he begged, piteously. "Help me, kind sirs, and I vill revard you vell."
The trader was evidently a rough sort of a man, yet the rangers took pity on him, even though he did belong to the ranks of the enemy. Food and drink were furnished, and the wound washed and bound up, and then the rangers carried the prisoner with them to the camp.
Dave and Barringford saw the rangers returning, and at the sight of the prisoner Barringford leaped to his feet in high excitement.
"Jean Bevoir!" he exclaimed. "Jean Bevoir, jest as sure as fate!"
"Bevoir!" ejaculated Dave.
"Bevoir?" repeated Henry, who stood near. "Do you mean to say that fellow is Bevoir?"
"It is!" answered Barringford. "He's wounded, too."
Without waiting to hear more, Henry, followed by Dave, ran forward to where the prisoner had been placed on a moss-grown bank.
"You are Jean Bevoir," he began, sternly.
"Ah! you know me, eh?" returned the French trader. "I do not seem to know you?" and a puzzled look crossed his face.
"Then I'll tell you who I am!" roared Henry, clenching his fists. "I am Henry Morris, of Will's
