“That’s jest my way o’ looking at it, Dave,” answered the old frontiersman. “But it don’t seem like we was to hear a word, does it?”
“I can’t imagine where Henry went to, Sam. If he left Quebec he would be almost certain to fall into the hands of the French or their murderous Indian allies.”
Several of the rangers had work to do along the river front, and this lasted until late one Saturday night. Dave and Barringford had been helping the men at their task, but when it was finished the young soldier did not feel in the humor to retire, and he and Barringford sat in a little watch-house, the frontiersman smoking and both talking over the past, until it was well after midnight.
Down the dark stream floated huge cakes of ice and masses of driftwood, for the day had been rather warm and had freed much that had before been ice-bound. As the two gazed out at this they were suddenly aroused by a faint cry for help.
“What’s that?” asked Dave.
“Somebuddy callin’,” answered Barringford, peering forth on the river.
The cry was repeated, in a French voice, and then, at a great distance from shore, they made out the form of a man stretched flat on a big mass of drifting ice.
“Some soldier!” ejaculated Dave. “More than likely he is half dead from the cold.”
“If we had a boat we might save him,” said Barringford.
Both rushed around to see if a boat was handy, and their actions aroused a number of others near the watch-house.