Scattered groups of cottonwood trees, the irregular mounds and ridges of sand, the silvery ribbon of river, merely emphasized the whole, and gave new meaning to what might else have been but sheer desert waste.  I knew little then of what other years had seen within these solitudes and within the circle of my view; yet scraps of border legend came floating back into memory, until I recalled the name of many an old-time adventurer,—­La Salle, Joliet, Marquette the Jesuit,—­who must have camped beside that very stream out yonder.

The column had halted as our last laggards cleared the gate; and for a moment we rested in silence upon the side of the slope, while the long line was being re-arranged for travel.  The Indians, in seemingly disorganized masses, were already enveloping the head of the column with noisy clamor, and Wells was having difficulty in holding his Miami scouts to their proper position.  A few scattered and skulking savages,—­chiefly squaws, I thought at the time,—­were stealthily edging their way up the slope of the slight rise, eager to begin the spoliation of the Fort as soon as we had deserted it.

Wild and turbulent as was the scene, I perceived no alarming symptoms of hostility, and turned toward Mademoiselle with lighter heart.  Her dark eyes were full of suppressed merriment as they encountered mine.

“I thought you would sit there and dream all day,” she said pleasantly; “and I hardly have the heart to blame you.  ’T is indeed a fair scene, and one I almost regret leaving, now that the time to do so has come.  Never before has its rare beauty so strongly appealed to me.”

“’T is the great distance outspread yonder which renders all so soft to the eye,” I answered, glad to reflect her mood; “yet Captain de Croix and I know well ’t is far less pleasant travelling over than to look at here.  We think of the swamps, the forests, the leagues of sand and the swift rivers which will hinder our progress.”

“I hardly imagine,” she murmured softly, “that Captain de Croix is guilty of wasting precious time in reflection upon aught so trivial this morning.  He has been conversing with me upon the proper cut of his waistcoat, and I am sure he is too deeply engrossed in that subject to give heed to other things.”

I glanced at him and smiled as my heart glowed to her gentle sarcasm, for surely never did a more incongruous figure take saddle on a western trail.  By what code of fashion he may have dressed, I know not; but from his slender-pointed bronze shoes to his beribboned hat he was still the dandy of the boulevards, his dark mustaches curled upward till their tips nearly touched his ears, and a delicately carved riding-whip swinging idly at his wrist.  He seemed to have already exhausted his powers of conversation, for he remained oblivious of our presence, fumbling with one yellow-gloved hand in the recesses of a saddle-bag.

“By Saint Denis, Sam!” he exclaimed, angrily, to his black satellite, “I can find nothing of the powder-puff, or the bag of essence! Parbleu! if they have been left behind you will go back after them, though every Indian in this Illinois country stand between.  Come, you imp of darkness, know you aught of these?”