"This will keep the warmth in you, Hawk," he said kindly. "We will wrap you in it till you are completely covered. Then your blood will run again. You have lost much, brother. See, it is frozen on your shirt." Steve had not felt the place before, but was glad to hear the news, for he reckoned that if there had been severe bleeding from his wound, as seemed to have been the case, for he was very weak, the frost had arrested further hæmorrhage, and perhaps saved his life. He submitted while the Indians wrapped him in the skin rug, and then felt himself lifted on their shoulders again. Very soon he was in a comfortable glow from head to foot, and that, combined with his weakness and weariness, caused his eyes to close, and he fell asleep. An hour or more later a light flashed in his face, for the dawn had not yet broken, and on looking round, he found that he was in a big hut, the walls of which were constructed of whole timbers. The light flashed from a candle lamp hanging to the rafters, and showed beside the walls and roof of the hut, the figures of the four Indians standing about him, and some twelve French soldiers and as many backwoodsmen, the irregulars on the side of France. Someone was speaking in the background, and for a time he listened to the words. Then some familiar note in the voice struck on his ear, and he found himself wondering who was speaking, wondering why the voice caused his heart to flutter so and his pulses to beat. "One captured, you say? Only one? Peste! Is this carrying out my orders?" There was a bang as the speaker's hand came down upon a table which stood close to one of the walls. "That is so, monsieur. One only was taken," came the answer, and by dint of craning his head, Steve saw that it was a regular who spoke, dressed in the familiar uniform of the French line, but now swathed in warm furs, which, however, did not cover the chevrons, which showed that he was a sergeant. "One only, monsieur," he repeated, as if excusing himself. "And for this fine capture you paid well no doubt. What was the price? Come, I am asking you." The voice was very calm now. There was a note of satire in it, and those who listened could tell that the man who spoke was angry, that his calmness was only the prelude to an outburst of temper. The sergeant felt that, too. He drew himself up at attention, clapped his pike close against his shoulder, and looked askance at his commander. "The price, monsieur. There was one killed by this prisoner, and three others who fell within the five minutes which followed. Yes, four were killed altogether, one of these being a messenger."