"Where did you get this?" I heard myself asking, a strange voice sounding far down the throat. "From an Indian," the mystic told me quietly. "He said it was bad medicine to him. He never had any luck in hunting after it fell to his share, so he was glad to give it to me." "Where did he get it?" "His tribe took it from some prisoners they killed." I was running blindly around in a circle to find relief from the news he dealt me, when the absurdity of such news overtook me. I stood and laughed. "Who were the prisoners?" "I don't know," answered Johnny Appleseed. "How do you know the Indians killed them?" "The one that gave me this book told me so." "There are plenty of padlocked books in the world," I said jauntily. "At least there must be more than one. How long ago did it happen?" "Not very long ago, I think; for the book was clean." "Give it to me," I said, as if I cursed him. "It's a sacred book," he answered, hesitating. "Maybe it's sacred. Let me see." "There may be holy mysteries in it, to be read only of him who has the key." "I have a key!" I took it out of the snuffbox. Johnny Appleseed fixed his rapt eyes on the little object in my fingers. "Mebby you are the one appointed to open and read what is sealed!" "No, I'm not! How could my key fit a padlocked book that belonged to prisoners killed by the Indians?" He held it out to me and I took hold of the padlock. It was a small steel padlock, and the hole looked dangerously the size of my key. "I can't do it!" I said. "Let me try," said Johnny Appleseed. "No! You might break my key in a strange padlock! Hold it still, Johnny. Please don't shake it." "I'm not shaking it," Johnny Appleseed answered tenderly. "There's only one way of proving that my key doesn't fit," I said, and thrust it in. The ward turned easily, and the padlock came away in my hand. I dropped it and opened the book. Within the lid a name was written which I had copied a thousand times--"Eagle Madeleine Marie de Ferrier." Still I did not believe it. Nature protects us in our uttermost losses by a density through which conviction is slow to penetrate. In some mysterious way the padlocked book had fallen into strange hands, and had been carried to America. "If Eagle were in America, I should know it. For De Chaumont would know it, and Skenedonk would find it out." I stooped for the padlock, hooked it in place, and locked the book again. "Is the message to you alone?" inquired Johnny Appleseed. "Did you ever care for a woman?" I asked him. Restless misery came into his eyes, and I noticed for the first time that he was not an old man; he could not have been above thirty-five. He made no answer; shifting from one bare foot to the other, his body settling and losing its Indian lightness. "A woman gave me the key to this book. Her name is written inside the lid. I was to read it if it ever fell into my hands, after a number of years. Somebody has stolen it, and carried it among the Indians. But it's mine. Every shilling in my wallet, the clothes off my back you're welcome to--" "I don't want your money or your clothes." "But let me give you something in exchange for it." "What do I need? I always have as much as I want. This is a serviceable coat, as good as any man need wish for; and the ravens feed me. And if I needed anything, could I take it for carrying a message? I carry good tidings of great joy among the people all the time. This is yours. Put it in your pocket." I hid the padlocked book in the breast of my coat, and seized his wrist and his hand. "Be of good courage, white double-man," said Johnny Appleseed. "The Lord lift up the light of His countenance upon you, the Lord make His face to shine upon you and give you peace!" He returned to his side of the fire and stretched himself under the stars, and I went to Croghan's quarters and lay down with my clothes on in the bunk assigned to me. The book which I would have rent open at twenty, I now carried unsealed. The suspense of it was so sweet, and drew my thoughts from the other suspense which could not be endured. It was not likely that any person about Mont-Louis had stolen the book, and wandered so far. Small as the volume was, the boards indented my breast and made me increasingly conscious of its presence. I waked in the night and held it. Next morning Johnny Appleseed was gone from the fort, unafraid of war, bent only on carrying the apple of civilization into the wilderness. Nobody spoke about his absence, for shells began to fall around us. The British and Indians were in sight; and General Proctor sent a flag of truce demanding surrender. Major Croghan's ensign approached the messenger with a flag in reply. The women gathered their children as chickens under shelter. All in the fort were cheerful, and the men joked with the gush of humor which danger starts in Americans. I saw then the ready laugh that faced in its season what was called Indian summer, because the Indian took then advantage of the last pleasant weather to make raids. Such pioneers could speak lightly even of powwowing time--the first pleasant February days, when savages held councils before descending on the settlements. Major Croghan and I watched the parley from one of the blockhouses that bastioned the place. Before it ended a Shawanoe sprang out of a ravine and snatched the ensign's sword. He gave it back reluctantly, and the British flag bearer hurried the American within the gates. General Proctor regretted that so fine a young man as Major Croghan should fall into the hands of savages, who were not to be restrained. "When this fort is taken," said Croghan on hearing the message, "there will be nobody left in it to kill." British gunboats drawn up on the Sandusky river, and a howitzer on the shore, opened fire, and cannonaded all day with the poor execution of long range artillery. The northwestern angle of the fort was their target. Croghan foresaw that the enemy's intention was to make a breach and enter there. When night came again, his one six-pounder was moved with much labor from that angle into the southwest