If any person
had been looking out through the little holes, called windows, in
those silent and rayless huts, it would have been easy to
recognize M. Roussillon by his stature and his gait, dimly
outlined as he was. A thought, which seemed to him an inspiration
of genius, had taken possession of him and was leading him, as if
by the nose, straight away to Hamilton's lines. He was freighted
with eloquence for the ear of that commander, and as he strode
along facing the crisp morning air he was rehearsing under his
breath, emphasizing his periods in tragic whispers with sweeping
gestures and liberal facial contortions. So absorbed was he in his
oratorical soliloquy that he forgot due military precaution and
ran plump into the face of a savage picket guard who, without
respect for the great M. Roussillon's dignity, sprang up before
him, grunted cavernously, flourished a tomahawk and spoke in
excellent and exceedingly guttural Indian:
"Wah, surrender!"
It is probable that no man ever complied with a modest request in
a more docile spirit than did M. Roussillon upon that occasion. In
fact his promptness must have been admirable, for the savage
grunted approval and straightway conducted him to Hamilton's
headquarters on a batteau in the river.
The British commander, a hale man of sandy complexion and probably
under middle age, was in no very pleasant humor.
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