“You were hit on the head, that’s the trouble,” went on the youth. “But I think you will get over it soon.” “Perhaps—some days I know I feel better. But then my head whirls again and I am in the dark! Oh, it is awful!” And the sick man sighed as before. “Can’t you remember where you came from at all?” “I remember the sea—the great boundless ocean, and a great storm. I was alone then—all alone. And I remember before that,—a beautiful garden and kind friends and relatives, and the babies, the beautiful babies! And then I remember—I remember——” The man paused. “It is cloudy again—dark—I can remember nothing, nothing!” And he lay back and closed his eyes. “Maybe as how he’ll never be jest right ag’in,” whispered Sam Barringford. “It’s terribul, no two ways on’t! I wish I could do somethin’ fer him.” “It will take time,” said Joseph Morris. “It is useless to worry him now, it will only make matters worse.” And so they let the strange man rest in peace. They had previously searched his pockets, but had found nothing by which he could be identified. The journey to the trading post accomplished, they found matters quiet there. No more of the enemy had appeared, and nothing had been seen of White Buffalo and his followers. The old Delaware chief came in about noon, bringing the news that Moon Eye’s tribe had been completely shattered. “They will never trouble my white friends again,” said White Buffalo. “Those who are left alive have learned a lesson which they will never forget.” The old Indian chief was more than glad to learn that James Morris was living, and shook hands warmly. “You have done me and mine a great service, White Buffalo,” said the trader, gratefully. “We shall not forget it.” “White Buffalo knows his real friends,” answered the aged chief, calmly. “He is glad to serve them.” Then he and his warriors went off to get something to eat, for they had had nothing since the day before. They were treated to the best the post afforded. Among those found living after the battle at the post was Benoit Vascal. He had been sorely wounded and trampled upon in the mêlée, and it was evident he could not long survive his hurts. He was placed on a rude couch and there he remained, since he could swallow neither food nor water. He groaned continually and bitterly bewailed the fate that had brought him to the place. When the strange sick man was brought in he was placed on a cot not far from where Benoit Vascal was resting. For some time the two did not notice each other. Then, of a sudden, the Frenchman glanced at the other and uttered a shriek of amazement and terror. “’Tis he! ’Tis he! Tis the judgment!” he screamed in French. “Take him away! I cannot bear to face him!” At the sound of Vascal’s voice the strange sick man turned over and gave him a wandering look. Then he also started up and gave a cry.