Frank said, "Nobody's saying you should stay. I don't want to see you killed." Nicole said, "Neither would your father. Pierre wanted you to have the estate, but he didn't want you dead on account of it." "Amen to that," said Frank. _Yes_, Auguste thought, despising himself, _but I think he expected me to keep the land for more than a day_. Frank went on, "But if you go back to your people, you've got to tell them--they can no more fight the United States for their land than you could fight Raoul." A fierce heat rose in Auguste as he took another sip of brandy. "At St. George's School I read that the Indian does not make good use of the land. The whites need the land. Therefore the Indian must yield." He clenched his fist around the glass in his hand. "We were living on this land! Doesn't that mean anything?" Frank said, "Auguste, you know better than any of your people how much power the United States have. You've got to tell them." Auguste was silent for a moment. _The long knives_, he thought. That was what his people called the American soldiers. But the British Band had no idea how very many long knives there were. He must make Black Hawk understand. He sipped a little more of the brandy, and its fire flowed through his blood. He sighed and nodded. "I will tell them. Frank, I need a boat." Nicole said, "Your eyelids are drooping, Auguste. You're tired and you're still hurt. You can't go tonight." True. And he wanted to stay long enough to see Grandpapa when he was awake. Auguste's last memory that night was of letting Frank lead him across the corridor into a darkened bedroom, where he fell face down on an empty bed. When he came to himself again, he was lying on the same bed, still fully clothed except for his boots. The room was not as dark as he remembered; it was in a sort of twilight. The one window was shuttered. A curtain covered the doorway. He looked around the room, saw boys' clothing hanging on pegs and piled on the floor, another bed, covered with rumpled sheets, empty. His own boots and his pack were set neatly at the foot of his bed. An urgent pressure inside told him he had been sleeping a long time. He saw a chamber pot in one corner. Smart of them to leave the pot here, he thought as he filled it. He didn't dare to go to their outhouse during daylight. He went to the window and cautiously looked through the shutter. The window looked south, and he could not see the sun, only the black shadows it painted in the ruts of the road that slanted up the hill past the Hopkins house. It must be late afternoon. He wondered, were Raoul and his men out there somewhere, looking for him? Would he live to see another nightfall? His head ached less than it had last night--until he touched it. Then the pain was like someone pounding a nail into his brain. The bump felt as big as a hen's egg.