Slowly, and without any precautions against noise, he locked the door with a loud snap, and put the key in his pocket. Frank stopped whistling, but he did not look round. He only gave a little hitch to his sword-belt, and brought the hilt of his light rapier to the front. Then he resumed his whistle and gradually broke into a low song:
“Le Colonel Clark est brave,
Mais il n’est qu’ un esclave,
Sous la main, si douce et suave,
De Mademoiselle Rubie Roland.”
Clark heard the mocking words and wondered at the lad’s temerity, even while his anger rose to white heat. Frank looked so little and slender, so utterly unable to cope with the powerful and incensed colonel, that such a taunt as his conduct implied made it seem as if he must be crazy.
For the first time the words of Simon Kenton, as to the boy having been sun-struck, recurred to his mind, and for the moment a thrill of pity came to Clark. But as he looked at the boy and noted the quiet bravado of his manner, the supposition became untenable.
“There is too much method for madness, there,” thought the border leader.
And, as he came to this conclusion, a stern frown settled on his brow, and he went to the windows. He carefully closed the shutters and locked the French casements so that no one could see in. Then, looking into an inner room, he ascertained that there were no more openings to be guarded.