Jean snatched up the fallen banner and ran to Colonel Clark with
it. Two minutes later it was made fast and the halyard began to
squeak through the rude pulley at the top of the pole. Up, up,
climbed the gay little emblem of glory, while the cannon crashed
from the embrasures of the blockhouse hard by, and outside the
roar of voices redoubled. Thirteen guns boomed the salute, though
it should have been fourteen,--the additional one for the great
Northwestern Territory, that day annexed to the domain of the
young American Republic. The flag went up at old Vincennes never
to come down again, and when it reached its place at the top of
the staff, Beverley and Alice stood side by side looking at it,
while the sun broke through the clouds and flashed on its shining
folds, and love unabashed glorified the two strong young faces.
CHAPTER XXI
SOME TRANSACTIONS IN SCALPS
History would be a very orderly affair, could the dry-as-dust
historians have their way, and doubtless it would be thrillingly
romantic at every turn if the novelists were able to control its
current. Fortunately neither one nor the other has much influence,
and the result, in the long run, is that most novels are
shockingly tame, while the large body of history is loaded down
with picturesque incidents, which if used in fiction, would be
thought absurdly romantic and improbable.
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