icers sat at mess with him, hilarious over the
outcome, picturing General Proctor's state of mind when he learned the
age of his conqueror.

None of them cared a rap that Daniel Webster was opposing the war in the
House of Representatives at Washington, and declaring that on land it
was a failure.

A subaltern came to the mess room door, touching his cap and asking to
speak with Major Croghan.

"The men working outside at the trenches saw a boy come up from the
ravine, sir, and fall every few steps, so they've brought him in."

"Does he carry a dispatch?"

"No, sir. He isn't more than nine or ten years old. I think he was a
prisoner."

"Is he a white boy?"

"Yes, sir, but he's dressed like an Indian."

"I think it unlikely the British would allow the Shawanoes to burden
their march with any prisoners."

"Somebody had him, and I'm afraid he's been shot either during the
action or in the retreat. He was hid in the ravine."

"Bring him here," said Croghan.

A boy with blue eyes set wide apart, hair clinging brightly and moistly
to his pallid forehead, and mouth corners turning up in a courageous
smile, entered and stood erect before the officer. He was a well made
little fellow. His tiny buckskin hunting shirt was draped with a sash in
the Indian fashion, showing the curve of his naked hip. Down this a
narrow line of blood was moving. Children of refugees, full of pity,
looked through the open door behind him.

"Go to him, Shipp," said Croghan, as the boy staggered. But he waved the
ensign back.

"Who are you, my man?" asked the Major.

"I believe," he answered, "I am the Marquis de Ferrier."

IV

He pitched forward, and I was quicker than Ensign Shipp. I set him on my
knees, and the surgeon poured a little watered brandy clown his throat.

"Paul!" I said to him.

"Stand back," ordered the surgeon, as women followed their children,
crowding the room.

"Do you know him, Lazarre?" asked Croghan.

"It's Madame de Ferrier's child."

"Not the baby I used to see at De Chaumont's? What's he doing at Fort
Stephenson?"

The women made up my bunk for Paul, and I laid him in it. Each wanted to
take him to her care. The surgeon sent them to the cook-house to brew
messes for him, and stripped the child, finding a bullet wound in his
side. Probing brought nothing out, and I did not ask a single question.
The child should live. There could be no thought of anything else. While
the surgeon dressed an