Here, if John meant to play his part, was the moment for him to salute. He half lifted his hand as he reclined, but let it fall again. From the river-bank a pair of eyes looked down into his; dark grey eyes--or were they violet?--shy and yet bold, dim and yet shining with emotion. God help him! This child--she could be little more--was worshipping him for a hero! "Nay, sir, give it to me!" cried the Commandant, stooping by the quay's edge. "I shall esteem it an honour to grasp the hand of one who comes from Fort Carillon--who was wounded for France in her hour of victory. Your name, my friend?--for the messengers who brought word of you yesterday had not heard it, or perhaps had forgotten." "My name is a Cleeve, monsieur." "A Clive? a Clive? It is unknown to me, and yet it has a good sound, and should belong to _un homme Men ne_?" He turned inquiringly towards his brother, a mild, elderly man with a scholar's stoop and a face which assorted oddly with his uniform of captain of militia, being shrivelled as parchment and snuff-dried and abstracted in expression as though he had just lifted his eyes from a book. "A Clive, Etienne. From what province should our friend derive?" M. Etienne's eyes--they were, in fact, short-sighted--seemed to search inwardly for a moment before he answered: "There was a family of that name in the Quercy; so late, I think, as 1650. I had supposed it to be extinct. It bore arms counterpaly argent and gules, a canton ermine--" "My brother, sir," the Commandant interrupted, "is a famous genealogist. Do you accept this coat-of-arms he assigns to you?" "If M. le Commandant will excuse me--" "Eh, eh?--an awkward question, no doubt, to put to many a young man of family now serving with the colours?" The Commandant chuckled knowingly. "But I have an eye, sir, for nice shades, and an ear too. _Verbum sapienti satis_. A sergeant, they tell me--and of the Bearnais; but until we have cured you, sir, and the active list again claims you, you are Monsieur a Clive and my guest. We shall talk, so, upon an easier footing. Tut-tut! I have eyes in my head, I repeat. And this Indian of yours--how does he call himself?" "Menehwehna, monsieur. He is an Ojibway." "And you and he have come by way of the Wilderness? Now what puzzles me--" "Papa!" interposed the girl gently, laying a hand on her father's sleeve; "ought we not to get him ashore before troubling him with all these questions? He is suffering, I think." "You say well, my child. A thousand pardons, sir. Here, Bedard! Jeremie!"