in Mr. Wright's house until the dawn, making
up the time which we had lost away from each other.

CHAPTER VII

I MEET A HERO

When left to myself, I was wont to slide into the
commonplace; and where my own dull life intrudes to clog
the action I cut it down here and pare it away there until
I am merely explanatory, and not too much in evidence. I
rode out the Wilderness Trail, fell in with other travellers,
was welcomed by certain old familiar faces at Harrodstown,
and pressed on. I have a vivid recollection of a beloved,
vigorous figure swooping out of a cabin door and scattering
a brood of children right and left. ``Polly Ann!''
I said, and she halted, trembling.

``Tom,'' she cried, ``Tom, it's Davy come back, ``and
Tom himself flew out of the door, ramrod in one hand and
rifle in the other. Never shall I forget them as they
stood there, he grinning with sheer joy as of yore, and
she, with her hair flying and her blue gown snapping
in the wind, in a tremor between tears and laughter. I
leaped to the ground, and she hugged me in her arms as
though I had been a child, calling my name again and
again, and little Tom pulling at the skirts of my coat. I
caught the youngster by the collar.

``Polly Ann,'' said I, ``he's grown to what I was when
you picked me up, a foundling.''

``And now it's little Davy no more,'' she answered,
swept me a courtesy, and added, with a little quiver in
her voice, ``ye are a gentleman now.''

``My heart is still where it was,'' said I.

``Ay, ay,'' said Tom, ``I'm sure o' that, Davy.''

I was with them a fortnight in the familiar cabin,
and then I took up my journey northward, heavy at
leaving again, but promising to see them from time to
time. For Tom was often at the Falls when he went
a-scouting into the Illinois country. It was, as of old,
Polly Ann who ran the mill and was the real bread-
winner of the family.

Louisville was even then bursting with importance, and
as I rode into it, one bright November day, I remembered
the wilderness I had seen here not ten years gone
when I had marched hither with Captain Harrod's company
to join Clark on the island. It was even then a
thriving little town of log and clapboard houses and
schools and churches, and wise men were saying of it--
what Colonel Clark had long ago predicted--that it
would become the first city of commercial importance
in the district of Kentucky.

I do not mean to give you an account of my struggles
that winter to obtain a foothold in the law. The time
was a heyday for young barristers, and troubles in those
early days grew as plentifully in Kentucky as corn. In
short, I got a practice, for Colonel Clark was here to
help me, and, thanks to the men who had gone to
Kaskaskia and Vincennes, I had a fairly large acquaintance
in Kentucky. I hired rooms behind Mr. Crede's
store, which was famed for the glass windows which had
been fetched all the way from Philadelphia. Mr. Crede
was the embodiment of the enterprising spirit of the
place, and often of an evening he called me in to see
the new fashionable things his barges had brought down
the Ohio. The next day certain young sparks would
drop into my room to waylay the belles as they came to
pick a costume to be worn at Mr. Nickle's dancing school,
or at the ball at Fort Finney.

The winter slipped away, and one cool evening in May
there came a negro to my room with a note from Colonel
Clark, bidding me sup with him at the tavern and meet
a celebrity.

I put on my best blue clothes that I had brought with
me from Richmond, and repaired expectantly to the tavern
about eight of the clock, pushed through the curious
crowd outside, and entered the big room where the
company was fast assembling. Against the red blaze in the
great chimney-place I spied the figure of Colonel Clark,
more portly than of yore, and beside him stood a gentleman
who could be no other than General Wilkinson.

He was a man to fill the eye, handsome of face,
symmetrical of figure, easy of manner, and he wore a suit of
bottle-green that became him admirably. In short, so
fascinated and absorbed was I in watching him as he
greeted this man and the other that I started as though
something had pricked me when I heard my name called
by Colonel Clark.

``Come here, Davy,'' he cried across the room, and I
came and stood abashed before the hero. ``General,
allow me to present to you the drummer boy of Kaskaskia
and Vincennes, Mr. David Ritchie.''

``I hear that you drummed them to victory through
a very hell of torture, Mr. Ritchie,'' said the General.
``It is an honor to grasp the hand of one who did such
service at such a tender age.''

General Wilkinson availed himself of that honor, and
encompassed me with a smile so benignant, so winning in
its candor, that I could only mutter my acknowledgment,
and Colonel Clark must needs apologize, laughing, for my
youth and timidity.

``Mr. Ritchie is not good at speeches, General,'' said
he, ``but I make no doubt he will drink a bumper to your
health before we sit down. Gentlemen,'' he cried, filling
his glass from a bottle on the table, ``a toast to General
Wilkinson, emancipator and saviour of Kentucky!''

The company responded with a shout, tossed off the
toast, and sat down at the long table. Chance placed me
between a young dandy from Lexington--one of several
the General had brought in his train--and Mr. Wharton,
a prominent planter of the neighborhood with whom I
had a speaking acquaintance. This was a backwoods
feast, though served in something better than the old
backwoods style, and we had venison and bear's meat
and prairie fowl as well as pork and beef, and breads that
came stinging hot from the Dutch ovens. Toasts to this
and that were flung back and forth, and jests and gibes,
and the butt of many of these was that poor Federal
government which (as one gentleman avowed) was like
a bantam hen trying to cover a nestful of turkey's eggs,
and clucking with importance all the time. This picture
brought on gusts of laughter.

``And what say you of the Jay?'' cried one; ``what
will he hatch?''

Hisses greeted the name, for Mr. Jay wished to enter
into a treaty with Spain, agreeing to close the river for
five and twenty years. Colonel Clark stood up, and
rapped on the table.

``Gentlemen,'' said he, ``Louisville has as her guest of
honor to-night a man of whom Kentucky may well be
proud [loud cheering]. Five years ago he favored
Lexington by making it his home, and he came to us with
the laurel of former achievements still clinging to his
brow. He fought and suffered for his country, and
attained the honorable rank of Major in the Continental
line. He was chosen by the people of Pennsylvania to
represent them in the august body of their legislature, and
now he has got new honor in a new field [renewed cheering].
He has come to Kentucky to show her the way to
prosperity and glory. Kentucky had a grievance [loud
cries of ``Yes, yes!'']. Her hogs and cattle had no market,
her tobacco and agricultural products of all kinds were
rotting because the Spaniards had closed the Mississippi
to our traffic. Could the Federal government open the
river? [shouts of ``No, no!'' and hisses]. Who opened it?
[cries of ``Wilkinson, Wilkinson!'']. He said to the
Kentucky planters, `Give your tobacco to me, and I will sell
it.'  He put it in barges, he floated down the river, and, as
became a man of such distinction, he was met by Governor-
general Miro on the levee at New Orleans. Where is that
tobacco now, gentlemen?''  Colonel Clark was here
interrupted by such roars and stamping that he paused a
moment, and during this interval Mr. Wharton leaned
over and whispered quietly in my ear:--

``Ay, where is it?''

I stared at Mr. Wharton blankly. He was a man
nearing the middle age, with a lacing of red in his cheeks,
a pleasant gray eye, and a singularly quiet manner.

