CHAPTER XVII. THE CURE’S EMBASSY.

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 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[74] 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[75] Harrod, pointing with his thumb at Clark, whose battered head-covering had once been laced. “Spit out what you’ve got to say, lively.”