Montlivet

								

Cadillac came back to me in a few moments.  He had lost his swelling
port, and was frowning with thought.  "I saw you in the Huron camp,
Montlivet," he said.  "Do you understand their speech?"
Now this was a question that I thought it as well to put by.  "Would
you call it speech?" I demurred.  "It sounded more like snarling."
"Then you do understand it?"
I kicked at the dogs at my feet.  "Frowns are a common language.  I
could understand them, at least.  The camp is restless.  Are they
hungry?"
Cadillac shrugged his shoulders.  "Possibly.  But it is not hunger that
sagamité or maize cakes can reach.  Would a taste of Iroquois broth put
them in better condition, do you think?"
I turned away somewhat sickened.  "It is a savage remedy," I broke out.
"And a good cook will catch his hare before he talks of putting it in
the pot.  Where is your Iroquois hare, Monsieur de la Mothe-Cadillac?"
The commandant shook his head.  "My hare is still at large," he
confessed.  "Though just now----  Come, Monsieur de Montlivet, let us
to plain speech.  We are talking as slantingly as savages.  I have a
Huron messenger at my quarters.  Come with me, and interpret."
"A messenger from your own camp?"
"Is it my own camp?" he queried soberly.  "I do not know.  I have
reason to think that many of my Hurons are ripe for English bribes,--or
even for the Iroquois.  It is a strange menagerie that I rule over
here, and the Hurons are the foxes,--when they are not trying to be
lions.  You say that their camp is restless.  I do not speak their
language, but I can tell you more.  They are in two factions.  Those
who follow old Kondiaronk, the Rat, are fairly loyal, but the faction
under the Baron would sell us to the English for the price of a cask of
rum.  Truly our scalps sit lightly on our heads here in this garrison."
I hesitated.  I did not like this situation, and prudence whispered
that I had best cut the conversation here, and make my way as swiftly
as possible to the west.  But curiosity urged me to one more question.
I asked it with my lips pursing to a whistle, that I might seem
indifferent.  "Is the messenger from the Baron?"
Cadillac nodded contentedly.  "So you have decided to help me," he
said, with a smile that read my indecision perfectly, and I felt, with
a rush of blood to my face, much less sure of myself, and more respect
for him.  "I wish that I had inducements to keep you here," he went on,
"for I hear from Montreal that you have wonderful command of Indian
dialects.  But I will take what you are willing to give, and be
thankful.  As to this messenger,--this is the tale.  Some months ago a
small band of Hurons left here for the south.  Hunting, or war, or
diplomacy, how shall I say what was their errand?  But I mistrust them,
for they are followers of the Baron.  They returned this morning, and
are in camp on the island.  Their sending a messenger in advance looks