``Thanks to the genius of General Wilkinson,'' Colonel
Clark continued, waving his hand towards the smilingly
placid hero, ``that tobacco has been deposited in the King's
store at ten dollars per hundred,--a privilege heretofore
confined to Spanish subjects. Well might Wilkinson
return from New Orleans in a chariot and four to a grateful
Kentucky! This year we have tripled, nay, quadrupled,
our crop of tobacco, and we are here to-night to give
thanks to the author of this prosperity.''  Alas, Colonel
Clark's hand was not as steady as of yore, and he spilled
the liquor on the table as he raised his glass. ``Gentlemen,
a health to our benefactor.''

They drank it willingly, and withal so lengthily and
noisily that Mr. Wilkinson stood smiling and bowing for
full three minutes before he could be heard. He was a very
paragon of modesty, was the General, and a man whose
attitudes and expressions spoke as eloquently as his words.
None looked at him now but knew before he opened his
mouth that he was deprecating such an ovation.

``Gentlemen,--my friends and fellow-Kentuckians,'' he
said, ``I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your
kindness, but I assure you that I have done nothing
worthy of it [loud protests]. I am a simple, practical
man, who loves Kentucky better than he loves himself.
This is no virtue, for we all have it. We have the
misfortune to be governed by a set of worthy gentlemen who
know little about Kentucky and her wants, and think
less [cries of ``Ay, ay!'']. I am not decrying General
Washington and his cabinet; it is but natural that the
wants of the seaboard and the welfare and opulence of
the Eastern cities should be uppermost in their minds
[another interruption]. Kentucky, if she would prosper,
must look to her own welfare. And if any credit is due to
me, gentlemen, it is because I reserved my decision of
his Excellency, Governor-general Miro, and his people
until I saw them for myself. A little calm reason, a plain
statement of the case, will often remove what seems an
insuperable difficulty, and I assure you that Governor-
general Miro is a most reasonable and courteous gentleman,
who looks with all kindliness and neighborliness on
the people of Kentucky. Let us drink a toast to him
To him your gratitude is due, for he sends you word that
your tobacco will be received.''

``In General Wilkinson's barges,'' said Mr. Wharton
leaning over and subsiding again at once.

The General was the first to drink the toast, and he
sat down very modestly amidst a thunder of applause.

The young man on the other side of me, somewhat
flushed, leaped to his feet.

``Down with the Federal government!'' he cried; ``what
have they done for us, indeed? Before General Wilkinson
went to New Orleans the Spaniards seized our flat
boats and cargoes and flung our traders into prison, ay,
and sent them to the mines of Brazil. The Federal
government takes sides with the Indians against us. And
what has that government done for you, Colonel?'' he
demanded, turning to Clark, ``you who have won for
them half of their territory? They have cast you off like
an old moccasin. The Continental officers who fought in
the East have half-pay for life or five years' full pay.
And what have you?''

There was a breathless hush. A swift vision came to
me of a man, young, alert, commanding, stern under necessity,
self-repressed at all times--a man who by the very
dominance of his character had awed into submission the
fierce Northern tribes of a continent, who had compelled
men to follow him until the life had all but ebbed from
their bodies, who had led them to victory in the end. And
I remembered a boy who had stood awe-struck before this
man in the commandant's house at Fort Sackville. Ay,
and I heard again his words as though he had just spoken
them, ``Promise me that you will not forget me if I am
--unfortunate.''  I did not understand then. And now
because of a certain blinding of my eyes, I did not see him
clearly as he got slowly to his feet. He clutched the
table. He looked around him--I dare not say--vacantly.
And then, suddenly, he spoke with a supreme
anger and a supreme bitterness.

``Not a shilling has this government given me, he
cried. ``Virginia was more grateful; from her I have some
acres of wild land and--a sword.''  He laughed. ``A
sword, gentlemen, and not new at that. Oh, a grateful
government we serve, one careful of the honor of her
captains. Gentlemen, I stand to-day a discredited man because
the honest debts I incurred in the service of that government
are repudiated, because my friends who helped it,
Father Gibault, Vigo, and Gratiot, and others have never
been repaid. One of them is ruined.''

A dozen men had sprung clamoring to their feet before
he sat down. One, more excited than the rest, got the
ear of the company.

``Do we lack leaders?'' he cried. ``We have them
here with us to-night, in this room. Who will stop us?
Not the contemptible enemies in Kentucky who call
themselves Federalists. Shall we be supine forever? We
have fought once for our liberties, let us fight again.
Let us make a common cause with our real friends on the
far side of the Mississippi.''

I rose, sick at heart, but every man was standing. And
then a strange thing happened. I saw General Wilkinson
at the far end of the room; his hand was raised, and
there was that on his handsome face which might have
been taken for a smile, and yet was not a smile. Others
saw him too, I know not by what exertion of magnetism.
They looked at him and they held their tongues.

``I fear that we are losing our heads, gentlemen,'' he
said; ``and I propose to you the health of the first citizen
of Kentucky, Colonel George Rogers Clark.

I found myself out of the tavern and alone in the cool
May night. And as I walked slowly down the deserted
street, my head in a whirl, a hand was laid on my
shoulder. I turned, startled, to face Mr. Wharton, the
planter.

``I would speak a word with you, Mr. Ritchie,'' he
said. ``May I come to your room for a moment?''

``Certainly, sir,'' I answered.

After that we walked along together in silence, my
own mind heavily occupied with what I had seen and
heard. We came to Mr. Crede's store, went in at the
picket gate beside it and down the path to my own door,
which I unlocked. I felt for the candle on the table,
lighted it, and turned in surprise to discover that Mr.
Wharton was poking up the fire and pitching on a log of
wood. He flung off his greatcoat and sat down with his
feet to the blaze. I sat down beside him and waited,
thinking him a sufficiently peculiar man.

``You are not famous, Mr. Ritchie,'' said he, presently.

``No, sir,'' I answered.

``Nor particularly handsome,'' he continued, ``nor
conspicuous in any way.''

I agreed to this, perforce.

``You may thank God for it,'' said Mr. Wharton.

``That would be a strange outpouring, sir,'' said I.

He looked at me and smiled.

``What think you of this paragon, General Wilkinson?''
he demanded suddenly.

``I have Federal leanings, sir,'' I answered

``Egad,'' said he, ``we'll add caution to your lack of
negative accomplishments. I have had an eye on you
this winter, though you did not know it. I have made
inquiries about you, and hence I am not here to-night
entirely through impulse. You have not made a fortune
at the law, but you have worked hard, steered wide of
sensation, kept your mouth shut. Is it not so?''

Astonished, I merely nodded in reply.

``I am not here to waste your time or steal your sleep,''
he went on, giving the log a push with his foot, ``and I
will come to the point. When I first laid eyes on this
fine gentleman, General Wilkinson, I too fell a victim to
his charms. It was on the eve of this epoch-making trip
of which we heard so glowing an account to-night, and I
made up my mind that no Spaniard, however wily, could
resist his persuasion. He said to me, `Wharton, give me
your crop of tobacco and I promise you to sell it in spite
of all the royal mandates that go out of Madrid.'  He
went, he saw, he conquered the obdurate Miro as he has
apparently conquered the rest of the world, and he actually
came back in a chariot and four as befitted him. A heavy
crop of tobacco was raised in Kentucky that year. I
helped to raise it,'' added Mr. Wharton, dryly. ``I gave
the General my second crop, and he sent it down. Mr.
Ritchie, I have to this day never received a piastre for
my merchandise, nor am I the only planter in this
situation. Yet General Wilkinson is prosperous.''

