For four days, a fine, thick rain had been descending persistently from the low, gray-blanketed sky, and a wet mist rose from the sodden earth to meet it. The soil reeked with dampness; it oozed from the walls of the stone or stuccoed houses, dripped from the sloping roofs of rambling porches, saturated one's clothes, and permeated one's blood. The Kaskaskia River, pushed out of its banks by its swollen tributaries, had overflowed all the bottoms, and banked the waters of the bayous up into the hills. The village was surrounded by water on three sides, and from the fort one could see nothing save the dreary waste of still, dull water. Even the reeds, canes, and grasses which ordinarily fringed the bayous, adding something of life and grace, were now submerged.

In all the village there was but one cheerful, wooing spot:—the room in the late Commandant's house, made bright by the presence of Ellen, and kept warm and cheery by the crackling logs piled high in the wide fireplace. Here Ellen gave gracious welcome to officer and private, priest and native, coureur de bois from Canada, trader from New Orleans, and scout from the eastern settlements—whoever might chance our way, so he deport himself gentlemanwise. And now, since the winter and the rains had settled upon us, since the Indian deputations had ceased to trouble us, and traders were rare, the town afforded the officers no other diversion than a twice daily visit to Queen Eleanor's audience chamber.

Colonel Clark, Captains Bowman, Montgomery, Harrod and I, with LÉgÈre and Dr. Lafonte occupied usually the inner circle around the fire, Ellen throned in our midst. My quill falls from my hand and I lose myself in the scenes which my memory recalls so vividly that almost I live them over again. Ellen's graceful head, outlined by dark ringlets, rests against the white bear skin which covers her chair; her slender hands are crossed in her lap, and her arched feet, in their gay moccasins, are half buried in the panther's skin thrown over her foot rest. The fire, of seasoned logs three feet in length, lights the low-ceiled stone room with a vivid glow and suffuses the atmosphere with a fragrant warmth. This glow of the flames plays becomingly on Ellen's rich, soft coloring, and even brings out the shadows made by the long lashes upon her cheeks. Also it shows plainly the varied colors and markings of the wild skins hung thick upon the wall, and the gay stripes in the heavy Indian mats upon the floor.

Better still than the cheerful scene was the pleasant talk that filled the room, the bright, earnest discussions which did more to keep us keyed to our otherwise dreary task than all the promises that we could make ourselves of future fortune and renown. Who can gauge the value of woman's social tact and sympathy? In all ages they have been magnets around which great thoughts and noble deeds have focused. Some of the conversations held in the long, stone room at Kaskaskia seem to me to have been worthy the most brilliant salons in Paris, or the most famous of London coffee-houses. Ellen was never one of those chattering women—though she could express herself pithily and gracefully when she had anything to say—but she was the most inspiring listener I have ever seen.

Colonel Clark was a bold and brilliant talker, though sometimes arrogant and boastful. LÉgÈre, who had been bred and educated in Paris, had culture, and a keen tongue. Bowman was a man of careful observation, shrewd thinking, and close reasoning; and my own love of mental exercise made me an ambitious aspirant in these conversational bouts, over which Ellen presided with inspiring guidance.

The future of America was the subject we oftenest discussed, perhaps, and the one upon which we diverged, too, most widely. Colonel Clark favored the organization of thirteen free states, confederated as loosely as possible. I was for a close federation with a strong central government. All the delays and difficulties of our war were due to the lack of a central authority, it seemed to me. And even after our independence should be achieved we must fall to pieces, I argued, or become the prey of European powers unless we sought strength in a firmly cemented union.

"But Virginia," argued Clark, "had everything to lose, and nothing to gain by union. With the Illinois territory added to her possessions she would be the largest, richest, and strongest, of the States, and could dominate the rest. No union would be agreed to by the other States which did not provide for the territorial reduction of the Old Dominion—for her relinquishment, doubtless, of all we had won for her, and that we would never consent to. Why should Virginia voluntarily weaken herself in order to strengthen a union which would control all her resources?"

To this Ellen responded, taking sides with me: "A course of unselfish patriotism was the only course worthy of Virginia, and the only one consistent with her admirable policy so far. The building of a free, mighty, and glorious republic in America which might become a pattern for future democracies was the object for which all true Virginians and all enlightened patriots should be willing to sacrifice everything."

LÉgÈre agreed with Clark, Bowman with me, and our argument waxed warm—always to be quieted or diverted by Ellen's skillful management. One day, however, Clark was more arrogant than usual, and I more vehement, so that at last we quarreled like school boys.

Ellen's sarcasm, as she rebuked us, seemed directed at me rather than at Clark, and I left the room in an unseemly rage, being for several days too sore, and too much ashamed of myself, to return.

