"How, Uncle?"
"Coming here—with Eleanor. I've brought her into danger, but God knows I haven't meant to. I've always had an adventurous spirit, and I couldn't live in the East—the hills choke me. Somebody has to blaze the trail to the new places, and I thought I might as well do it as anybody else. Things are moving westward, and some day, in this valley, there ought to be a great city about where the Fort stands now. It's the place for it—the river and the lake, with good farming country all around. I knew I couldn't live to see it, but I—I thought my children might."
The man's voice wavered, but did not break. "It's a commonplace thing to do," he went on,—"go to a new place to live,—and our people have been doing it for more than two centuries. No soldiery, no blare of trumpets, nothing to make it seem fine—only discomfort, privation, and danger. The first settlers came from across the water, and since then we've been moving along, a step or two at a time. Some day, perhaps, people will leave this place to go to another farther on, and so keep going, till we reach the ocean on the other side. I haven't done anything," he added, with a short laugh, "only what the men of our race must do for a century and more to come."
"You've done what was right, Uncle, and what seemed for the best—no one could do more. You've given Aunt Eleanor and the children a good home—shelter, warmth, food, and clothing. You've given your children sound minds, sound bodies, free air to breathe, and you're giving them an education. You'll find danger anywhere and everywhere—life hangs by a thread at its best. If it comes to a fight, we have arms and ammunition and fifty men, as strong and true as steel. We have modern weapons against arrows and tomahawks, military skill against savage instincts; and as for the British, why, I have my grandfather's sword, that fought them once at Lexington. They tried it and they failed—they'll fail again; but I say, let them come!"
"God bless you, boy; you put new courage into me!"
Soft darkness lay upon the earth, and pale stars shone fitfully from behind the clouds as slowly the night passed by. Across the river, with measured tread, the sentries kept guard at the Fort. Through one watch and well into another the two men sat there talking, with their voices lowered, lest the sleepers in the house should wake, and from each other taking heart for the morrow.
The spirit of his dead fathers lived again in Forsyth; the blood that burned at Lexington took fire once more at Fort Dearborn. His heart beat high with that resolute courage which sees the end only, with no thought of the possible cost—it was as though Victory, in passing, to hover just beyond him, had brushed his face with her blood-stained wings.
In the first light of morning, Beatrice came across the river from the Fort. Whether she knew of the impending danger or not, she showed no signs of fear. "Well," she said, "it was only yesterday that I told Kit I thought I'd move, and here's a military order to make it practicable. We're going with the soldiers—Queen and I."
Forsyth smiled, but made no other answer, and she went on into the house. Mrs. Mackenzie did not appear, having passed a sleepless night; so Beatrice presided over the coffee-pot and made breakfast a gay affair. She revelled in her new authority, and took advantage of her position to tease the children.