Over this heaving mass a voice suddenly threw a roaring word, hailing Hector by the name long given him by the Indians and sometimes by the civilians, in token of the strength and fearlessness which they considered him, the embodiment of himself:
"Manitou-pewabic!" shouted the voice. "Manitou-pewabic!"
Instantly the crowd took the cue and roared the name, sometimes the translation of the name, in one great tumult of sound:
"Manitou-pewabic!"—"Spirit-of-Iron! Spirit-of-Iron!"
For a moment, then, coming out of the clouds, Hector felt, for the first time in his life, the tremendous exultation of wide fame and brilliant success. This crowd, these cheers, were his. That name, that wonderful name, they had given him. In their way, those people represented all Canada. The whole country was applauding him. Destiny had given him greatness. He was no longer struggling to advance. He had advanced!
"Spirit-of-Iron!" thundered the crowd. "Spirit-of-Iron!"
Afterwards, those who had seen him returning their salutes, remarked that he had not once smiled.
If they had known the reason why! ... They did not know.
The fact was that, the first wave of exultation past, the intoxicating drink turned to gall on Hector's lips, became a curse and a mockery.
Just before falling in for parade that afternoon, an orderly had handed him a sheaf of letters, his first mail since leaving Broncho to fight the rebels. Among the letters was one which brought his heart to his mouth. It was his letter to Frances—returned 'dead' after wandering over half America.