My astonishment somewhat prevented me from replying
to this, too. Was it possible that Mr. Wharton
meant to sue the General? I reflected while he paused.
I remembered how inconspicuous he had named me, and
hope died. Mr. Wharton did not look at me, but stared
into the fire, for he was plainly not a man to rail and rant.

``Mr. Ritchie, you are young, but mark my words, that
man Wilkinson will bring Kentucky to ruin if he is not
found out. The whole district from Crab Orchard to
Bear Grass is mad about him. Even Clark makes a fool
of himself--''

``Colonel Clark, sir!'' I cried.

He put up a hand.

``So you have some hot blood,'' he said. ``I know you
love him. So do I, or I should not have been there
tonight. Do I blame his bitterness? Do I blame--anything
he does? The treatment he has had would bring a
blush of shame to the cheek of any nation save a republic.
Republics are wasteful, sir. In George Rogers Clark they
have thrown away a general who might some day have
decided the fate of this country, they have left to stagnate
a man fit to lead a nation to war. And now he is ready
to intrigue against the government with any adventurer
who may have convincing ways and a smooth tongue.''

``Mr. Wharton,'' I said, rising, ``did you come here to
tell me this?''

But Mr. Wharton continued to stare into the fire.

``I like you the better for it, my dear sir,'' said he, ``and
I assure you that I mean no offence. Colonel Clark is
enshrined in our hearts, Democrats and Federalists alike.
Whatever he may do, we shall love him always. But
this other man,--pooh!'' he exclaimed, which was as
near a vigorous expression as he got. ``Now, sir, to the
point. I, too, am a Federalist, a friend of Mr. Humphrey
Marshall, and, as you know, we are sadly in the minority
in Kentucky now. I came here to-night to ask you to
undertake a mission in behalf of myself and certain other
gentlemen, and I assure you that my motives are not
wholly mercenary.''  He paused, smiled, and put the tips
of his fingers together. ``I would willingly lose every
crop for the next ten years to convict this Wilkinson of
treason against the Federal government.''

``Treason!'' I repeated involuntarily.

``Mr. Ritchie,'' answered the planter, ``I gave you
credit for some shrewdness. Do you suppose the Federal
government does not realize the danger of this situation
in Kentucky. They have tried in vain to open the
Mississippi, and are too weak to do it. This man Wilkinson
goes down to see Miro, and Miro straightway opens the
river to us through him. How do you suppose Wilkinson
did it? By his charming personality?''

I said something, I know not what, as the light began
to dawn on me. And then I added, ``I had not thought
about the General.''

``Ah,'' replied Mr. Wharton, ``just so. And now you
may easily imagine that General Wilkinson has come to
a very pretty arrangement with Miro. For a certain
stipulated sum best known to Wilkinson and Miro, General
Wilkinson agrees gradually to detach Kentucky from the
Union and join it to his Catholic Majesty's dominion of
Louisiana. The bribe--the opening of the river. What
the government could not do Wilkinson did by the lifting
of his finger.''

Still Mr. Wharton spoke without heat.

``Mind you,'' he said, ``we have no proof of this, and
that is my reason for coming here to-night, Mr. Ritchie.
I want you to get proof of it if you can.''

``You want me--'' I said, bewildered.

``I repeat that you are not handsome,''--I think he
emphasized this unduly,--``that you are self-effacing,
inconspicuous; in short, you are not a man to draw suspicion.
You might travel anywhere and scarcely be noticed,--I
have observed that about you. In addition to this you
are wary, you are discreet, you are painstaking. I ask
you to go first to St. Louis, in Louisiana territory, and
this for two reasons. First, because it will draw any
chance suspicion from your real objective, New Orleans;
and second, because it is necessary to get letters to New
Orleans from such leading citizens of St. Louis as Colonel
Chouteau and Monsieur Gratiot, and I will give you
introductions to them. You are then to take passage to
New Orleans in a barge of furs which Monsieur Gratiot
is sending down. Mind, we do not expect that you will
obtain proof that Miro is paying Wilkinson money. If
you do, so much the better; but we believe that both are
too sharp to leave any tracks. You will make a report,
however, upon the conditions under which our tobacco
is being received, and of all other matters which you may
think germane to the business in hand. Will you go?''

I had made up my mind.

``Yes, I will go,'' I answered.

``Good,'' said Mr. Wharton, but with no more
enthusiasm than he had previously shown; ``I thought I had
not misjudged you. Is your law business so onerous that
you could not go to-morrow?''

I laughed.

``I think I could settle what affairs I have by noon, Mr.
Wharton,'' I replied.

``Egad, Mr. Ritchie, I like your manner,'' said he; ``and
now for a few details, and you may go to bed.''

He sat with me half an hour longer, carefully reviewing
his instructions, and then he left me to a night of
contemplation.

CHAPTER VIII

TO ST. LOUIS

By eleven o'clock the next morning I had wound up
my affairs, having arranged with a young lawyer of my
acquaintance to take over such cases as I had, and I was
busy in my room packing my saddle-bags for the journey.
The warm scents of spring were wafted through the open
door and window, smells of the damp earth giving forth
the green things, and tender shades greeted my eyes when
I paused and raised my head to think. Purple buds
littered the black ground before my door-step, and against
the living green of the grass I saw the red stain of a
robin's breast as he hopped spasmodically hither and
thither, now pausing immovable with his head raised, now
tossing triumphantly a wriggling worm from the sod.
Suddenly he flew away, and I heard a voice from the
street side that brought me stark upright.

``Hold there, neighbor; can you direct me to the
mansion of that celebrated barrister, Mr. Ritchie?''

There was no mistaking that voice--it was Nicholas
Temple's. I heard a laugh and an answer, the gate
slammed, and Mr. Temple himself in a long gray riding-
coat, booted and spurred, stood before me.

``Davy,'' he cried, ``come out here and hug me. Why,
you look as if I were your grandmother's ghost.''

``And if you were,'' I answered, ``you could not have
surprised me more. Where have you been?''

``At Jonesboro, acting the gallant with the widow,
winning and losing skins and cow-bells and land at rattle-
and-snap, horse-racing with that wild Mr. Jackson. Faith,
he near shot the top of my head off because I beat him at
Greasy Cove.''

I laughed, despite my anxiety.

``And Sevier?'' I demanded.

