"It is the wounded man—the sergeant from Fort Carillon!" cried Diane, clasping her hands.
"Eh, my child? Nonsense, nonsense—he wears no uniform, as you see. Moreover, 'Polyte Latulippe brought word that he was lying at the point of death."
"It is he, nevertheless."
"Mademoiselle has guessed rightly," said Dominique. "It is the wounded soldier. I have lent him an outfit."
The Commandant stared incredulously from Dominique to John, from John to Menehwehna, and back again to John. A delightful smile irradiated his face.
"Then you bring us a good gift indeed! Welcome, sir, welcome to Fort Amitié! where we will soon have you hale and strong again, if nursing can do it."
Here, if John meant to play his part, was the moment for him to salute. He half lifted his hand as he reclined, but let it fall again. From the river-bank a pair of eyes looked down into his; dark grey eyes—or were they violet?—shy and yet bold, dim and yet shining with emotion. God help him! This child—she could be little more—was worshipping him for a hero!
"Nay, sir, give it to me!" cried the Commandant, stooping by the quay's edge. "I shall esteem it an honour to grasp the hand of one who comes from Fort Carillon—who was wounded for France in her hour of victory. Your name, my friend?—for the messengers who brought word of you yesterday had not heard it, or perhaps had forgotten."
"My name is à Cleeve, monsieur."
"À Clive? à Clive? It is unknown to me, and yet it has a good sound, and should belong to un homme Men ne?" He turned inquiringly towards his brother, a mild, elderly man with a scHolàr's stoop and a face which assorted oddly with his uniform of captain of militia, being shrivelled as parchment and snuff-dried and abstracted in expression as though he had just lifted his eyes from a book. "À Clive, Etienne. From what province should our friend derive?"