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?”

[72]

“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[73] 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 fall............