“Is there a slur in that remark, monsieur?”

“Not unless the facts themselves are insulting, Our priests would see no hidden purpose in your story.  They would be predisposed in favor of a Catholic and follower of James.  They would give you letters where a commandant would not.  It was good policy to go to them.”

“But, monsieur, I am a Catholic!”

“Which, I repeat, is fortunate.”

“Monsieur, this is wanton insult.  Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me here, here with this tragedy around us?  It is a dog’s trick.  I will not fight you.”

Again I took out my knife.  “I will not fight you here,—­here with this tragedy around us,—­but I may kill you.  I shall do it if you do not tell me this story fairly.  I care nothing for your life, and I need this story.  I will have it if I have to choke it out of your throat.”

“I am trying to tell you the story, monsieur.”

“No.  You are telling me a pleasant fairy tale of a love-lorn knight searching the wilderness for his lost mistress.  A moving tale, monsieur, but not the true one.  I want the real story.  The story of the English spy who wishes to ransom his cousin, but who also treats secretly with the Hurons,—­who treats with Pemaou, monsieur.  Tell me his story.”

His face did not alter.  “You believe me a spy?”

“I have reason, monsieur.”

Still he regarded me.  “You might be right, but you are not.  Monsieur, I am a broken man.  I want nothing but my cousin.  If there is intrigue around me I do not know it.  I am telling you the truth.”

I fought hard against the man’s fascination, his splendid, ruined pomp.  “You must have a code,” I burst out.  “There must be something you hold dear.  Will you swear to me by the name of the woman that you have not had secret dealings with the Hurons?”

“I swear.”

“But the profile that the Huron carried!”

“Those pictures I scattered broadcast.  You will find them among the Algonquins, and the Ottawas of the upper river.  My cousin has a distinctive profile.  I offered rewards for news of any one—­man or woman—­who looked like the face that I had drawn.”

I put out my hand.  “I hope that I have wronged you, monsieur.”

He bowed and touched my fingers.  His own were icy, yet he shivered at the chill of mine.  “Pemaou would not dare harm the woman.  Monsieur de Montlivet, you know Indians.  Surely Pemaou would not dare?”

I gripped my knife.  “No man knows Indians!  Where did you see Pemaou first?”

“At Michillimackinac.  When I reached there and learned that the prisoner had gone with you I sent interpreters through the camps with offers of reward for news of your whereabouts.  Pemaou came.  He said he could locate you and I took him as guide.”

“He selected his own escort?”

“Yes.”

“And you traveled slowly?”