``You have not heard how Sevier got off?'' exclaimed
Nick. ``Egad, that was a crowning stroke of genius!
Cozby and Evans, Captains Greene and Gibson, and
Sevier's two boys whom you met on the Nollichucky rode
over the mountains to Morganton. Greene and Gibson
and Sevier's boys hid themselves with the horses in a
clump outside the town, while Cozby and Evans, disguised
as bumpkins in hunting shirts, jogged into the town with
Sevier's racing mare between them. They jogged into the
town, I say, through the crowds of white trash, and rode up
to the court-house where Sevier was being tried for his life.
Evans stood at the open door and held the mare and
gaped, while (Cozby stalked in and shouldered his way to
the front within four feet of the bar, like a big, awkward
countryman. Jack Sevier saw him, and he saw Evans
with the mare outside. Then, by thunder, Cozby takes a
step right up to the bar and cries out, `Judge, aren't you
about done with that man?'  Faith, it was like judgment
day, such a mix-up as there was after that, and Nollichucky
Jack made three leaps and got on the mare, and in the
confusion Cozby and Evans were off too, and the whole
State of North Carolina couldn't catch 'em then.''  Nick
sighed. ``I'd have given my soul to have been there,'' he
said.

``Come in,'' said I, for lack of something better.

``Cursed if you haven't given me a sweet reception,
Davy,'' said he. ``Have you lost your practice, or is
there a lady here, you rogue,'' and he poked into the
cupboard with his stick. ``Hullo, where are you going
now?'' he added, his eye falling on the saddle-bags.

I had it on my lips to say, and then I remembered Mr.
Wharton's injunction.

``I'm going on a journey,'' said I.

``When?'' said Nick.

``I leave in about an hour,'' said I.

He sat down. ``Then I leave too,'' he said.

``What do you mean, Nick?'' I demanded.

``I mean that I will go with you,'' said he.

``But I shall be gone three months or more,'' I protested.

``I have nothing to do,'' said Nick, placidly.

A vague trouble had been working in my mind, but
now the full horror of it dawned upon me. I was going
to St. Louis. Mrs. Temple and Harry Riddle were gone
there, so Polly Ann had avowed, and Nick could not help
meeting Riddle. Sorely beset, I bent over to roll up a
shirt, and refrained from answering.

He came and laid a hand on my shoulder.

``What the devil ails you, Davy?'' he cried. ``If it is
an elopement, of course I won't press you. I'm hanged
if I'll make a third.''

``It is no elopement,'' I retorted, my face growing hot
in spite of myself.

``Then I go with you,'' said he, ``for I vow you need
taking care of. You can't put me off, I say. But never
in my life have I had such a reception, and from my own
first cousin, too.''

I was in a quandary, so totally unforeseen was this
situation. And then a glimmer of hope came to me that
perhaps his mother and Riddle might not be in St. Louis
after all. I recalled the conversation in the cabin, and
reflected that this wayward pair had stranded on so many
beaches, had drifted off again on so many tides, that one
place could scarce hold them long. Perchance they had
sunk,--who could tell? I turned to Nick, who stood
watching me.

``It was not that I did not want you,'' I said, ``you
must believe that. I have wanted you ever since that
night long ago when I slipped out of your bed and ran
away. I am going first to St. Louis and then to New
Orleans on a mission of much delicacy, a mission that
requires discretion and secrecy. You may come, with all
my heart, with one condition only--that you do not ask
my business.''

``Done!'' cried Nick. ``Davy, I was always sure of
you; you are the one fixed quantity in my life. To St.
Louis, eh, and to New Orleans? Egad, what havoc we'll
make among the Creole girls. May I bring my nigger?
He'll do things for you too.''

``By all means,'' said I, laughing, ``only hurry.''

``I'll run to the inn,'' said Nick, ``and be back in ten
minutes.''  He got as far as the door, slapped his thigh,
and looked back. ``Davy, we may run across--''

``Who?'' I asked, with a catch of my breath.

``Harry Riddle,'' he answered; ``and if so, may God
have mercy on his soul!''

He ran down the path, the gate clicked, and I heard
him whistling in the street on his way to the inn.

After dinner we rode down to the ferry, Nick on the
thoroughbred which had beat Mr. Jackson's horse, and
his man, Benjy, on a scraggly pony behind. Benjy was a
small, black negro with a very squat nose, alert and
talkative save when Nick turned on him. Benjy had been
born at Temple Bow; he worshipped his master and all
that pertained to him, and he showered upon me all the
respect and attention that was due to a member of the
Temple family. For this I was very grateful. It would
have been an easier journey had we taken a boat down to
Fort Massac, but such a proceeding might have drawn too
much attention to our expedition. I have no space to
describe that trip overland, which reminded me at every
stage of the march against Kaskaskia, the woods, the
chocolate streams, the coffee-colored swamps flecked with
dead leaves,--and at length the prairies, the grass not
waist-high now, but young and tender, giving forth the
acrid smell of spring. Nick was delighted. He made me
recount every detail of my trials as a drummer boy, or
kept me in continuous spells of laughter over his own
escapades. In short, I began to realize that we were as
near to each other as though we had never been parted.

We looked down upon Kaskaskia from the self-same
spot where I had stood on the bluff with Colonel Clark,
and the sounds were even then the same,--the sweet
tones of the church bell and the lowing of the cattle. We
found a few Virginians and Pennsylvanians scattered in
amongst the French, the forerunners of that change which
was to come over this country. And we spent the night
with my old friend, Father Gibault, still the faithful
pastor of his flock; cheerful, though the savings of his lifetime
had never been repaid by that country to which he had
given his allegiance so freely. Travelling by easy stages,
on the afternoon of the second day after leaving Kaskaskia
we picked our way down the high bluff that rises above
the American bottom, and saw below us that yellow monster
among the rivers, the Mississippi. A blind monster
he seemed, searching with troubled arms among the
islands for his bed, swept onward by an inexorable force,
and on his heaving shoulders he carried great trees pilfered
from the unknown forests of the North.

Down in the moist and shady bottom we came upon the
log hut of a half-breed trapper, and he agreed to ferry us
across. As for our horses, a keel boat must be sent after
these, and Monsieur Gratiot would no doubt easily
arrange for this. And so we found ourselves, about five
o'clock on that Saturday evening, embarked in a wide
pirogue on the current, dodging the driftwood, avoiding
the eddies, and drawing near to a village set on a low
bluff on the Spanish side and gleaming white among the
trees. And as I looked, the thought came again like a
twinge of pain that Mrs. Temple and Riddle might be
there, thinking themselves secure in this spot, so removed
from the world and its doings.

``How now, my man of mysterious affairs?'' cried Nick,
from the bottom of the boat; ``you are as puckered as a
sour persimmon. Have you a treaty with Spain in your
pocket or a declaration of war? What can trouble you?''

``Nothing, if you do not,'' I answered, smiling.

``Lord send we don't admire the same lady, then,'' said
Nick. ``Pierrot,'' he cried, turning to one of the boatmen,
``il y a des belles demoiselles la, n'est-ce pas?''

The man missed a stroke in his astonishment, and the
boat swung lengthwise in the swift current.

``Dame, Monsieur, il y en a,'' he answered.

``Where did you learn French, Nick?'' I demanded.

``Mr. Mason had it hammered into me,'' he answered
carelessly, his eyes on the line of keel boats moored along
the shore. Our guides shot the canoe deftly between two
of these, the prow grounded in the yellow mud, and we
landed on Spanish territory.

