ng and
waking on his primitive bed, alternately hearing over again her every
phrase and laugh, and striving to formulate some definite plan for
defending the town and fort. His heart was full of her. She had
surprised his nature and filled it, as with a wonderful, haunting song.
His youth, his imagination, all that was fresh and spontaneously gentle
and natural in him, was flooded with the magnetic splendor of her
beauty. And yet, in his pride (and it was not a false pride, but rather
a noble regard for his birthright) he vaguely realized how far she was
from him, how impossible.

CHAPTER VIII

THE DILEMMA OF CAPTAIN HELM

Oncle Jazon, feeling like a fish returned to the water after a long and
torturing captivity in the open air, plunged into the forest with
anticipations of lively adventure and made his way toward the Wea
plains. It was his purpose to get a boat at the village of Ouiatenon
and pull thence up the Wabash until he could find out what the English
were doing. He chose for his companions on this dangerous expedition
two expert coureurs de bois, Dutremble and Jacques Bailoup. Fifty miles
up the river they fell in with some friendly Indians, well known to
them all, who were returning from the portage.

The savages informed them that there were no signs of an English
advance in that quarter. Some of them had been as far as the St. Joseph
river and to within a short distance of Detroit without seeing a white
man or hearing of any suspicious movements on the part of Hamilton. So
back came Oncle Jazon with his pleasing report, much disappointed that
he had not been able to stir up some sort of trouble.

It was Helm's turn to laugh.

"What did I tell you?" he cried, in a jolly mood, slapping Beverley on
the shoulder. "I knew mighty well that it was all a big story with
nothing in it. What on earth would the English be thinking about to
march an army away off down here only to capture a rotten stockade and
a lot of gabbling parly-voos?"

Beverley, while he did not feel quite as confident as his chief, was
not sorry that things looked a little brighter than he had feared they
would turn out to be. Secretly, and without acknowledging it to
himself, he was delighted with the life he was living. The Arcadian
atmosphere of Vincennes clothed him in its mists and dreams. No matter
what way the weather blew its breath, cold or warm, cloudy or fair,
rain or snow, the peace in his soul changed not. His nature