Mr. Leonard’s eyes, I thought, avoided mine. Thinking he might not have recognized us in our dilapidated condition, I said to him: “Mr. Leonard, you may not remember me—–” but he smiled and stopped me.

“It would be impossible to forget your kindness and hospitality,” he said. “This is truly an unexpected pleasure. And by the way: I fear you misunderstood my name when we were introduced. It is not Leonard, but Lanaudiere.” He raised an eyebrow. “The fault may have been mine. I seem to recall now, that I was even glad, in England, to be called Leonard, because of the difficulty with which an Englishman pronounces a French name.”

“My brother has been hurt,” I said. “Will you let him sit down?”

His expression was compassionate as he helped Nathaniel into one of the chairs. “In just a moment,” he assured him, “we will give you the attention you should have. First we must dispose of these gentlemen who brought you in. They are singularly impressible: almost like sensitive plants in their susceptibility to oversights. At one rude touch they often wither.”

“Sensitive plants?” Doc Means asked. “Ain’t you thinking of skunk cabbages?”

Lanaudiere glanced coldly at Doc: then reached behind the bearskin in the corner and drew out a bottle of rum. At sight of it, Sponge-belly made a speech in which he obviously referred admiringly to his own bravery and our importance. He got the bottle, and with it a few sharp words of advice and warning from Lanaudiere. In his manner there was no hint of the sleepy, reticent Mr. Leonard we had known in London and on our voyage from France. He had become a commander both feared and respected; and if his remarks were not satisfactory, Sponge-belly gave no indication of it.

Tucking the rum bottle into his belt, Sponge-belly turned in an almost friendly way to Doc Means, bringing up from the depths of his stomach a farewell eructation; then lifted the tent flap and herded his black-faced companions into the night.

Lanaudiere went to the opening and watched them go. For a moment he stood there, looking down at the scattered campfires on the point, listening to the yowling and drumming. Then he fastened the flap and studied Nathaniel, who seemed to be scarcely breathing.

“You said he was hurt. You mean he’s been wounded?”

“There’s no wound on him,” I said. “He acts stunned. We think a cannon ball grazed him. We were doing what we could when those red hellions—–”

Lanaudiere stooped suddenly and swung Nathaniel up against his chest. “I think your brother only needs food and care. If you will excuse me a moment, I’ll see he receives both.”