At first the dusk room was packed with Hurons and Montreal men. This young seignior Sainte-Hélène was one of the best leaders of his time. They were indignant that the enemy's last scattering shots had picked him off. The surgeon and La Hontan put all his followers out of the door,--he was scarcely conscious that they stood by him,--and left, beside his brother Longueuil, only one young man who had helped carry him in. Saint-Denis, on the bed, saw him with the swimming eyes of fever. The seignior of Beauport had hoped to have Sainte-Hélène for his son-in-law. His little Clementine, the child of his old age,--it was after all a fortunate thing that she was shut for safety in Quebec, while her father depended for care on Gaspard. Saint-Denis tried to see Sainte-Hélène's face; but the surgeon's helpers constantly balked him, stooping and rising and reaching for things. And presently a face he was not expecting to see grew on the air before him. Clementine's foot had always made a light click, like a sheep's on a naked floor. But Saint-Denis did not hear her enter. She touched her cheek to her father's. It was smooth and cold from the October air. Clementine's hair hung in large pale ringlets; for she was an ashen maid, gray-toned and subdued; the roughest wind never ruffled her smoothness. She made her father know that she had come with Beauport women and men from Quebec, as soon as any were allowed to leave the fort, to escort her. She leaned against the bed, soft as a fleece, yielding her head to her father's painful fondling. There was no heroism in Clementine; but her snug domestic ways made him happy in his house. "Sainte-Hélène is wounded," observed Saint-Denis. She cast a glance of fright over her shoulder. "Did you not see him when you came in?" "I saw some one; but it is to you that I have been wishing to come since Wednesday night." "I shall get well; they tell me it is not so bad with me. But how is it with Sainte-Hélène?" "I do not know, father." "Where is young Saint-Castin? Ask him." "He is helping the surgeon, father." "Poor child, how she trembles! I would thou hadst stayed in the fort, for these sights are unfit for women. New France can as ill spare him as we can, Clementine. Was that his groan?" She cowered closer to the bed, and answered, "I do not know." Saint-Denis tried to sit up in bed, but was obliged to resign himself, with a gasp, to the straw pillows.