It was nearly sunset before the people separated from the church. The windows were wide open, for it was still very hot and sultry, and the whole force of the Americans was drawn up near by, resting silently on their arms, auditors of all that passed and very respectful auditors.
They could hear the solemn voice of the old priest, chanting mass, the responses of the congregation broken by sobs and tears. Then several of the older inhabitants made long and pathetic speeches, urging to resignation under the will of Heaven, while women and children cried, and men groaned aloud.
And, outside of the church, the supposed barbarians, whom the terrified people within looked on as little better than their fierce Indian neighbors, were hushed in pitying silence, while some of the roughest broke down and blubbered secretly.
At last there was a deep hush, within and without, as the priest, with faltering voice pronounced the benediction, and a stir, that followed, announced that the people were coming out.
Suddenly Clark, who had been standing, gloomily leaning on his sword, started.
“Attention!” he shouted, sternly. “Stand to your arms there, men! Who gave you leave to fall out? Shoulder arms! Support arms! Silence in the ranks! Officers to your posts!”
Then, as the door opened, and father Gibault came out with a few of the principal inhabitants, they were met by the sight of a grim line of brown rifle-barrels, as the savage-looking frontiersmen obeyed their chief’s orders.
Clark, with drawn sword, stood rigidly in front of his men, looking at the priest, as the latter solemnly advanced with his little deputation, while the church door was full of pale, anxious people, afraid to advance a step further.
Father Gibault advanced to Clark, and said: