“If he was killed what a shock it will prove!” he murmured with downcast face. “Poor Henry! I’d give my right hand to know he was alive and safe!”
“Bad news?” came from Raymond, who came up at that moment.
“No,” answered Dave, and went on: “It is a letter from home. They are all well and send best wishes to me and to my cousin Henry. I was thinking of how they will feel when they learn that—that——”
“Don’t take it so hard, Dave,” said the backwoodsman sympathetically. “He may have escaped, after all. Just as strange things have happened.”
The young soldier shook his head doubtfully. “He had a hot fight—I don’t see how he could escape if he was wounded. He is either dead or a prisoner in some foul Canadian prison.”
Dave had been told to come to the hospital that afternoon at four o’clock and have his knee looked after again. He was on hand promptly, and the surgeon gave it a careful examination.
“It is doing nicely,” he said. “Be a bit careful of it for a week longer, and it will be as well as ever.” And then he gave the young soldier a box of salve to be used each night and morning.
Dave was about to leave the hospital when his attention was attracted to a number of patients who had just been brought down in boats from Fort Niagara. One of the men lying on a cot looked familiar, and drawing closer he recognized Jean Bevoir.
The French trader looked pale and thin, for he had suffered not a little. He looked at Dave curiously, and when the young soldier got the chance he went up and spoke to the man.
“I suppose you know me, Bevoir?”