Wolfe's eyes flashed fire.
"A surrendered garrison massacred! and the French stood by and suffered it!"
"The account is confused. Some say they did try without avail; some that they were callous and indifferent; some that they did much to avert the horrors, and saved large numbers of victims out of their clutches. But they did not succeed in stopping an awful loss of life. The pages of history will be stained dark when the story of that day is written!"
"Ay, truly!" cried Humphrey, in his deep, resonant voice, speaking for the first time; "the page of history should be written in characters of blood and fire. I have seen the work of those savage fiends. I have seen, and I shall remember to the last day of my life!"
"Tell me," said Wolfe, looking straight at the stalwart youth, whose lips had slightly drawn themselves back, showing the firm line of the white teeth beneath.
Humphrey had told his tale many times during the past months. He told it to Wolfe that day--told it with a curious graphic power, considering that his words were few, and that his manner was perfectly quiet.
A red flush mounted into Wolfe's face, and died away again. He drew his breath through, his teeth with a slightly whistling sound. With him this was a sign of keen emotion.
"You saw all that?"
"With my own eyes. I am telling no tale of hearsay. And men have tales yet more horrid to tell--tales to which a man may scarce listen for the horror and the shame. This is the way the Indians serve the subjects of the English crown at the bidding of the servants of France!"
Wolfe raised his right hand, and let it slowly drop again.