“It is Montlivet.  It is Montlivet,” I called.

Had I thought the Malhominis stolid and none too intelligent!  They heard me call, they pushed a canoe to my rescue, and they carried me to a warm lodge.  I remember that I bandied words with them as they carried me.  They made sport to see me naked, for on my former visit I had rebuked them severely on that score.  But they were tender of my shoulder.

The time for the next few hours—­indeed for the night—­is confused.  My shoulder was dressed and bound with herbs, and I was laid on a bed of rushes.  Outchipouac, the Malhominis war chief, knew from former acquaintance with me that I had prejudices and would not lie where it was not clean, and so he humored me and gave orders that the rushes be freshly cut.  By this I knew that he had not only respect for me, but something that was like affection, since savages are indolent and intolerant, and will not bestir themselves for Europeans unless they are unwontedly interested.  I treasured this kindness.  One meets little that savors of personal regard in the wilderness, and I was ill.

Now, savages know little of the laws of health and abuse what they know, but in the matter of herbs they can be trusted.  The herb drink which they gave me had virtue, for I woke with my head clear.  A gourd of water stood beside my pallet, and I drained it and called lustily for another.  A man pushed aside the skins and came in.  It was Pierre.  Pierre, alive, clothed, and with every hair of his flamingo head bristling and unharmed!  He answered my cry with a huge smile, and then because he had a gypsy mother in the background of his nature, he put his great hands before his face, and I saw tears pushing between the fingers.

That made me fear ill news.  I half rose, and would have shaken his tidings out of him like corn out of a bag.  But the pain of my shoulder sent me back again with my teeth jammed hard together.

“What has happened?  Out with it!” I cried.

But Pierre was inarticulate.  He came to my pallet and mumbled something between tears about my shoulder.

—­“and the master with no clothes but a dirty Indian’s!” he finished.

So I was the cause of this demonstration.  I patted his hand.

“But your escape, Pierre?  Where are the other men?”

“Master, I do not know.”

“But where did you come from?  How did you get here?  Talk, man!”

“The master does not give me time.  I came by land.  It is a fine land.  They raise great squashes.  Yes, and grain and vegetables!  I have never seen their like in France.  If I had a farm here I could have more than I could eat the whole year round.”

I took time to curse.  I had never heard my giant prate of agriculture; the camp and the tap-room had been his haunts.  This appeared to be a method of working toward ill news.  I lay back on my rushes and tried to fix his eye.