Clark was about to answer deprecatingly, when the voice of the sentry
at the lower door was heard challenging:
“Halt! you kurn’t pass here, mounseer. Colonel’s quarters.”
“But if I wish to see the colonel, my friend,” said a mild voice, “can
not I go in? I am the parish priest, father Gibault.”
“Kurn’t help it,” said the sentry, sturdily. “My orders is to let no
one pass. Sergeant give me a shakin’ up about lettin’ in them ’ere
Injins, jest now.”
“But my dear friend,” said the priest, mildly, “I do but wish to
ask permission to wait on the commander, with five of the oldest
inhabitants of the town, to represent to him our cruel position.”
Clark, who had been listening intently to this dialogue, now spoke to
the sentry at his own door.
“Sentry, is the adjutant outside? Call him in.”
“Please, colonel, the adjutant bean’t hyar,” said the man.
“Not here,” said Clark, surprised. “Why I saw him at the door. Where is
he?”
Ruby Roland answered him:
“Your adjutant is a great friend of mine, colonel, and has gone on
a message for me. In his absence, allow me to act for him, as I am
responsible for his reappearance. What do you wish done?”
“I wish--but, mademoiselle, I could not think of giving you so much
trouble.”
“I prefer it, colonel. You wish to send a message?”
“I wish to inform the gentleman below that I will receive him and his
friends in half an hour; and I want to see all my officers here.”
“It shall be done, monsieur,” said the girl, quietly.
Then she turned to her grim escort, and spoke to them in their own
tongue a few words. Every chief sprung up, saluted Clark with great
gravity, and followed Ruby from the room.
Clark went to the window, and looked down. He saw an old man in a
priest’s cassock, waiting by the gate; and very soon saw Ruby and the
Indians come out and speak to him. Then the priest turned away, Ruby
and the Indians mounted, rode down the streets toward the American
camp, and all was still again.
Ten minutes after, Bowman, Harrod, and the principal officers, rode up
to the door, and came up-stairs, when Clark dismissed the Governor,
under guard, to his wife’s room, and awaited the return of the priest
and his party.
Inquiring what had become of Ruby and the Indians, the leader was told
that they had re-entered the arsenal and disappeared. The time passed
in discussing their plans for the future; and then, punctually to the
half-hour, they heard a horseman pull up outside, and the gay voice of
the little adjutant, singing an old French hunting-song, as he came up
stairs.
Then the small officer tripped into the room, saluted gayly, and said:
“Colonel, that little squaw princess detained me unwarrantably, but you
know a Kentuckian must obey the ladies. There are a lot of gray-headed
old gentlemen coming up the street, and I think they look like a
deputation.”
Clark looked at the boy severely. Somehow he didn’t like the familiar
way in which the latter spoke of Ruby.
“Young gentleman,” he said, “when you have more sense, you will esteem
it an honor to wait on a lady, especially one so beautiful and modest
as mademoiselle. Speak of her with proper respect, sir. She is no
squaw.”
“I cry you mercy, colonel,” quoth the saucy lad. “I forgot that you
had just seen her. You know you told me once you would not know her
again. How is it now?”
“I should know her among a million,” said Clark, warmly.
The little adjutant burst out laughing, in defiance of all military
etiquette.
“’Gad, gentlemen, I fear the colonel’s smitten to the heart,” he cried.
“The invulnerable colonel’s fallen in love with this dusky princess;
and he’s ready to cut any man’s throat that says a word against her.”
The other officers, rough backwoodsmen all, save Bowman and Montgomery,
used only to republican equality, made no scruple of joining in the
laugh. Clark turned white with anger, and his voice was deep with
concentrated rage, as he said:
“Adjutant Frank, go to your quarters under arrest. Gentlemen, the
man that persists in this unseemly merriment becomes my enemy at any
hazard. Do I command this expedition or not?”
In a moment there was a dead silence, broken only by Frank. Contrary
to his usual custom, the boy seemed possessed with a perfect devil of
impudence that day.
“All right, colonel,” he said, gayly. “The quarters are with the young
lady at present. We’ll see what she says, when she hears that you
vented the rage on your junior officer that you did not dare to show to
her, or an equal.”
In a moment Clark strode forward to where the audacious officer
stood, with a look of concentrated fury on his face. The backwoods
leader possessed a furious temper, which he generally controlled
only by exercise of an iron will. For a moment every one in the room
thought that he was about to strike the boy down, and big Bill Harrod
half-stepped forward to lay hands on his commander.
But, ere the big captain reached him, Clark had controlled his passion
by a mighty effort, and spoke in a low, hoarse tone:
“Boy, while this expedition lasts, I command here. When it is over,
I’ll give you satisfaction on equal terms. Think yourself lucky that I
do not strangle you here. It is but your weakness protects you now. But
do not dare again to breathe one word of disrespect toward the lady
whom I saw this morning, or I will not answer for my forbearance. I
have business. Go.”
He pointed to the door with a trembling finger, his face ashy pale, his
eyes glittering dangerously. The little adjutant saluted, gravely, and
went to the door.
At the door he turned and said, in a tone of indescribable insolency:
“What a coil, gentlemen, about a little squaw!”
Big Bill Harrod rushed at him with a stifled guffaw, and hustled him
off, growling:
“You tarnation sarcy little cuss, d’yer want ter get killed? Cunnel’s
madder than twenty wildcats now.”
And indeed the good-natured borderer’s action was the only thing that
brought Clark to his senses, for the exasperated chief had already half
drawn his sword.
But as Harrod carried the boy down-stairs, the other officers gathered
round Clark, expostulating, and Kenton remarked:
“Cunnel, the little cuss hev gone crazy, you may bet. He never acted
so afore, and it’s b’en a tearin’ hot day. I suspicion he’s b’en
sun-struck.”
“Drunk, more likely,” said Helm, in a tone of contempt. “Those boys are
not fit to trust with a bottle of applejack. They go cracked in five
minutes.”
“Let it pass, gentlemen,” said Clark, impatiently. “Remember we have
business to do, and this priest and his friends are at the gate by this
time. I’ll attend to that boy in due time. Now get ready to receive
this deputation.”
They settled themselves in chairs round the room, and soon Bill Harrod
lumbered in, escorting father Gibault and five venerable citizens, who
trembled as if their last hour had come, and remained near the door,
bowing confusedly, and looking among the ragged, dirty figures before
them as if doubting the evidence of their senses.
At last the priest faltered out to Harrod:
“Please, good monsieur, will you not tell me which of these honorable
gentlemen is your leader?”
“That thar man in the big cheer, with the laced hat,” said Harrod,
pointing with his thumb at Clark, whose battered head-covering had once
been laced. “Spit out what you’ve got to say, lively.”