No loafing place was left me, now, save the large room in the barracks, where the men were accustomed to assemble. On a certain afternoon it became unbearable. The chimney smoked, the damp logs burned grudgingly, the soldiers, who were now in the town, slept snoring on the floor, wrapped in their blankets, or sprawled on the benches, and smoked strong pipes. My heart ached with home longing; for but an hour with the dear circle around the cheerful hearth, in the big room, I would at that moment have resigned all the prospects of my life—save only my hope of winning Ellen. I could stand it within no longer, and wrapping my cloak around me, and pulling my bearskin cap over my ears, set out to walk to the boat landing. It would afford me a moment's diversion to see how far the water had risen since yesterday. Then the lower end of the wharf was an inch under water.

Now it was completely submerged, and the ground all about it. If a boat should chance to come to Kaskaskia it must seek precarious landing upon a rock, which in dry weather, was half way up the low bluff on this side of the river, below the town. I made my way to this rock, and stood looking out on the formless waste of waters with a new sympathy for the victims of the flood, and a sudden emotion of deep thankfulness for the rock-ribbed mountains, rolling hills, upland meadows and well restricted, gentle streams of our dear valley. He who would might come west to dwell in the rich alluvial valley of the Mississippi, and her tributaries—as for me, I wished no other heritage than one of the fertile, smiling farms in the valley of Virginia.

As I gazed thus, my mind upon my own land rather than upon this desolation, a moving speck appeared upon the waters, and rapidly approached. Yes, it was a boat, one of those long, deep, swift boats used by the coureurs, and the traders. The two men propelling it were standing, evidently looking for the wharf. I called and signaled to them to drift a little down stream, and land upon the rock; then I clambered to its lower edge, and stood in readiness to help them. I had by this time recognized Colonel Vigo and his servant. A month before they had stopped with us on their way to the Illinois country, when Colonel Vigo had offered to spy out for Colonel Clark the real condition of affairs at Vincennes, and to send or to bring him word. His coming back so soon foreboded ill news; he would hardly have returned at such inclement season, but to warn us. We had hardly counted on such friendship from him, though we knew that he wished well to the cause of America. Moreover, he had seemed to conceive a strong friendship both for Colonel Clark and myself.

Sardinian by birth, soldier of fortune by profession, Spanish officer by rank won in Spanish wars, he was to me a most interesting character. Bold, yet cautious, rash yet diplomatic, shrewd yet daring, accomplished gentleman yet reckless adventurer, Indian by mode of life, but in manner and preferred tongue French—he was a type of that age and that civilization, which alone could have produced his like.

"Ah, McElroy," he called to me, as I gave him my hand to help him spring ashore, speaking in what he called English tongue, but which was really an impossible dialect, composed of a conglomerate of English, French, Italian, Spanish and Indian words, so that I do not attempt to reproduce it, but give only the substance of his utterances, "It is you then, and where is the Colonel?"

"Visiting," I answered, rather curtly; "do you come from Vincennes?"

"So the Colonel is courting the fair Americaness, eh?—and you, mon ami, sulk upon the rock! Is it that you have surrendered? I thought it not possible for a stubborn Scotchman to own defeat—but this is no time for banter. Yes, Captain McElroy, I come from Vincennes, and I have for the Colonel important news. He must arouse himself from the idle pleasure of paying court to beauty, and go back to the arduous work of a soldier would he hold his footing on the Wabash."

Meantime we had reached the village, and were soon before the Commandant's house. A panin summoned Clark for us, and together we walked toward the fort, while Colonel Vigo told how Vincennes had fallen, and outlined clearly the present state of affairs at that place. The fort had been repaired and restocked, and was garrisoned by a force of eighty mixed English and Canadians. The French inhabitants were over-awed, and the Wabash Indians were in sympathy with the English. The Miamis, who had recently made a pretended treaty with us, were really agents of Hamilton, having been hired by him to kill or capture Clark, and as many of his men as possible. Having been disappointed in their anticipations of big scalp money, they were awaiting surlily a chance of revenge. The French were, however, in heart, still loyal to us, and Father Gibault—who had been all the time with Captain Helm, as also had Scout Givens—was using all his diplomacy for us. It was due to his insistence that Colonel Vigo was released, and allowed to leave the town, even though he refused to swear that he would do nothing hostile to the British cause.

Clark heard Colonel Vigo to the end, then asked two or three questions as to General Hamilton's expectation of reËnforcements, or apparent apprehension lest he be attacked by the Americans. Colonel Vigo answered that he seemed to anticipate neither the one nor the other, whereupon Clark turned to his officers, now gathered about him, and said in the tone of a man promulgating some joyful news.

"Men, we march at once to Vincennes! We are too near success to yield to the first reverse. Have the drum beat for roll call, McElroy!"