We looked about us while our packs were being
unloaded, and the place had a strange flavor in that
year of our Lord, 1789. A swarthy boatman in a tow
shirt with a bright handkerchief on his head stared at
us over the gunwale of one of the keel boats, and spat
into the still, yellow water; three high-cheeked Indians,
with smudgy faces and dirty red blankets, regarded us
in silent contempt; and by the water-side above us was a
sled loaded with a huge water cask, a bony mustang
pony between the shafts, and a chanting negro dipping
gourdfuls from the river. A road slanted up the little
limestone bluff, and above and below us stone houses
could be seen nestling into the hill, houses higher on the
river side, and with galleries there. We climbed the
bluff, Benjy at our heels with the saddle-bags, and found
ourselves on a yellow-clay street lined with grass and
wild flowers. A great peace hung over the village, an
air of a different race, a restfulness strange to a
Kentuckian. Clematis and honeysuckle climbed the high
palings, and behind the privacy of these, low, big-chimneyed
houses of limestone, weathered gray, could be seen,
their roofs sloping in gentle curves to the shaded porches
in front; or again, houses of posts set upright in the
ground and these filled between with plaster, and so
immaculately whitewashed that they gleamed against the
green of the trees which shaded them. Behind the
houses was often a kind of pink-and-cream paradise of
flowering fruit trees, so dear to the French settlers.
There were vineyards, too, and thrifty patches of vegetables,
and lines of flowers set in the carefully raked mould.

We walked on, enraptured by the sights around us, by
the heavy scent of the roses and the blossoms. Here was
a quaint stone horse-mill, a stable, or a barn set uncouthly
on the street; a baker's shop, with a glimpse of the white-
capped baker through the shaded doorway, and an appetizing
smell of hot bread in the air. A little farther on we
heard the tinkle of the blacksmith's hammer, and the man
himself looked up from where the hoof rested on his leather
apron to give us a kindly ``Bon soir, Messieurs,'' as we
passed. And here was a cabaret, with the inevitable porch,
from whence came the sharp click of billiard balls.

We walked on, stopping now and again to peer between
the palings, when we heard, amidst the rattling of a cart
and the jingling of bells, a chorus of voices:--

   ``A cheval, a cheval, pour aller voir ma mie,
                 Lon, lon, la!''

A shaggy Indian pony came ambling around the corner
between the long shafts of a charette. A bareheaded
young man in tow shirt and trousers was driving, and
three laughing girls were seated on the stools in the cart
behind him. Suddenly, before I quite realized what had
happened, the young man pulled up the pony, the girls
fell silent, and Nick was standing in the middle of the
road, with his hat in his hand, bowing elaborately.

``Je vous salue, Mesdemoiselles,'' he cried, ``mes anges
a char-a-banc. Pouvez-vous me diriger chez Monsieur
Gratiot?''

``Sapristi!'' exclaimed the young man, but he laughed.
The young women stood up, giggling, and peered at Nick
over the young man's shoulder. One of them wore a fresh
red-and-white calamanco gown. She had a complexion of
ivory tinged with red, raven hair, and dusky, long-lashed,
mischievous eyes brimming with merriment.

``Volontiers, Monsieur,'' she answered, before the others
could catch their breath, ``premiere droite et premiere
gauche. Allons, Gaspard!'' she cried, tapping the young
man sharply on the shoulder, ``es tu fou?''

Gaspard came to himself, flicked the pony, and they
went off down the road with shouts of laughter, while
Nick stood waving his hat until they turned the corner.

``Egad,'' said he, ``I'd take to the highway if I could
be sure of holding up such a cargo every time. Off
with you, Benjy, and find out where she lives,'' he cried,
and the obedient Benjy dropped the saddle-bags as though
such commands were not uncommon.

``Pick up those bags, Benjy,'' said I, laughing.

Benjy glanced uncertainly at his master.

``Do as I tell you, you black scalawag,'' said Nick, ``or
I'll tan you. What are you waiting for?''

``Marse Dave--'' began Benjy, rolling his eyes in discomfiture.

``Look you, Nick Temple,'' said I, ``when you shipped
with me you promised that I should command. I can't
afford to have the town about our ears.

``Oh, very well, if you put it that way,'' said Nick.
``A little honest diversion--  Pick up the bags, Benjy,
and follow the parson.''

Obeying Mademoiselle's directions, we trudged on until
we came to a comfortable stone house surrounded by
trees and set in a half-block bordered by a seven-foot
paling. Hardly had we opened the gate when a tall
gentleman of grave demeanor and sober dress rose from his
seat on the porch, and I recognized my friend of Cahokia
days, Monsieur Gratiot. He was a little more portly, his
hair was dressed now in an eelskin, and he looked every
inch the man of affairs that he was. He greeted us kindly
and bade us come up on the porch, where he read my letter
of introduction.

``Why,'' he exclaimed immediately, giving me a
cordial grasp of the hand, ``of course. The strategist, the
John Law, the reader of character of Colonel Clark's
army. Yes, and worse, the prophet, Mr. Ritchie.''

``And why worse, sir?'' I asked.

``You predicted that Congress would never repay me
for the little loan I advanced to your Colonel.''

``It was not such a little loan, Monsieur,'' I said.

``N'importe,'' said he; ``I went to Richmond with my
box of scrip and promissory notes, but I was not ill
repaid. If I did not get my money, I acquired, at least, a
host of distinguished acquaintances. But, Mr. Ritchie,
you must introduce me to your friend;

``My cousin. Mr. Nicholas Temple,'' I said.

Monsieur Gratiot looked at him fixedly.

``Of the Charlestown Temples?'' he asked, and a
sudden vague fear seized me.

``Yes,'' said Nick, ``there was once a family of that name.''

``And now?'' said Monsieur Gratiot, puzzled.

``Now,'' said Nick, ``now they are become a worthless
lot of refugees and outlaws, who by good fortune have
escaped the gallows.''

Before Monsieur Gratiot could answer, a child came
running around the corner of the house and stood, surprised,
staring at us. Nick made a face, stooped down, and
twirled his finger. Shouting with a terrified glee, the boy
fled to the garden path, Nick after him.

``I like Mr. Temple,'' said Monsieur Gratiot, smiling.
``He is young, but he seems to have had a history.''

``The Revolution ruined many families--his was one,''
I answered, with what firmness of tone I could muster.
And then Nick came back, carrying the shouting youngster
on his shoulders. At that instant a lady appeared
in the doorway, leading another child, and we were
introduced to Madame Gratiot.

``Gentlemen,'' said Monsieur Gratiot, ``you must make
my house your home. I fear your visit will not be as
long as I could wish, Mr. Ritchie,'' he added, turning to
me, ``if Mr. Wharton correctly states your business.
I have an engagement to have my furs in New Orleans
by a certain time. I am late in loading, and as there is a
moon I am sending off my boats to-morrow night. The
men will have to work on Sunday.''

``We were fortunate to come in such good season,''
I answered.

