“Gaspard Denys!” he moaned. “Send—tell him,” and then he lapsed away again.
Denys came and watched with him through the night. Several times his name escaped the old man’s lips. Gaspard gave him some brandy he had brought.
He opened his eyes again and gazed around piteously, resting them finally upon Gaspard.
“I cannot think,” rubbing his forehead in a dazed fashion. “They were Indians. They wanted rum. I had none, only one jug I kept in case—in case I should need it. I am an old man, Gaspard. They—they beat me.”
“Yes. Can you tell who they were? No strange Indians have been seen about.”
Even here the old man’s cunning came uppermost. He would not betray himself. He shook his head slowly.
“Some marauding parties. Perhaps from the river.”
“The river! See if they are coming!” starting up in affright.
“No one is coming,” in a reassuring tone.
“Gaspard, am I hurt much? Oh, help me! I do not want to die. I hate death! I want to live;” and he tried to raise himself, but fell back exhausted.