Cadillac looked me over, and now his glance went, not to my doublet, but to the man within.  “A trader!” he said curtly.  “A trader carrying contraband brandy.  A good commandant would send you back where you belong.  No, no, monsieur, wait!  I am not threatening you.  Though you know as well as I that the thumb-screws are rather convenient to my hand should I care to use them.  But there should be no necessity for that.  Montlivet, I hardly understand your reluctance in the matter of this Englishman.  We should be one in this affair, whatever our private concerns.  Even Black Gown and I—­and the world says we are not lovers—­are working together.  Why do you draw back?”

I could not meet him with less than the truth.  “You have stated the reason, monsieur.  My private concerns,—­they seem large to me, and I fear to jeopard them by becoming entangled here.  I regret this.  You have shown me great clemency in the matter of the brandy,—­though if you had confiscated it I should still have pushed on,—­and for that, and for your own sake, monsieur, I should be glad to serve you.”

He looked at my outstretched palm, and laid his own upon it. “’T is fairly spoken,” he said slowly, “and I think you mean it.”  Then he grew peevish.  “A pest on this country!” he cried.  “We are all kings in disguise, and have a monarchy hidden in our hats.  And what does it amount to?  No bread, no wine, no thanks; a dog’s life and a jackal’s death,—­and all to hold some leagues of barren land for his petticoat-ridden majesty at Versailles.  Oh, why not say it?  We can tell the truth here without losing our heads.”

“The king’s arm”—­I began.

“Is long,” he interrupted.  “Yet, in truth, your face is longer.  Are you so eager to be gone?  Well, get you to the prisoner, and, my hand on it, I shall ask for nothing more.”

CHAPTER III

BEHIND THE COMMANDANT’S DOOR

The commandant’s door had come to be the portal through which I stepped from safety into meddling.  Yet I opened it now with laughter peeping from my sleeve.  To bait the Englishman in Huron seemed a good-natured enough jest, and full of possibilities.

But one look at the prisoner drained my laughter.  He was lying on a bench, his face hidden in his out-flung arms, and his slenderness and helplessness pulled at me hard.  I knew that despair, and even tears, must have conquered now that he was alone, and I wished that I might save his pride, and slip away until he had fought back his bravery, and had himself in hand.

But he had heard my step, and drew himself up to face me.  He turned with composure, and fronted me with so much dignity that I stood like a blundering oaf trapped by my own emotion.  There was no emotion in his look.  He had been thinking, not despairing, and his face was sharpened and lighted with such concentration that I felt slapped with cold steel.  He looked all intellect and determination,—­a thing of will-power rather than flesh and brawn.