must go."

It takes a great man to gauge the heart of a man who seldom speaks. "You
may go, but how can you find him tonight?"

"Ugh, I find him," and the Indian pointed to a little, prick-eared,
yellow cur that sneaked at his heels.

"Success to you; he was one of the best we had," said the general, as
the Indian left, then added: "Take a couple of men along, and, here,
take this," and he held out a flask.

Thus it was that the dawning saw Rolf on a stretcher carried by his
three scouting partners, while Skookum trotted ahead, looking this way
and that--they should surely not be ambushed this time.

And thus the crowning misfortune, the culminating apes of disaster--the
loss of his knife--the thing of all others that roused in Rolf the
spirit of rebellion, was the way of life, his dungeon's key, the golden
chain that haled him from the pit.

Chapter 85. The Hospital, the Prisoners, and Home

There were wagons and buckboards to be had, but the road was rough,
so the three changed off as litter-bearers and brought him to the lake
where the swift and smooth canoe was ready, and two hours later they
carried him into the hospital at Plattsburg.

The leg was set at once, his wounds were dressed, he was warmed,
cleaned, and fed; and when the morning sun shone in the room, it was a
room of calm and peace.

The general came and sat beside him for a time, and the words he spoke
were ample, joyful compensation for his wounds. MacDonough, too, passed
through the ward, and the warm vibrations of his presence drove death
from many a bed whose inmate's force ebbed low, whose soul was walking
on the brink, was near surrender.

Rolf did not fully realize it then, but long afterward it was clear that
this was the meaning of the well-worn words, "He filled them with a new
spirit."

There was not a man in the town but believed the war was over; there was
not a man in the town who doubted that his country's cause was won.

Three weeks is a long time to a youth near manhood, but there was much
of joy to while away the hours. The mothers of the town came and read
and talked. There was news from the front. There were victories on the
high seas. His comrades came to sit beside him; Seymour, the sprinter,
as merry a soul as ever hankered for the stage and the red cups of life;
Fiske, the silent, and McGlassin, too, with his dry, humorous talk;
these were the bright and funny hours. There were others. There came a
bright-chec