uncertain one it was.

First came a shriek that might have roused the garrison.

"Villains! Murderers! Outragers of decency!" she cried with spirit,
pouring a heap of invectives, now in French, now in English, much to the
discomfiture of our backwoodsmen, who peered at her helplessly.

"Nom du diable!" cried the commandant, when his lady's breath was gone,
"what does this mean?"

"It means, sir," answered Clark, promptly, "that you are my prisoner."

"And who are you?" gasped the commandant.

"George Rogers Clark, Colonel in the service of the Commonwealth of
Virginia." He held out his hand restrainingly, for the furious Monsieur
Rocheblave made an attempt to rise. "You will oblige me by remaining in
bed, sir, for a moment."

"Coquins! Canailles! Cochons!" shrieked the lady.

"Madame," said Colonel Clark, politely, "the necessities of war are often
cruel."

He made a bow, and paying no further attention to the torrent of her
reproaches or the threats of the helpless commandant, he calmly searched
the room with the lantern, and finally pulled out from under the bed a
metal despatch box. Then he lighted a candle in a brass candlestick that
stood on the simple walnut dresser, and bowed again to the outraged