blockhouse, as noiselessly as possible. He masked the embrasure and had the piece loaded with a double charge of slugs and grape shot and half a charge of powder. Perhaps the British thought him unprovided with any heavy artillery. They were busy themselves, bringing three of the ineffectual six-pounders and the howitzer, under darkness, within two hundred and fifty yards of the fort; giving a background of woods to their battery. About dawn we saw what they had been doing. They concentrated on the northwest angle; and still Croghan replied only with muskets, waiting for them to storm. So it went on all day, the gun-proof blockhouse enduring its bombardment, and smoke thickening until it filled the stockade as water fills a well, and settled like fog between us and the enemy. An attack was made on the southern angle where the cannon was masked. "This is nothing but a feint," Croghan said to the younger officers. While that corner replied with musketry, he kept a sharp lookout for the safety of the northwest blockhouse. One soldier was brought down the ladder and carried through the murky pall to the surgeon, who could do nothing for him. Another turned from a loophole with blood upon him, laughing at his mishap. For the grotesqueness and inconvenience of a wound are sometimes more swiftly felt than its pain. He came back presently with his shoulder bandaged and resumed his place at the loophole. The exhilaration of that powder atmosphere and its heat made soldiers throw off their coats, as if the expanding human body was not to be confined in wrappings. In such twilight of war the twilight of Nature overtook us. Another feint was made to draw attention from a heavy force of assailants creeping within twenty paces, under cover of smoke, to surprise the northwest blockhouse. Musketry was directed against them: they hesitated. The commander led a charge, and himself sprang first into the ditch. We saw the fine fellows leaping to carry the blockhouse, every man determined to be first in making a breach. They filled the ditch. This was the instant for which Croghan had waited. He opened the porthole and unmasked his exactly trained cannon. It enfiladed the assailants, sweeping them at a distance of thirty feet; slugs and grapeshot hissed, spreading fan rays of death! By the flash of the re-loaded six-pounder, we saw the trench filled with dead and wounded. The besiegers turned. Croghan's sweating gunners swabbed and loaded and fired, roaring like lions. The Indians, of whom there were nearly a thousand, were not in the charge, and when retreat began they went in panic. We could hear calls and yells, the clatter of arms, and a thumping of the earth; the strain of men tugging cannon ropes; the swift withdrawal of a routed force. Two thousand more Indians approaching under Tecumseh, were turned back by refugees. Croghan remarked, as we listened to the uproar, "Fort Stephenson can hardly be called untenable against heavy artillery." Then arose cries in the ditch, which penetrated to women's ears. Neither side was able to help the wounded there. But before the rout was complete, Croghan had water let down in buckets to relieve their thirst, and ordered a trench cut under the pickets of the stockade. Through this the poor wretches who were able to crawl came in and surrendered themselves and had their wounds dressed. By three o'clock in the morning not a British uniform glimmered red through the dawn. The noise of retreat ended. Pistols and muskets strewed the ground. Even a sailboat was abandoned on the river, holding military stores and the clothing of officers. "They thought General Harrison was coming," laughed Croghan, as he sat down to an early breakfast, having relieved all the living in the trench and detailed men to bury the dead. "We have lost one man, and have another under the surgeon's hands. Now I'm ready to appear before a court-martial for disobeying orders." "You mean you're ready for your immortal page in history." "Paragraph," said Croghan; "and the dislike of poor little boys and girls who will stick their fists in their eyes when they have to learn it at school." Intense manhood ennobled his long, animated face. The President afterwards made him a lieutenant-colonel, and women and his superior officers praised him; but he was never more gallant than when he said: "My uncle, George Rogers Clark, would have undertaken to hold this fort; and by heavens, we were bound to try it!" The other young officers sat at mess with him, hilarious over the outcome, picturing General Proctor's state of mind when he learned the age of his conqueror. None of them cared a rap that Daniel Webster was opposing the war in the House of Representatives at Washington, and declaring that on land it was a failure. A subaltern came to the mess room door, touching his cap and asking to speak with Major Croghan. "The men working outside at the trenches saw a boy come up from the ravine, sir, and fall every few steps, so they've brought him in." "Does he carry a dispatch?" "No, sir. He isn't more than nine or ten years old. I think he was a prisoner." "Is he a white boy?" "Yes, sir, but he's dressed like an Indian." "I think it unlikely the British would allow the Shawanoes to burden their march with any prisoners." "Somebody had him, and I'm afraid he's been shot either during the action or in the retreat. He was hid in the ravine." "Bring him here," said Croghan. A boy with blue eyes set wide apart, hair clinging brightly and moistly to his pallid forehead, and mouth corners turning up in a courageous smile, entered and stood erect before the officer. He was a well made little fellow. His tiny buckskin hunting shirt was draped with a sash in the Indian fashion, showing the curve of his naked hip. Down this a narrow line of blood was moving. Children of refugees, full of pity, looked through the open door behind him. "Go to him, Shipp," said Croghan, as the boy staggered. But he waved the ensign back. "Who are you, my man?" asked the Major. "I believe," he answered, "I am the Marquis de Ferrier."