So absorbed was he in his oratorical soliloquy that he forgot due military precaution and ran plump into the face of a savage picket guard who, without respect for the great M.Roussillon's dignity, sprang up before him, grunted cavernously, flourished a tomahawk and spoke in excellent and exceedingly guttural Indian: "Wah, surrender!" It is probable that no man ever complied with a modest request in a more docile spirit than did M.Roussillon upon that occasion.

In fact his promptness must have been admirable, for the savage grunted approval and straightway conducted him to Hamilton's headquarters on a batteau in the river.
The British commander, a hale man of sandy complexion and probably under middle age, was in no very pleasant humor.

Some of his orders had been misunderstood by the chief of his Indian allies, so that a premature exposure of his approach had been made to the enemy.
"Well, sir, who are you ?" he gruffly demanded, when M.Roussillon loomed before him.
"I am Gaspard Roussillon, the Mayor of Vincennes," was the lofty reply.
"I have come to announce to you officially that my people greet you loyally and that my town is freely at your command." He felt as important as if his statements had been true.
"Humph, that's it, is it?
Well, Mr.Mayor, you have my congratulations, but I should prefer seeing the military commander and accepting his surrender.

What account can you give me of the American forces, their numbers and condition ?" M.Roussillon winced, inwardly at least, under Hamilton's very undeferential air and style of address.

It piqued him cruelly to be treated as a person without the slightest claim to respect.