“Monsieur, you lead a strange life in this place.  I see nothing but men.  Have you no families?”

I swore under my breath.  I had expected some meat from his remark, and he gave me trivialities.  I had no time for social preliminaries, and I felt sudden distaste for him.  I pointed him to the window.

“We are not all men.  There are Indian women in plenty.  Shall I draw the shade that you may see?  There are many of my countrymen to tell you that they find them fair.”

“But are there no white families in the settlement?” He was leaning forward, and he ignored the insult of my air.

I shook my head.  “None, monsieur.  None short of Montreal.”

He tapped the floor, and frowned.  His look went beyond me, and he was absorbed.  “None short of Montreal.  Indeed you live a strange life.  Monsieur, is it far to Montreal?”

I shrugged.  “Yes, it is a long journey.  Come, monsieur, we waste time.  I wish you good-day.”

He glanced up quickly.  His was a misleading face, for while his words were meaningless, and showed him of a small and trifling mind, his look was yet keen.  He saw that I had wearied of him, and he put out his hand to beg my attention.

“Wait, monsieur!” he cried.

“Monsieur, you waste my time.”

“I shall waste no more.  I have made up my mind.  Listen.  I promised you my story.”  He had regained all his quiet arrogance.  “It is soon told.  I am an Englishman,—­or a colonist, if you like the term better.  I was in a village on the Connecticut frontier, when your savages came down upon us.  No, I am wrong.  They did nothing so manly as to come down upon us boldly.  They slid among us like foul vermin afraid of the light.  They achieved a notable victory, monsieur.  I see that you recognize their prowess, and that the feast you have prepared for them is lavish.  It was a noble battle.  I regret you could not have seen it.  There were some hundreds of the Indians, and a scattering handful of us.  A quiet farming community, monsieur, that worked hard, supped early, and slept the deep sleep of quiet living and sober minds.  We waked to find the scalping knives at our throats, and the death scream of children in our ears.  Look over the bags of scalps, and see the number of women and old men that your braves had to overcome.  You will be proud of them, monsieur.”

I clenched my hand, and wished myself elsewhere.  “But our Hurons say they were neutral,” I defended.

He lifted his brows.  “You prefer to give all the praise to the Algonquins?” he asked smoothly.  “I understand.  Yes, I have heard that the Algonquins stand even closer to you than your Hurons here.  They are more than brothers.  Indeed, it is said that your Count Frontenac calls them his children.  Well, they did you credit.  It took ten of them to silence Goodman Ellwood’s musket, but they butchered him in the end.  If you find a scalp with long silky white hair, monsieur, it belongs to John Ellwood.  Value it, and nail it among your trophies, for it cost you the lives of a full half-dozen Algonquin braves.”