After a delicious supper of gumbo, a Creole dish,
of fricassee, of creme brule, of red wine and fresh wild
strawberries, we sat on the porch. The crickets chirped
in the garden, the moon cast fantastic shadows from the
pecan tree on the grass, while Nick, struggling with his
French, talked to Madame Gratiot; and now and then
their gay laughter made Monsieur Gratiot pause and
smile as he talked to me of my errand. It seemed strange
to me that a man who had lost so much by his espousal of
our cause should still be faithful to the American
republic. Although he lived in Louisiana, he had never
renounced the American allegiance which he had taken
at Cahokia. He regarded with no favor the pretensions
of Spain toward Kentucky. And (remarkably enough)
he looked forward even then to the day when Louisiana
would belong to the republic. I exclaimed at this.

``Mr. Ritchie,'' said he, ``the most casual student of
your race must come to the same conclusion. You have
seen for yourself how they have overrun and conquered
Kentucky and the Cumberland districts, despite a hideous
warfare waged by all the tribes. Your people will not be
denied, and when they get to Louisiana, they will take it,
as they take everything else.''

He was a man strong in argument, was Monsieur
Gratiot, for he loved it. And he beat me fairly.

``Nay,'' he said finally, ``Spain might as well try to
dam the Mississippi as to dam your commerce on it. As
for France, I love her, though my people were exiled to
Switzerland by the Edict of Nantes. But France is rotten
through the prodigality of her kings and nobles, and she
cannot hold Louisiana. The kingdom is sunk in debt.''
He cleared his throat. ``As for this Wilkinson of whom
you speak, I know something of him. I have no doubt
that Miro pensions him, but I know Miro likewise, and
you will obtain no proof of that. You will, however,
discover in New Orleans many things of interest to your
government and to the Federal party in Kentucky.
Colonel Chouteau and I will give you letters to certain
French gentlemen in New Orleans who can be trusted.
There is Saint-Gre, for instance, who puts a French
Louisiana into his prayers. He has never forgiven
O'Reilly and his Spaniards for the murder of his father in
sixty-nine. Saint-Gre is a good fellow,--a cousin of the
present Marquis in France,--and his ancestors held many
positions of trust in the colony under the French regime.
He entertains lavishly at Les Iles, his plantation on the
Mississippi. He has the gossip of New Orleans at his
tongue's tip, and you will be suspected of nothing save a
desire to amuse yourselves if you go there.''  He paused
interrupted by the laughter of the others. ``When
strangers of note or of position drift here and pass on to
New Orleans, I always give them letters to Saint-Gre. He
has a charming daughter and a worthless son.''

Monsieur Gratiot produced his tabatiere and took a
pinch of snuff. I summoned my courage for the topic
which had trembled all the evening on my lips.

``Some years ago, Monsieur Gratiot, a lady and a
gentleman were rescued on the Wilderness Trail in
Kentucky. They left us for St. Louis. Did they come here?''

Monsieur Gratiot leaned forward quickly.

``They were people of quality?'' he demanded.

``Yes.''

``And their name?''

``They--they did not say.''

``It must have been the Clives,'' he cried ``it can have
been no other. Tell me--a woman still beautiful,
commanding, of perhaps eight and thirty? A woman who
had a sorrow?--a great sorrow, though we have never
learned it. And Mr. Clive, a man of fashion, ill content
too, and pining for the life of a capital?''

``Yes,'' I said eagerly, my voice sinking near to a
whisper, ``yes--it is they. And are they here?''

Monsieur Gratiot took another pinch of snuff. It
seemed an age before he answered:--

``It is curious that you should mention them, for I gave
them letters to New Orleans,--amongst others, to Saint-
Gre. Mrs. Clive was--what shall I say?--haunted.
Monsieur Clive talked of nothing but Paris, where they
had lived once. And at last she gave in. They have
gone there.''

``To Paris?'' I said, taking breath.

``Yes. It is more than a year ago,'' he continued,
seeming not to notice my emotion; ``they went by way of
New Orleans, in one of Chouteau's boats. Mrs. Clive
seemed a woman with a great sorrow.''

CHAPTER IX

``CHERCHEZ LA FEMME''

Sunday came with the soft haziness of a June morning,
and the dew sucked a fresh fragrance from the blossoms
and the grass. I looked out of our window at the orchard,
all pink and white in the early sun, and across a patch of
clover to the stone kitchen. A pearly, feathery smoke
was wafted from the chimney, a delicious aroma of Creole
coffee pervaded the odor of the blossoms, and a cotton-
clad negro a pieds nus came down the path with two
steaming cups and knocked at our door. He who has
tasted Creole coffee will never forget it. The effect of it
was lost upon Nick, for he laid down the cup, sighed, and
promptly went to sleep again, while I dressed and went
forth to make his excuses to the family. I found Monsieur
and Madame with their children walking among the
flowers. Madame laughed.

``He is charming, your cousin,'' said she. ``Let him
sleep, by all means, until after Mass. Then you must
come with us to Madame Chouteau's, my mother's. Her
children and grandchildren dine with her every Sunday.''

``Madame Chouteau, my mother-in-law, is the queen
regent of St. Louis, Mr. Ritchie,'' said Monsieur Gratiot,
gayly. ``We are all afraid of her, and I warn you that
she is a very determined and formidable personage. She
is the widow of the founder of St. Louis, the Sieur
Laclede, although she prefers her own name. She rules us
with a strong hand, dispenses justice, settles disputes, and
--sometimes indulges in them herself. It is her right.''

``You will see a very pretty French custom of submission
to parents,'' said Madame Gratiot. ``And afterwards
there is a ball.''

``A ball!'' I exclaimed involuntarily.

``It may seem very strange to you, Mr. Ritchie, but we
believe that Sunday was made to enjoy. They will have
time to attend the ball before you send them down the
river?'' she added mischievously, turning to her husband.

``Certainly,'' said he, ``the loading will not be finished
before eight o'clock.''

Presently Madame Gratiot went off to Mass, while I
walked with Monsieur Gratiot to a storehouse near the
river's bank, whence the skins, neatly packed and
numbered, were being carried to the boats on the sweating
shoulders of the negroes, the half-breeds, and the
Canadian boatmen,--bulky bales of yellow elk, from the
upper plains of the Missouri, of buffalo and deer and bear,
and priceless little packages of the otter and the beaver
trapped in the green shade of the endless Northern forests,
and brought hither in pirogues down the swift river by
the red tribesmen and Canadian adventurers.

Afterwards I strolled about the silent village. Even
the cabarets were deserted. A private of the Spanish
Louisiana Regiment in a dirty uniform slouched behind
the palings in front of the commandant's quarters,--a
quaint stone house set against the hill, with dormer
windows in its curving roof, with a wide porch held by eight
sturdy hewn pillars; here and there the muffled figure
of a prowling Indian loitered, or a barefooted negress
shuffled along by the fence crooning a folk-song. All
the world had obeyed the call of the church bell save
these--and Nick. I bethought myself of Nick, and made
my way back to Monsieur Gratiot's.

I found my cousin railing at Benjy, who had extracted
from the saddle-bags a wondrous gray suit of London cut
in which to array his master. Clothes became Nick's
slim figure remarkably. This coat was cut away smartly,
like a uniform, towards the tails, and was brought in at
the waist with an infinite art.

``Whither now, my conquistador?'' I said.

``To Mass,'' said he.

``To Mass!'' I exclaimed; ``but you have slept through
the greater part of it.''

