“It is no rumor. It is all true. Tomorrow it will be confirm. And even yet that is not all.” Bondie spoke gravely, apparently minding not at all Mr. Stickney’s disbelief in his news. “It was Metea who bring the news from Detroit. It was Winnemac and the Pottawatomies who have kill Captain Wells. Now Winnemac comes to this place with his warriors. Some are here now. In two days the rest will be here. They will attack the fort. In a month the British will come with the big guns to help them. It is true, Monsieur, all true! Sacre nom! Am I one to tell lies? It is all true.” Stickney dropped weakly into his chair. Bondie’s earnestness and the confirmation which Alagwa’s silence lent had its weight with him. Almost he believed. Shuddering, half from horror and half from illness, he lay silent for a moment. Then he raised his head. “Have you told Lieutenant Hibbs?” he asked. Bondie shrugged his shoulders. “Lieutenant Hibbs is a fool,” he said, not angrily, but as one who states a well-known fact. “He speaks with a loud voice, cursing everyone. He will not believe me, no matter what I say. So I come to you.” Stickney got up. “We must go to him at once,” he said. “Come.” He started down the path toward the fort, then paused and hesitated, glancing at the woman and children beneath the tree. Then he went on. “Poor woman,” he murmured. “Let her be happy a little longer.” At the gate of the fort the three were compelled to wait while a messenger went to notify Mr. Hibbs that Major Stickney wished to see him on a matter of grave importance. Plainly the captain was not anxious to receive visitors, for it was long before the messenger came back, bringing grudging permission for the three to enter. “The lieutenant’s in the messhall,” he said, carelessly. “He’ll see you there!” The messhall was a log cabin, long and low, that paralleled the southern wall of the fort. As the three approached it their ears were saluted with loud laughter and clinking of glasses. Clearly, it was the scene of high revelry. Inside, at the head of the table, sat Lieutenant Hibbs, goblet in hand, flanked by Williams, murderer of Wilwiloway and half a dozen others, all traders or petty officers. Half a dozen smoky tallow dips threw a flaring light on the flushed faces of the revellers, but did not dispel the dim shadows that crept about the walls. Hibbs glanced at Stickney with a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He made no attempt to rise, nor did he invite his visitors to sit down. “What the devil’s the matter, Stickney?” he growled. “What do you want here at this time of the night. Can’t you let a man have a minute to himself?” Stickney’s face was grim. “I have just received very serious news,” he said; “and I have brought it to you. It is very serious--more serious than I can say.”