“An acquaintance of mine?” Douglas remarked wonderingly. “Yes—a man both of us have good reason to remember.” “Ah! Who is it, General?” “Hiram Bradford.” Like one electrified, Douglas sprang erect—his lips apart, his cheeks flushed. “Hiram Bradford!” he ejaculated. General Harrison nodded. “And you have seen him, General?” “I have.” “Did he send for you?” “No; I knew nothing of his capture, till I went among the prisoners, yesterday evening. I recognized him instantly, although he has changed much since the Tippecanoe campaign. Evidently he is not in good health. He’s emaciated, and his hair is white as snow. But he’s the same cool, self-reliant villain.” Harrison uttered this last sentence, in a tone of intense and bitter hatred. Ross Douglas winced. Instantly he realized what Bradford’s fate was likely to be. But hiding his feelings as well as he could, the young man inquired: “Did you talk with him, General Harrison?” “A little. I called him by name. He didn’t attempt to conceal his identity. He asked about you; and when I informed him you were with Colonel Dudley, in the battle across the river, and hadn’t returned to the fort with the survivors, he groaned aloud. When he had recovered his equanimity, he exacted from me a promise that, should you return, I would send you to him. For some reason, Douglas, that scoundrel is interested in your welfare—for some reason he likes you very much. His actions toward you in the past, his agitation about your welfare yesterday, prove it.” For a moment Ross stood with downcast eyes and said nothing. Then suddenly looking up, he inquired with a show of emotion: “He didn’t ask for mercy at your hands, General?” The general slowly shook his head, all the while keenly eyeing his companion. “Nor inquired as to his fate?” “Not a word.” “But he asked that I be sent to him, upon my return?” General Harrison again nodded, and remarked: “Here’s a pass that will admit you to his presence. When you have talked with him, return to me.” Douglas silently took the bit of paper extended to him, and turned to leave the tent. At the door he paused and, looking back, said: “General Harrison.” “Well?” “Will Hiram Bradford be exchanged?” “He—will—not!”—slowly and distinctly. “And his fate?” “An ignominious death—probably! It all depends upon what a court-martial may do.” And General Harrison’s thin lips were firmly drawn; his brows, lowering. Douglas again bowed, and quickly withdrew. On reaching the open air, he took a deep breath and, lifting his eyes to the clouded heavens, moved his lips as though in prayer. Then, at a brisk pace, he set out toward the blockhouse where Bradford was confined. As he passed along, he observed a number of children playing in front of a large tent. “I must call upon Amy, first,” he thought; “she may be needing something.”