"My mother was French," explained Steve. "She was a Mademoiselle Despelle before her marriage. More than that I do not know, for she died when I was an infant, and my father has always been very reticent about such matters. It is to him that I owe my knowledge of French, for he speaks the language like a native."
"And your name is Mainwaring. Monsieur Steve Mainwaring. Yes, there must be some other reason for this Jules to have such spite against you, and I shall endeavour to unravel the cause. Meanwhile, monsieur, allow me to warn you most solemnly. For the moment this man is at Crown Point, and therefore harmless; nor will he have a post of authority again while I am able to prevent it. Still, beware of him, monsieur. He is dangerous. And now to give you some information. In a month perhaps the ice will have broken. Even now there are signs that the end of this terrible winter is coming, and as soon as the spring puts in an appearance you and I will go to Quebec, where I can promise a welcome. For I do not forget that I owe my life to you. Monsieur will be a prisoner on parole till the end of the war, while I—well, I am a lame dog, and of little further use, I fear, and besides, I have given my word to you—I am on oath not to fight again during the course of this conflict."
The tall colonel looked down woefully at his thigh, still heavily bandaged, and then glanced at the crutch which lay beside his chair, and which up till then he had never dared to use. Then he sighed, brushed a tear away, and smiled.
"I spoke of accepting fortune good or bad philosophically," he said. "Bien! I will act up to my words, but my fighting days are done."
It was only too true, and none but those who have seen the keen soldier struck down in his prime can realise what this gallant colonel must have felt. For his prospects were brilliant; he was in command of one of the most important advanced posts, and had everything before him. Then a chance ball had fractured his thigh, and here he was, one leg some two inches shorter than the other, lamed for life, and unfitted for further service. But he did not permit his disappointment to take the place of his gratitude to the young man who had befriended him, who had discovered him deserted in the forest and restored him to his friends, and to this colonel alone Steve owed his comfort during the last few weeks. For his wound had proved to be a severe one, and was followed by some amount of fever. However, he was practically recovered now, and for quite a time had constituted himself nurse to the colonel. As to his friends, Jim and Pete and the others, he had been able to send them a few brief lines, telling them of his safety, and promptly a note had come back, scrawled on a dirty piece of paper, and conspicuous for its brevity.
"You ain't dead yet, cap'n, and whilst there's life there's hope. Look out fer a rescue."
That was all. There was a blurred letter at the end which might have been Jim's signature, or Pete's, or even Mac's. But the words were clear enough, and somehow they gave Steve much comfort.
"I am sure they will do something for me," he said, when he had read the note, "but rescue here is hopeless, for there are too many Indians. Then, when I reach Quebec I shall be still further away, so that there is little hope of seeing them there. On the way up though——"
He considered the matter for a few seconds, for he had learned from the colonel already that when he was removed from Ticonderoga it would be by water.
"No, I will send them no information of the move," he said. "It would not be fair to do so, and besides, I shall be travelling with a man who is unfit to fight. No, I fear that they will be able to do nothing for me, and I shall have to rely on myself alone."