Still, friendship rose above regret, and
Clark resolved to push his little column forward all the more
rapidly, hoping to arrive in time to prevent the impending
execution.
Next morning the march was resumed at the break of dawn; but a
swollen stream caused some hours of delay, during which Beverley
himself arrived from the rear, a haggard and weirdly unkempt
apparition. He had been for three days following hard on the
army's track, which he came to far westward. Oncle Jazon saw him
first in the distance, and his old but educated eyes made no
mistake.
"Yander's that youngster Beverley," he exclaimed. "Ef it ain't I'm
a squaw!"
Nor did he parley further on the subject; but set off at a rickety
trot to meet and assist the fagged and excited young man.
Clark had given Oncle Jazon his flask, which contained a few gills
of whisky. This was the first thing offered to Beverley; who
wisely took but a swallow. Oncle Jazon was so elated that he waved
his cap on high, and unconsciously falling into French, yelled in
a piercing voice:
"VIVE ZHORSH VASINTON! VIVE LA BANNIERE D'ALICE ROUSSILLON!"
Seeing Beverley reminded him of Alice and the flag. As for
Beverley, the sentiment braced him, and the beloved name brimmed
his heart with sweetness.
Clark went to meet them as they came in. He hugged the gaunt
Lieutenant with genuine fervor of joy, while Oncle Jazon ran
around them making a series of grotesque capers.
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