Henry and Paul met again about midnight, and sat a long time on a
little hillock. Theirs had been the most dangerous of lives on
the most dangerous of frontiers, but they had never been stirred
as they were tonight. Even Paul, the mildest of the five, felt
something burning within him, a fire that only one thing could
quench.
"Henry," said he, "we're trying to get these people to Fort Penn,
and we may get some of them there, but I don't think our work
will be ended them. I don't think I could ever be happy again if
we went straight from Fort Penn to Kentucky."
Henry understood him perfectly.
"No, Paul," he said, "I don't want to go, either, and I know the
others don't. Maybe you are not willing to tell why we want to
stay, but it is vengeance. I know it's Christian to forgive your
enemies, but I can't see what I have seen, and hear what I have
heard, and do it."
"When the news of these things spreads," said Paul, "they'll send
an army from the east. Sooner or later they'll just have to do
it to punish the Iroquois and their white allies, and we've got
to be here to join that army."
"I feel that way, too, Paul," said Henry.
They were joined later by the other three, who stayed a little
while, and they were in accord with Henry and Paul.
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