"The happiest year of my life," said Ellen, beaming gratitude upon him for his cheerful and unselfish God-speed to us; "and also the most glorious of Colonel Clark's. I go back to chant the victories, both in war and diplomacy, of our American Hannibal!"
"The comparison is too flattering, Queen Eleanor," said Clark, but I knew he was pleased. I thought of Hannibal's end, even as I saw the force of Ellen's comparison, and a sad premonition was borne in upon my mind, adding to my grief at parting with him.
"If our expedition has been successful, even beyond our hopes," added Clark, "most of the credit is due to my loyal officers and my brave men. Especially must I share any glory that is mine with this brave, true comrade," and he laid a hand upon my shoulder, and looked into my eyes with his own bold and piercing ones, softened to the tenderness of a woman's. I knew this generous speech was made to forward my cause with Ellen, and I choked in my throat as I grasped his hand again, and, when I had given him one look of thanks, must needs turn aside to regain control of my feelings.
"If you needed me, Clark, I could not leave you," I found voice, presently, to say; "I but go to fight for our cause beyond the Alleghanies. But never can I have a commander more honored, or more beloved."
"Success to you, McElroy, in war and peace!—in all things you may have at heart!" he answered me, also much moved; "and when you have won all you strive for I shall come to rejoice with you. Farewell, comrade!"
"Farewell, Queen Eleanor! A pleasant journey and a pleasant home-coming! Forget me not in your prayers, sweet saint!" and he bent and kissed her hand, then handed her into the boat with a courtly grace which well became him.
He was still standing upon the wharf, when we made the first bend in the river—his arms folded, his gaze fixed upon the receding boat, as if he saw it but as part of a vision. We waved to him, but he did not move. The virgin freshness of the early morning, and the roseate radiance of the newly risen sun brought out, with added force, the heroic proportions and carriage of the man, silhouetted like a carven statue, representing human will, against the far sweeping, luxuriant bluffs, crowned with the growth of centuries, marking that vast and opulent territory which his single purpose had won and held for his country.
Floating down the river through the soft October haze on our comfortably fitted flat boat was ideal journeying. Often now when I fall into reveries, I live over again those golden autumn days, and see the rich and varied landscape through which we drifted with the swift current of the majestic Mississippi.
Ellen spent the days and half the nights on deck, protected from sun and dew, by the overhanging roof of the little cabin in which she slept. She had her own chair which Clark had ordered conveyed on board from the commandant's house, and there were thick Indian mats for her feet. I sprawled on these, hour after hour, making talk to amuse her, or listening to her when she pleased to entertain me, and entirely content were she silent, or talkative, gay or pensive, so only there was no shadow of regret upon her face. But one thing was lacking,—a book or two to read from. In lieu of them we told each other stories we had read, or repeated passages, prose or poetry, as we could remember. Ellen gave me long extracts from Shakespeare. I recited parts from "The School for Scandal"—that being, in truth, all the poetry I had learned by heart since my schoolboy days, and, seeing Ellen was interested, described the costumes we wore at its playing in Philadelphia, and the appearance and air of the players. From that I was led on to talk of the society I had mingled with in Philadelphia, and then of the Bufords and their kindness to me. Ellen's questions and shrewd guessing brought me at last to narrate the whole story of my whilom infatuation for Miss Nelly, and the narrow escape I made from being led to play a traitor's part by her wiles.