“You cannot go out now, Uncle Joe,” said Dave, hastily. “They would shoot you on the spot!” “No, ye can’t go now,” added Barringford. A short time passed, and then came a hail from without. Looking they saw Jean Bevoir waving a bit of dirty white cloth. “He wants another pow-wow,” said a frontiersman at the gate. “If I were you I’d not show myself,” said Dave, to his uncle, but Joseph Morris mounted the short ladder nevertheless. “What do you want now?” demanded the planter. “I vish to make terms,” began Jean Bevoir, and then went over his old story of his rights regarding the post. “Jean Bevoir, I do not wish to listen to you,” answered the planter. “This post belongs to David Morris, and that is the end of it. The best you can do is to take yourself off and be quick about it. All of this land now belongs to the English, and you Frenchmen have no rights here at all. If you want to establish a post you must do it in French territory. The war with your country and with the Indians is at an end, and you must act according to the treaty of peace. You are accountable for the death of my brother, and that is bad enough, without making matters worse. Go away, and never let me see your face again.” “I vill go—but I shall come back!” shouted Jean Bevoir, in a rage, and shaking his fist at Joseph Morris he retreated once more behind the trees. “Did he say anything about Henry?” asked Dave. “No. I will ask him,” answered his uncle, and started to call to Jean Bevoir, when Barringford stopped him. “Don’t ye do it,” said the old frontiersman. “Maybe they don’t know Henry is still out, an’ if so, it won’t be wise to let ’em know.” “That is true,” answered the planter, thoughtfully. “I will say nothing. But pray Heaven that my boy is safe!” After that the best part of the day passed slowly. The only excitement occurred when the French prisoner broke his bonds and tried to escape. He was overtaken by one of the frontiersmen and a desperate hand-to-hand fight ensued, in which the frontiersman was stabbed in the shoulder. But then the Frenchman received a pistol bullet in his abdomen and fell flat. He was picked up and taken to the main building of the post, where he received such medical attention as the limited means of the garrison afforded. This did small good, however, and he died at sunrise on the following day. Before he died he tried to tell Dave something about James Morris, but couldn’t speak clearly. “What do you want to say?” asked Dave. “Tell me if you can.” “Your fadder, he ees—he ees——” said the wounded man, and that was as far as he could get. He gasped for breath, tried to sit up,—and a minute later all was over. “He must have known something,” said Dave, to his uncle. “What was it?” The planter shook his head. “Do not ask me, Dave,” he said, gently. “It is too bad! First your father, and now it may be Henry!” And he turned away to hide the tears that sprang into his eyes.