In sane moments, as he insisted, they kept him informed of the situation.
To Hector, his illness was a mad jumble of mental pictures, sometimes awful, sometimes pleasant; interspersed with lapses of clear sanity, when the agony of his position reached its height. And it went like this:
He saw himself a small, brown-headed boy, on the lakes and in the woods of his old Ontario home. He saw himself fighting his first fight in the cause of chivalry, for Nora; and suddenly his opponent became Welland, whom he fought furiously, though why he could not say. Then Sergeant Pierce, long and tanned and solemn, came and stood before him, as vividly as if he were alive and in the room. But they were not in the room. They were in the stable-yard, at home. The Sergeant was giving him advice—the old slogan: 'Fight, little master, till the last shot's fired!'
'Till the last shot's fired!' Yes, he must fight till ... but against what? And why? Suddenly he remembered and, remembering, wept, cursing his great weakness and the Fate that held him helpless at the crisis of his life.
Then his father came to talk to him—out of the air. He saw the fine old gentleman in the library at Silvercrest with a small boy at his knee. He was telling stories—stories of days long past, of Adairs who had been mighty fighters, nobly serving King and Country, each in his time. As he talked, he took the small boy up to the coat-of-arms on the mantelpiece and made him touch it and the motto beneath:
'Strong. Steadfast.'—'Strong. Steadfast.'
He heard his father's voice: 'The Adair motto for centuries, Hector. An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.'
'An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.' And surely strong and steadfast now—now—when the crisis was upon him. 'Strong. Steadfast.' And here he was, helpless in bed, while the trumpets sounded for battle and he was not there!
Sometimes his mother came—sweet-faced, white-haired—smiling—touching his face with gentle fingers. He took her in his arms and kissed her. As their lips touched, she became suddenly young and beautiful—became, not herself, in the days of her youth—but Frances. He was in Arcady with Frances. He heard himself making his humble confession—thrilled to her reply—gave a glad, wild cry of joy and swung her off her feet, kissing her madly. A hand came out then, from nowhere, tearing her away—her father's hand. No, not her father's—Welland's. Why Welland's? Why? She was gone—his arms were empty. And he knew himself back in Discovery, weeping for her whom he had lost fifteen dreary years ago.
Nita Oswald and Seattle Sue heard that name, 'Frances! Frances!' many, many times. Afterwards, while they wondered what it meant, they swore never to betray the secret the Big Chief had unwittingly revealed.