His voice was judicial, but I saw his great frame swaying like a shambling ox.  I marveled that he could show emotion.  My own body felt dead.

“The woman has been taken away,” my stiff, strange voice explained.  “So far they have not harmed her.”

“How do you know?”

“There are no marks of struggle.  Simon resisted, and they killed him.  The other men surrendered.  The Indians wanted prisoners, not scalps.”

“Was it Pemaou and his Hurons?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure?”

“He left a broken spear in my lodge.  There was bad blood between us once, and I broke the spear in two and tossed the pieces at him, telling him to keep them,—­to keep them, for we should meet again.  I humbled him.  Now it is his jest.  He is a capable Indian.  He seems to have outwitted even you, monsieur.”

Because I spoke as one dead he thought I needed leading.  He took me by the arm and would have guided me gently to the canoe.

“Come, Monsieur de Montlivet, you must rouse yourself.  We must start in pursuit.”

I shook him off.  “Sit here where it is dry.  You need your strength.  We have hours to get through here before we leave, and little to do to help us through the time.  We must wait here for Pierre.”

“What do you mean?  We must go at once.”

“No, we wait for Pierre.  It may be dusk before he returns.  I sent him over the portage yesterday with orders to explore some leagues to the south.  We must wait for him.  He can tell us whether Pemaou went east by way of the portage.”

“But we lose time!”

“We gain it.  If Pemaou did not go by way of the portage, he went west.  He would not dare go north, for fear of the Pottawatamies, and he would have no object in going south.  He went east or west.  We can learn from Pierre.”

The man’s shoulders heaved.  “Your men were cowards,” he muttered.

I looked at him.  So a coward could despise a coward!  “My men were wise,” I corrected.  “With Simon killed there were only two men left,—­one, rather, for Leclerc is a nonentity.  Labarthe, left alone, was wise to surrender.  He is skillful with Indians.  Monsieur, tell me of your dealings with Pemaou.  Tell me your trip here.  I need details.”

He measured me.  “You dictate, monsieur?”

I pointed to Simon’s body.  “That is my claim.”

He gulped at that, and turned his back on the red horror to fix his steady, critical gaze on my face.  “After the massacre,” he began, with an effort, “I followed many false trails.  I went to Quebec, to Montreal.  All this has nothing to do with what you wish to know.  But at Montreal I first heard rumors of an English prisoner who was being carried westward.  That sent me to Michillimackinac.”

“You heard this rumor through the priests?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I thought so.  It is fortunate for the success of your somewhat complicated plans that you are a Catholic and a Jacobite.”