“Please, sir, they wouldn’t let me see him,” said the man.
“Who wouldn’t let you see him?”
The commander was growing very angry, for he was a strict disciplinarian, and this sounded terrible in his ears.
The orderly hesitated.
“Speak quick, man! Who wouldn’t let you see him?”
“Colonel,” said the rough borderer, who was, after all, only a half disciplined, independent militia-man; “’tain’t my fault, honest; but them Injuns and the young lady was at the door, and the young lady she guv me the message from adjutant; and please, colonel, the boys are all in a crowd around the door, and they cheered her when she spoke, and it’s my belief, sir—”
“That will do,” said Clark, imperiously. “I understand you. There’s mutiny afoot, and you’re afraid. Out of the way.”
Before father Gibault could interfere to check him, the colonel was out of the room and half-way down-stairs. He was in a state of the greatest excitement, and shouted for his horse in a manner strangely unlike his usual quiet way. Two minutes after, he was galloping down the street toward the camp, which, as before, was pitched in front of the disused arsenal occupied by the Indians.
Around the door, as the orderly had said, the whole of the motley force of borderers were clustered; and from the murmurs that reached his ear, it was evident that an unusual excitement was going on.
As the colonel galloped up, a dead silence fell on all; but not a man stirred out of his way, and matters looked quite squally, for the rough backwoodsmen made no scruple of looking with open defiance at their leader.