That night Pierre camped in the Jim-a-long-Jo, finding there firewood in plenty, and Tophet was made comfortable in the lean-to. Within another thirty hours he was hid in the woods behind Fort O'Battle, having travelled nearly all night. He saw the dawn break and the beginning of sunrise as he watched the Fort, growing every moment colder, while his horse trembled and whinnied softly, suffering also. At last he gave a little grunt of satisfaction, for he saw two men come out of the Fort and go to the corral. He hesitated a minute longer, then said: "I'll not wait," patted his horse's neck, pulled the blanket closer round him, and started for the Fort. He entered the yard—it was empty. He went to the door of the Fort, opened it, entered, shut it, locked it softly, and put the key in his pocket. Then he passed through into a room at the end of the small hallway. Three men rose from seats by the fire as he did so, and one said: "Hullo, who're you?" Another added: "It's Pretty Pierre."
Pierre looked at the table laid for breakfast, and said: "Where's Lydia
Throng?"
The elder of the three brothers replied: "There's no Lydia Throng here. There's Lydia Bontoff, though, and in another week she'll be Lydia something else."
"What does she say about it herself?" "You've no call to know."
"You stole her, forced her from Throng's-her father's house."
"She wasn't Throng's; she was a Bontoff—sister of us.
"Well, she says Throng, and Throng it's got to be."
"What have you got to say about it?"
At that moment Lydia appeared at the door leading from the kitchen.
"Whatever she has to say," answered Pierre.