Hamilton frowned. The mention of Clark was disturbing. Ever since
the strange disappearance of Lieutenant Barlow he had nursed the
fear that possibly Clark's scouts had captured him and that the
American forces might be much nearer than Kaskaskia. Besides, his
nerves were unruly, as they had been ever since the encounter with
Father Beret; and his vision persisted in turning back upon the
accusing cold face of Alice, lying in the moonlight. One little
detail of that scene almost maddened him at times; it was a
sheeny, crinkled wisp of warm looking hair looped across the cheek
in which he had often seen a saucy dimple dance when Alice spoke
or smiled. He was bad enough, but not wholly bad, and the thought
of having darkened those merry eyes and stilled those sweet
dimples tore through him with a cold, rasping pang.
"Just as soon as this toddy is properly mixed and tempered," said
Helm, with a magnetic jocosity beaming from his genial face, "I'm
going to propose a toast to the banner of Alice Roussillon, which
a whole garrison of British braves has been unable to take!"
"If you do I'll blow a hole through you as big as the south door
of hell," said Hamilton, in a voice fairly shaken to a husky
quaver with rage. "You may do a great many insulting things; but
not that."
Helm was in a half stooping attitude with a ladle in one hand, a
cup in the other.
Pages:
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372