I kept my eyes down.  I had come here to unearth a certain fact, and I would pursue it.  “But were the Hurons neutral?” I persisted.

I could not even guess at what raw nerve I touched, but he suddenly threw his arms wide as men do when a shot is mortal.  His cool insolence dropped from him, and he was all fire and helpless defiance.  He stamped his foot, till, slender as he was, the boards rang.  “Were the Hurons neutral?” he mocked, in a voice so like my own I could have sworn it was an echo.  “What manner of man are you?  Are you made of chalk?  If you had seen a child’s brains dashed out against a tree, would you stop to ask the Indian who held the dripping corpse what dialect he spoke?  Oh, a man should be ashamed to live who has seen such things, and who keeps his sword sheathed while one of your Indian family—­brothers or children—­remains alive!  If you had blood in your veins, you would be man enough not to put even an enemy upon the rack, in this way, and force him to live that time over to glut your curiosity.  Here is my answer, which you may take to your commandant.  I am an Englishman, I am your prisoner, and you are to remember that I am, first, last, and at all times, your foe.  Now go to your commandant, and tell him to keep himself and his schoolboy orations out of my way.”

He was shaking, and his face was dead white.  I did not answer, but I took him by the arm, and led him to a chair.  He tried to resist, but I am strong.  Then I brought him a cup of water from a pail that stood near by.

“Drink it,” I said, “and when food is sent you, eat what you can.  Your race is not over, and if you wish to trick and outwit us,—­as you were planning when I found you lying here,—­you will need more strength than you are showing now.  I have but one more question.  You must tell me your name.”

For a moment he did not reply.  He was still shaking painfully, and water from the cup in his hand splashed over him.  “My name,” he said slowly, “my name is—­is Benjamin Starling.”

I took the cup away.  “I am waiting,” I said after a pause.

“Waiting for what, monsieur?” When he willed, he could speak winningly, and he did it now.

I took paper from my pocket.  “For your real name,” I answered.  “I shall write it here, and you must swear that it is true.  Don’t squander lies.  Plain dealing will be best for us both.”

He was as changeable as June weather.  Now it was his cue to look pleading.  “The Indians called me by a name that meant bitter waters,” he said hesitatingly.  “But my baptismal records say Starling.  I am telling you the truth, monsieur.”

I wrote the name so that he could see.  “You give me your word as a gentleman,” I said, “that your name is Benjamin Starling.”

He stopped a moment.  “Can a yeoman swear himself a gentleman?” he asked.  “I think not.  I will be more explicit.  I give you my oath as a truth-loving person that my name is Starling.”