``The best part is to come,'' said Nick, giving a final
touch to his neck-band. Followed by Benjy's adoring
eyes, he started out of the door, and I followed him
perforce. We came to the little church, of upright logs and
plaster, with its crudely shingled, peaked roof, with its
tiny belfry crowned by a cross, with its porches on each
side shading the line of windows there. Beside the
church, a little at the back, was the cure's modest house
of stone, and at the other hand, under spreading trees, the
graveyard with its rough wooden crosses. And behind
these graves rose the wooded hill that stretched away
towards the wilderness.

What a span of life had been theirs who rested here!
Their youth, perchance, had been spent amongst the
crooked streets of some French village, streets lined by
red-tiled houses and crossing limpid streams by quaint
bridges. Death had overtaken them beside a monster
tawny river of which their imaginations had not
conceived, a river which draws tribute from the remote
places of an unknown land,--a river, indeed, which,
mixing all the waters, seemed to symbolize a coming race
which was to conquer the land by its resistless flow, even
as the Mississippi bore relentlessly towards the sea.

These were my own thoughts as I listened to the tones
of the priest as they came, droningly, out of the door,
while Nick was exchanging jokes in doubtful French with
some half-breeds leaning against the palings. Then we
heard benches scraping on the floor, and the congregation
began to file out.

Those who reached the steps gave back, respectfully,
and there came an elderly lady in a sober turban, a black
mantilla wrapped tightly about her shoulders, and I made
no doubt that she was Monsieur Gratiot's mother-in-law,
Madame Chouteau, she whom he had jestingly called the
queen regent. I was sure of this when I saw Madame
Gratiot behind her. Madame Chouteau indeed had the
face of authority, a high-bridged nose, a determined chin,
a mouth that shut tightly. Madame Gratiot presented
us to her mother, and as she passed on to the gate
Madame Chouteau reminded us that we were to dine with
her at two.

After her the congregation, the well-to-do and the poor
alike, poured out of the church and spread in merry
groups over the grass: keel boatmen in tow shirts and
party-colored worsted belts, the blacksmith, the shoemaker,
the farmer of a small plot in the common fields in large
cotton pantaloons and light-wove camlet coat, the more
favored in skull-caps, linen small-clothes, cotton stockings,
and silver-buckled shoes,--every man pausing, dipping
into his tabatiere, for a word with his neighbor. The
women, too, made a picture strange to our eyes, the matrons
in jacket and petticoat, a Madras handkerchief flung about
their shoulders, the girls in fresh cottonade or calamanco.

All at once cries of `` 'Polyte! 'Polyte!'' were heard,
and a nimble young man with a jester-like face hopped
around the corner of the church, trundling a barrel. Behind
'Polyte came two rotund little men perspiring freely,
and laden down with various articles,--a bird-cage with
two yellow birds, a hat-trunk, an inlaid card box, a roll of
scarlet cloth, and I know not what else. They deposited
these on the grass beside the barrel, which 'Polyte had set
on end and proceeded to mount, encouraged by the shouts
of his friends, who pressed around the barrel

``It's an auction,'' I said.

But Nick did not hear me. I followed his glance to
the far side of the circle, and my eye was caught by a red
ribbon, a blush that matched it. A glance shot from
underneath long lashes,--but not for me. Beside the girl,
and palpably uneasy, stood the young man who had been
called Gaspard.

``Ah,'' said I, ``your angel of the tumbrel.''

But Nick had pulled off his hat and was sweeping her a
bow. The girl looked down, smoothing her ribbon,
Gaspard took a step forward, and other young women near us
tittered with delight. The voice of Hippolyte rolling his
r's called out in a French dialect:--

``M'ssieurs et Mesdames, ce sont des effets d'un pauvre
officier qui est mort. Who will buy?''  He opened the
hat-trunk, produced an antiquated beaver with a gold
cord, and surveyed it with a covetousness that was admirably
feigned. For 'Polyte was an actor. ``M'ssieurs, to
own such a hat were a patent of nobility. Am I bid
twenty livres?''

There was a loud laughter, and he was bid four.

``Gaspard,'' cried the auctioneer, addressing the young
man of the tumbrel, ``Suzanne would no longer hesitate if
she saw you in such a hat. And with the trunk, too.
Ah, mon Dieu, can you afford to miss it?''

The crowd howled, Suzanne simpered, and Gaspard
turned as pink as clover. But he was not to be bullied.
The hat was sold to an elderly person, the red cloth
likewise; a pot of grease went to a housewife, and there was
a veritable scramble for the box of playing cards; and at
last Hippolyte held up the wooden cage with the fluttering
yellow birds.

``Ha!'' he cried, his eyes on Gaspard once more, ``a
gentle present--a present to make a heart relent. And
Monsieur Leon, perchance you will make a bid, although
they are not gamecocks.''

Instantly, from somewhere under the barrel, a cock crew.
Even the yellow birds looked surprised, and as for 'Polyte,
he nearly dropped the cage. One elderly person crossed
himself. I looked at Nick. His face was impassive, but
suddenly I remembered his boyhood gift, how he had
imitated the monkeys, and I began to shake with inward
laughter. There was an uncomfortable silence.

``Peste, c'est la magie!'' said an old man at last,
searching with an uncertain hand for his snuff.

``Monsieur,'' cried Nick to the auctioneer, ``I will make
a bid. But first you must tell me whether they are cocks
or yellow birds.''

``Parbleu,'' answered the puzzled Hippolyte, ``that I do
not know, Monsieur.''

Everybody looked at Nick, including Suzanne.

``Very well,'' said he, ``I will make a bid. And if they
turn out to be gamecocks, I will fight them with Monsieur
Leon behind the cabaret. Two livres!''

There was a laugh, as of relief.

``Three!'' cried Gaspard, and his voice broke.

Hippolyte looked insulted.

``M'ssieurs,'' he shouted, ``they are from the Canaries.
Diable, un berger doit etre genereux.''

Another laugh, and Gaspard wiped the perspiration
from his face.

``Five!'' said he.

``Six!'' said Nick, and the villagers turned to him in
wonderment. What could such a fine Monsieur want
with two yellow birds?

``En avant, Gaspard,'' said Hippolyte, and Suzanne shot
another barbed glance in our direction.

``Seven,'' muttered Gaspard.

``Eight!'' said Nick, immediately.

``Nine,'' said Gaspard.

``Ten,'' said Nick.

``Ten,'' cried Hippolyte, ``I am offered ten livres for the
yellow birds. Une bagatelle! Onze, Gaspard! Onze!
onze livres, pour l'amour de Suzanne!''

But Gaspard was silent. No appeals, entreaties, or
taunts could persuade him to bid more. And at length
Hippolyte, with a gesture of disdain, handed Nick the cage,
as though he were giving it away.

``Monsieur,'' he said, ``the birds are yours, since there
are no more lovers who are worthy of the name. They
do not exist.''

``Monsieur,'' answered Nick, ``it is to disprove that
statement that I have bought the birds. Mademoiselle,''
he added, turning to the flushing Suzanne, ``I pray that
you will accept this present with every assurance of my
humble regard.''

