"Anything, except leave me," replied Tom Mitchell. "Never; it is something else. It is simply this; don't, your lordship, give me such another mission. Whatever you may think, my master," cried Camotte, warmly, "it is not pleasant to play the part of a traitor and scoundrel." "I think you did it very cleverly," laughed Tom; "there, you are an old fool. Whom else could I trust? Having settled that very important fact, any news on the island?" "Evening Dew frets. You should send her home--all the more that it makes some people talk," he added. "Who has dared?" said Tom Mitchell, frowning. "Stewart. But don't worry; I settled him by blowing his brains out, and no one else has since made an observation." "All right. What about the river?" "Five men went down in a canoe yesterday. It was the squatter of the valley, his two sons, and black servants." "Where on earth could he be going to?" mused Tom. "Well, we can find out by stopping him on his return." "I'll see about it. Anything else?" "Hum! You have had Major Ardenwood's letter asking an interview today? Oh, yes! There are some Frenchmen at the fort, at all events, one of them. Still I am aware that three strangers will accompany the major." "Whom did you send out to inquire?" "Tête de Plume. I could not send Versenca; in the first place, because he was drunk; secondly, because I don't like him." Then, after a pause, Tom whispered to Camotte, who listened with deep and almost religious attention. "And now," said Tom, "that you understand me, away." Camotte went out. The worthy Mexican was the devoted friend, the alter ego, and moreover the lieutenant of Tom Mitchell, who wholly confided in him. Despite of events we have described before, Camotte was worthy of his trust. The chief of the outlaws quietly made some alterations in his toilette, which was a little out of order from his long journey. He had just come off a distant expedition. The booty had been at once transferred to the island. Having done this he drew the curtain that served as a door. The camp no longer looked the same. The fire was out. The two eminences were guarded by sharpshooters. A detachment of twenty men guarded the entrance to the defile. The rest of the troop were ready to mount at a sign. Tom Mitchell looked about him with an air of satisfaction. Camotte had executed all his orders faithfully. At this moment the sun rose. It was like a theatrical scene. Light fell suddenly upon everything. "Oh!" cried the captain as a bugle sounded in the distance from the defile, "I was just in time." He stood erect in front of his hut, leaning on his cavalry sword, and waited with sublime tranquillity. After some few words had passed, four strangers, one in the uniform of a major of the American army, came out from the defile, led by Camotte, who walked respectfully in front of them, and made their way in the direction of the captain. "Good day, Captain Mitchell," said the major.