Once, in a dream, he had seen himself standing at the wings of a stage—an actor, dressed for his part. The theatre was crowded; someone had begun to ring a bell for the curtain to go up; and he, the hero of the piece, knew not one word of his part, could not even remember the name of the play or what it was about. The dream had been extraordinarily vivid, and he had awakened in a sweat.
"But," the Commandant urged, "he must have had some reason for striking through the forest. What was his name?"
"Barboux."
John, as he answered, could not see Menehwehna's face; but Menehwehna's supporting arm did not flinch.
"Was he, too, of the regiment of Béarn?"
"He was of the Béarnais, monsieur."
"Tell us now. When the Iroquois overtook you, could he have passed on a message, had he carried one?"
While John hesitated, Menehwehna answered him. "It was I only who saw the sergeant die," said Menehwehna quietly. He gave me no message."
"You were close to him?"
"Very close."