into
the fort unattended by any warrior, and without a word sat down near
St. Ange de Bellerive in the officers' quarters. Both veteran soldier
and old chief knew that Major Farmar, with a large body of troops,
was almost in sight of Fort Chartres, coming from New Orleans. Perhaps
before the low winter sun was out of sight, cannon mounted on one of
the bastions would have to salute the new commandant. Sentinels on
the mound of Fort Chartres could see a frosty valley, reaching to the
Mississippi, glinting in the distance. That alluvial stretch was, in
the course of years, to be eaten away by the river even to the bastions.
The fort itself, built at such expense, would soon be abandoned by
its conquerors, to sink, piecemeal, a noble and massive ruin. The
dome-shaped powder house and stone quarters would be put to ignoble
uses, and forest trees, spreading the spice of walnut fragrance, or the
dense shadow of oaks, would grow through the very room where St. Ange
and Pontiac sat. Indians, passing by, would camp in the old place,
forgetting how the last hope of their race had clung to it.

The Frenchman partly foresaw these changes, and it was a bitter hour to
him. He wanted to have it over and to cross the Mississippi, to a town
recently founded northward on the west shore, where many French settlers
had collected, called St. Louis. This was then considered Spanish
ground. But if the French king deserted his American colonies, why
should not his American colonists desert him?

"Father," spoke out Pontiac, with the usual Indian term of respect,
"I have always loved the French. We have often smoked the calumet
together, and we have fought battles together against misguided Indians
and the English dogs."

St. Ange de Bellerive looked at the dejected chief and thought of Le
Moyne de Bienville, now an old man living in France, who was said to
have wept and implored King Louis on his knees not to give up to the
English that rich western domain which Marquette and Jolliet and La
Salle and Tonty and many another Frenchman had suffered to gain, and
to secure which he himself had given his best years.

"The chief must now bury the hatchet," he answered quietly.

"I have buried it," said Pontiac. "I shall lift it no more."

"The English are willing to make peace with him, if he recalls all his
wampum belts of war."

Pontiac grinned. "The belts are more than one man can carry."

"Where does the chief intend to go when he leaves