When all the men, and many of the villagers, were assembled on the parade ground before the fort, Clark clambered upon the body of a calÈche and made them one of his stirring speeches, recalling the treachery of General Hamilton and the successful stratagem of Captain Helm.

At its conclusion, loud cheers rang forth, and the men crowded about the calÈche.

"Right, Colonel," called one of the men, "we must thrash this 'hair-buyer' General; he has been needing a lesson for some time."

"We'll thrash him, Colonel, never doubt it!" called another.

"If the Kaskaskians wish to help us—if they have found us true allies and kind friends, we promise them full recognition and reward with our regular soldiers," added Clark. "Wish any of you to enlist with us?"

"I! I! I!" came from a dozen throats, in chorus.

"LÉgÈre shall captain you, if as many as twenty-five enlist," added Clark. "Will you take down their names, LÉgÈre, and organize your company?" turning to that Frenchman, who accepted both the honor and the task with enthusiasm.

The commons now presented a lively and almost a cheerful scene; the men gathered in groups here and there, talking excitedly; drums were beating, and the villagers chattering and gesticulating. Suddenly, too, the western sun broke through environing mist and cloud, and poured over the scene a crimson glow, which might have been a word of promise spoken from Heaven, so much it cheered them.

"McElroy," said Clark in my ear, "I would like a word apart with you, please"; then as we walked off together: "It is time this rivalry between us were somehow put an end to; there are too few of us pledged to this dangerous enterprise to risk personal bitterness, especially among the officers, who should be in entire accord. You love your cousin, Ellen O'Neil, and so do I. You wish to marry her, so do I. Which one of us she prefers I defy angel, devil, or man to determine. But she must decide between us, and quickly. If it is you she loves, she must say so, and I will resign all claim, and cease to trouble either of you. If it is I, can you agree to do the same?"

"Yes," I answered a little reluctantly. "If she loves you, Colonel Clark, I promise to withdraw my suit. Only as her cousin and present guardian, I would have a right, I think, to exact one promise of you, and that is that you will forswear a single habit, and promise to settle down when this war is over. Can a man who loves adventure, as you do, resign it for the love of a woman—Colonel Clark—to say nothing of that other passion which sometimes overmasters you?"

Clark's face darkened and flushed, but with an effort he controlled himself. "As her kinsman, McElroy, you doubtless have a right to speak thus to me. You refer to my love for strong drink, and speak of my passion for adventure. The one I could easily resign for Ellen's sake; the other—'tis embedded in my nature, yet even adventure, methinks, might be well exchanged for the love of such a woman; for domestic joys with her to share them; for friends, home and children. Yes, McElroy, I can imagine myself a quiet, respectable, church-going citizen—and yet content."

"Then the decision rests with Ellen alone. Should she choose you, I promise to give my sanction to her choice. But I fear there is small hope for either of us. Have you not heard her say that she intends to take the veil, to be a nun?"

"Yes, but I have never believed that she meant it in her heart of hearts, though she has deceived herself into thinking she does, by telling herself that it is her holy duty."

"She does not seem to me called to the vocation of a nun." I was smiling at the mere thought of the brilliant Ellen in a nunnery.

"Surely she is not, McElroy; could she be happy, think you, shut out from a world which interests her so fully? Your quiet valley, with its dull routine of duty and religion made her rebellious, then how would she endure life in a convent? No, she greatly misunderstands herself. I should rather, by far, see her your wife, McElroy, than to know that all her brilliancy and charms were hidden behind the chill walls of a convent."

"And I would far rather see her your wife than a nun."

"Then let us pledge mutual aid, thus far—that we will both use all the influence we may have with her to keep her from a convent. Shall we go now to see her, and bid her choose between us?"

"It does not seem to me to be the wisest course. Suppose she should absolutely refuse both of us? or even in case we can persuade her that she is not called to a convent life, and can induce her to make choice, suppose one of us should be killed in this attack upon Vincennes, and he the one she had chosen? Might she not afterwards feel it disloyal to the memory of that one to listen to the addresses of the other, and so be more than ever disposed to think herself set apart to virgin consecration? Let us leave the matter undecided until one or both of us return from Vincennes. I can trust you to take no less interest in my safety on that account, and you, I think, can likewise trust me. Should I fall, my rights in Ellen, such as they are, become yours. Should you be killed, I inherit your claim to her. Meantime both are pledged to use our utmost endeavors to keep her out of a convent—even though to do so, we must help the other to win her."

"Shrewdly said, McElroy," replied the Colonel, with a hearty laugh. "It is a true Scotch-Irishman's bargain you propose—many chances to win, few to lose. Your hand on it. Once more we are good friends, and loyal comrades, pledged together and twice over to two noble causes: one—the independence of the United States of America and the saving of the world for democracy, and the other—to preserve to the world the beauty, the wit, and the spirit of Ellen O'Neil."