"Ventrebleu!" squeaked Oncle Jazon, "ef I didn't think the ole
world had busted into a million pieces!"
He was jumping up and down not three feet from Beverley's toes,
waving his cap excitedly.
"But wasn't I skeert! Ya, ya, ya! Vive la banniere d'Alice
Roussillon! Vive Zhorzh Vasinton!"
Hearing Alice's name caused Beverley to look around. Where was
she? In the distance he saw Father Beret hurrying to the spot
where some of the men burnt and wounded by the explosion were
being stripped and cared for. Hamilton still stood like a statue.
He appeared to be the only cool person in the fort.
"Where is Alice?--Miss Roussillon--where did Miss Roussillon go?"
Beverley exclaimed, staring around like a lost man. "Where is
she?"
"D'know," said Oncle Jazon, resuming his habitual expression of
droll dignity, "she shot apast me jes' as thet thing busted loose,
an' she went like er hummin' bird, skitch!--jes' thet way--an' I
didn't see 'r no more. 'Cause I was skeert mighty nigh inter seven
fits; 'spect that 'splosion blowed her clean away! Ventrebleu!
never was so plum outen breath an' dead crazy weak o' bein'
afeard!"
"Lieutenant Beverley," roared Clark in his most commanding tone,
"go to the gate and settle things there. That mob outside is
trying to break in!"
The order was instantly obeyed, but Beverley had relapsed.
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