Mademoiselle took the cage, and amidst the laughter
of the village at the discomfiture of poor Gaspard, swept
Nick a frightened courtesy,--one that nevertheless was
full of coquetry. And at that instant, to cap the situation,
a rotund little man with a round face under a linen biretta
grasped Nick by the hand, and cried in painful but sincere
English:--

``Monsieur, you mek my daughter ver' happy. She want
those bird ever sence Captain Lopez he die. Monsieur, I
am Jean Baptiste Lenoir, Colonel Chouteau's miller, and
we ver' happy to see you at the pon'.''

``If Monsieur will lead the way,'' said Nick, instantly,
taking the little man by the arm.

``But you are to dine at Madame Chouteau's,'' I expostulated.

``To be sure,'' said he. ``Au revoir, Monsieur. Au revoir,
Mademoiselle. Plus tard, Mademoiselle; nous danserons plus
tard.''

``What devil inhabits you?'' I said, when I had got him
started on the way to Madame Chouteau's.

``Your own, at present, Davy,'' he answered, laying a
hand on my shoulder, ``else I should be on the way to the
pon' with Lenoir. But the ball is to come,'' and he
executed several steps in anticipation. ``Davy, I am sorry
for you.''

``Why?'' I demanded, though feeling a little self-
commiseration also.

``You will never know how to enjoy yourself,'' said he,
with conviction.

Madame Chouteau lived in a stone house, wide and low,
surrounded by trees and gardens. It was a pretty tribute
of respect her children and grandchildren paid her that day,
in accordance with the old French usage of honoring the
parent. I should like to linger on the scene, and tell how
Nick made them all laugh over the story of Suzanne Lenoir
and the yellow birds, and how the children pressed around
him and made him imitate all the denizens of wood and
field, amid deafening shrieks of delight.

``You have probably delayed Gaspard's wooing another
year, Mr. Temple. Suzanne is a sad coquette,'' said Colonel
Auguste Chouteau, laughing, as we set out for the ball.

The sun was hanging low over the western hills as we
approached the barracks, and out of the open windows
came the merry, mad sounds of violin, guitar, and flageolet,
the tinkle of a triangle now and then, the shouts of
laughter, the shuffle of many feet over the puncheons.
Within the door, smiling and benignant, unmindful of the
stifling atmosphere, sat the black-robed village priest
talking volubly to an elderly man in a scarlet cap, and several
stout ladies ranged along the wall: beyond them, on a
platform, Zeron, the baker, fiddled as though his life
depended on it, the perspiration dripping from his brow,
frowning, gesticulating at them with the flageolet and the
triangle. And in a dim, noisy, heated whirl the whole
village went round and round and round under the low
ceiling in the valse, young and old, rich and poor, high
and low, the sound of their laughter and the scraping of
their feet cut now and again by an agonized squeak from
Zeron's fiddle. From time to time a staggering, panting
couple would fling themselves out, help themselves liberally
to pink sirop from the bowl on the side table, and
then fling themselves in once more, until Zeron stopped
from sheer exhaustion, to tune up for a pas de deux.

Across the room, by the sirop bowl, a pair of red ribbons
flaunted, a pair of eyes sent a swift challenge, Zeron and
his assistants struck up again, and there in a corner was
Nick Temple, with characteristic effrontery attempting a
pas de deux with Suzanne. Though Nick was ignorant,
he was not ungraceful, and the village laughed and admired.
And when Zeron drifted back into a valse he seized Suzanne's
plump figure in his arms and bore her, unresisting,
like a prize among the dancers, avoiding alike the fat and
unwieldy, the clumsy and the spiteful. For a while the
tune held its mad pace, and ended with a shriek and a snap
on a high note, for Zeron had broken a string. Amid a
burst of laughter from the far end of the room I saw Nick
stop before an open window in which a prying Indian was
framed, swing Suzanne at arm's length, and bow abruptly
at the brave with a grunt that startled him into life.

``Va-t'en, mechant!'' shrieked Suzanne, excitedly.

Poor Gaspard! Poor Hippolyte! They would gain
Suzanne for a dance only to have her snatched away at
the next by the slim and reckless young gentleman in the
gray court clothes. Little Nick cared that the affair soon
became the amusement of the company. From time to
time, as he glided past with Suzanne on his shoulder, he
nodded gayly to Colonel Chouteau or made a long face at
me, and to save our souls we could not help laughing.

``The girl has met her match, for she has played shuttle-
cock with all the hearts in the village,'' said Monsieur
Chouteau. ``But perhaps it is just as well that Mr. Temple
is leaving to-night. I have signed a bon, Mr. Ritchie, by
which you can obtain money at New Orleans. And do
not forget to present our letter to Monsieur de Saint Gre.
He has a daughter, by the way, who will be more of a
match for your friend's fascinations than Suzanne.''

The evening faded into twilight, with no signs of
weariness from the dancers. And presently there stood beside
us Jean Baptiste Lenoir, the Colonel's miller.

``B'soir, Monsieur le Colonel,'' he said, touching his skull-
cap, ``the water is very low. You fren','' he added, turning
to me, ``he stay long time in St. Louis?''

``He is going away to-night,--in an hour or so,'' I
answered, with thanksgiving in my heart.

``I am sorry,'' said Monsieur Lenoir, politely, but his
looks belied his words. ``He is ver' fond Suzanne. Peut etre
he marry her, but I think not. I come away from
France to escape the fine gentlemen; long time ago they
want to run off with my wife. She was like Suzanne.''

``How long ago did you come from France, Monsieur?''
I asked, to get away from an uncomfortable subject.

``It is twenty years,'' said he, dreamily, in French. ``I
was born in the Quartier Saint Jean, on the harbor of the
city of Marseilles near Notre Dame de la Nativite.''  And
he told of a tall, uneven house of four stories, with a high
pitched roof, and a little barred door and window at the
bottom giving out upon the rough cobbles. He spoke of
the smell of the sea, of the rollicking sailors who surged
through the narrow street to embark on his Majesty's men-
of-war, and of the King's white soldiers in ranks of four
going to foreign lands. And how he had become a farmer,
the tenant of a country family. Excitement grew on
him, and he mopped his brow with his blue rumal
handkerchief.

``They desire all, the nobles,'' he cried, ``I make the
land good, and they seize it. I marry a pretty wife, and
Monsieur le Comte he want her. L'bon Dieu,'' he added
bitterly, relapsing into French. ``France is for the King
and the nobility, Monsieur. The poor have but little chance
there. In the country I have seen the peasants eat roots,
and in the city the poor devour the refuse from the houses
of the rich. It was we who paid for their luxuries, and
with mine own eyes I have seen their gilded coaches ride
down weak men and women in the streets. But it cannot
last. They will murder Louis and burn the great
chateaux. I, who speak to you, am of the people, Monsieur,
I know it.''

The sun had long set, and with flint and tow they were
touching the flame to the candles, which flickered transparent
yellow in the deepening twilight. So absorbed had
I become in listening to Lenoir's description that I had
forgotten Nick. Now I searched for him among the promenading
figures, and missed him. In vain did I seek for
a glimpse of Suzanne's red ribbons, and I grew less and
less attentive to