The Lieutenant looked doubtfully at the dingy, bearded figure, then he motioned the soldiers aside.
“It is Captain la Grange,” he said, when Menard had entered; “he has been killed.”
The Lieutenant spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, but his eyes were shining and he was 392 breathing rapidly. Menard looked at him for a moment without a word, then he stepped to the door of a back room and looked in. Three flickering candles stood on a low table, and another on a chair at the head of the narrow bed. The light wavered over the log and plaster walls. A surgeon was bending over the bed, his assistant waiting at his elbow with instruments; the two shut off the upper part of the bed from Menard’s view. The Lieutenant stood behind the Captain, looking over his shoulder; both were motionless. There was no sound save a low word at intervals between the two surgeons, and the creak of a bore-worm that sounded distinctly from a log in the wall.
Menard turned away and walked back to the outer door, the Lieutenant with him. There they stood, silent, as men are who have been brought suddenly face to face with death. At last the Lieutenant began to speak in a subdued voice.
“We only know that it was an Indian. He has been scalped.”
“Oh!” muttered Menard.
“I think he is still breathing,––he was just before you came,––but there is no hope for 393 him. He was stabbed in a dozen places. It was some time before we knew––the Indian came in by the window, and must have found him asleep. There was no struggle.”
They stood again without speaking, and again the Lieutenant broke the silence.
“It is too bad. He was a good fellow.” He paused, as if searching for a kind word for Captain la Grange. “He was the best shot at the fort when he––when––”
“Yes,” said Menard. He too wished to speak no harsh word. “Is there anything I can do?”