With every hour of delay they grew harder to control.  There was jealousy between the war chiefs.  I stepped on thin ice in my walks from lodge to lodge.

But the third day brought Cadillac.  We saw the blur of his canoes far to the north, and when they came within earshot we were ranged to receive them.

A man should know pride in his achievement,—­else why is striving given him?  I looked over my warriors, rank on rank.  Fierce-eyed, muscled like panthers, they were terrible engines of war.  And I controlled them!  I felt the lift of the heart that strengthens a man’s will.  That is something rarer than pride; a flitting vision of the unsounded depths of human power.

And the canoes that approached made a strange pageant.  I could not in a moment rid myself of a rooted custom; I wished the woman were there to see.  French and Indians sat side by side, so that blankets rubbed uniforms.  They were packed in close bending ranks, their bodies crouching to the paddles, their eyes upon the shore.  There were ferret-sharp black eyes and peasant-dull blue ones, but all were glittering.  And the faces, bronze or white, took on the same look,—­they were strained, arid of all expression but the fever for war.  A slow tingle crawled over me, and I saw the crowd sway.  A cautious, muffled cry broke from the shore and was answered from the canoes.  It was a hoarse note, for the lust for blood crowds the throat full.

I looked to see Cadillac riding a surge of triumph, but when our hands met I was chilled.  He showed no gladness.  His purple face had lines, and he looked hot and jaded.  Had his men failed him?  No, I reviewed them.  French, Hurons, and Ottawas, they made a goodly showing.  Onanguisse was there, and his Pottawatamies, oiled, feathered, and paint-decked, were beautiful as catamounts.  All was well.  Cadillac was not in his first youth, and had abused himself.  His look meant fatigue.

“Ottawas, Hurons, Pottawatamies, Malhominis, Chippewas, Sacs, Winnebagoes.”  I counted them off to him.  “Monsieur de la Mothe-Cadillac, it is a sight worthy your eyes.  New France has not seen such a gathering since the day when Saint Lusson planted our standard at the straits and fourteen tribes looked on.”

He nodded heavily, “The Senecas are still in camp?”

“Yes, monsieur.  We can attack to-night.”

But he turned away.  “Montlivet, your wife is in the Seneca camp.”

I looked at him coldly, I think, though I remember that I clutched his shoulder.

“Monsieur, you mistake.  My wife went east.”