And may God have mercy on the politician who will try to keep a people's
affection without money or help from Congress."

He fell back wearily in his chair, while I stood astonished, wondering.
I had thought to find him elated with victory.

"Congress or Virginia," said he, "will have to pay Monsieur Vigo, and
Father Gibault, and Monsieur Gratiot, and the other good people who have
trusted me. Do you think they will do so?"

"The Congress are far from here," I said.

"Ay," he answered, "too far to care about you and me, and what we have
suffered."

He ended abruptly, and sat for a while staring out of the window at the
figures crossing and recrossing the muddy parade-ground.

"Tom McChesney goes to-night to Kentucky with letters to the county
lieutenant. You are to go with him, and then I shall have no one to
remind me when I am hungry, and bring me hominy. I shall have no
financier, no strategist for a tight place." He smiled a little, sadly,
at my sorrowful look, and then drew me to him and patted my shoulder.
"It is no place for a young lad,--an idle garrison. I think," he
continued presently, "I think you have a future, David, if you do not
lose your head. Kentucky will grow and conquer, and in twenty years be a
thriving community. And presently you will go to Virginia, and study
law, and come back again. Do you hear?"

"Yes, Colonel."