My Huron speech seemed out of place, but there was no choice left me, so I used it.  There was refuge for my dignity in the sonorous syllables, and I spoke as to a fellow sachem.  Then I asked the prisoner his name, and waited for response.

None came.  I knew that I had spoken rapidly, so I tried again.  I chose short words, and framed my sentences like a schoolmaster.  The prisoner listened negligently.  Then he put out his hand.  “Pardon, monsieur.  But I speak French,—­though indifferently,” he said, with a slight shrug.

My anger made my ears buzz; I would not bandy words with a man of so small and sly a spirit.  I turned to leave.

But the prisoner stepped between me and the door.  “You were sent here with a message,” he said; “I am listening.”

His sunken brown eyes were so deep in melancholy that I could not hold my wrath.  “Was it a gentleman’s part to lead me on to play the clown?” I asked.  “I came in kindness.”

He smiled a little,—­a bitter smile that did not reach his eyes.  “I am not, like you, a gentleman by birth, monsieur,” he said slowly, “and so often trip in my behavior.  Granted that you were amusing,—­and you were, monsieur,—­can you blame me for using you for a diversion?  I infer that you have come to tell me that the time left me, either for amusement or penitence, is short.”

It was bravely said, but I knew from the careful repression of his tone that his hardness was a brittle veneer.  He was young to carry so bold a front when his heart must be hammering, and I would willingly have talked any doggerel to have afforded him another smile.

“I know nothing of your future,” I hastened, “save that, arguing from your youth, it will probably be a long one.  It was your past that I was sent to ask concerning.  The commandant sent me.  Since you speak French, my mission is over.  The commandant will come himself.”

The prisoner laid his hand upon a chair.  “Will you sit?  I would rather it be you than the commandant, if it must be any one.  What were you sent to ask?”

I waved away the chair, for I thought of the passing moments and of what I had promised Father Carheil.  “I must hasten,” I said irritably.  “What was I to ask?  Why, your name, the account of your capture,—­the story of your being here, in brief.”

He saw that I glanced at the door, and he walked over to it.  “Wait!” he interposed.  “I can answer you in a line.  But one question first.  Monsieur, I—­I”—­

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Monsieur, I—­I must think a moment.  Be patient, if you will.”

His voice was calm, but there was something in his look that forced my pity.  “Tell me nothing that I must not tell the commandant,” I warned.  “But be assured of my good will.”

I think he did not hear.  He sat with his forehead on his hand, and I knew that he was thinking.  He looked up with a new decision in his glance.