Cadillac nodded heavily.  “So they think that we would desert them, and hand them over to the Iroquois?  We must reassure them.”

I rapped on the table.  “We did desert them once,” I reminded him.  “They know how we abandoned the refugee Hurons at Quebec, and they hold our word lightly.  It shames us to say this, but we must see matters as they are.  No, the Ottawas do not trust us, but they trust the English less.  It is a choice of evils.  But they are shrewd enough to see that their greatest peril lies in a truce between ourselves and the English.  Then they would indeed be between two stools.  Now, they see that there are two paths open.”

Cadillac was breathing heavily.  “You mean”—­he asked.

I spoke slowly.  “I mean,” I said, “that they must either go over to the English themselves, or succeed in embroiling us with the English.”

“And they chose?”

“They did not choose.  They temporized.  They see the advantages of a union with the English.  A better beaver market, and plenty of brandy.  It goes hard with them that we are frugal with our muskets, while the English keep the Iroquois well armed.  Longuant says, and justly, that it is difficult to kill men with clubs.  On the other hand they like us, and find the English abhorrent.  So they have virtually agreed to leave the casting vote with you.  They will come after sundown and demand that the prisoner be given them for torture.  If you agree, they will feel that you have declared your position against the English; if you refuse”——­ I broke off, and leaned back in the chair.  I had not realized, till my own voice stated it, how black a case we had in hand.

We sat in silence for a time.  Cadillac scowled and beat his palm upon his knee as a flail beats grain, and I knew he needed no words of mine.  I thought that he was going over his defenses in his mind, and I began to calculate how many rounds of shot I had in my canoes, and to hope that my men would not prove cravens.  I knew, without argument with myself, that the beaver lands did not need me half as much as I was needed here.

At length Cadillac looked up.  “Do you think the prisoner is a spy?” he asked.

I had dreaded this question.  “I am afraid so, but judge of him yourself.  He speaks French.”

Cadillac half rose.  “He speaks French?  Yet he is an Englishman?”

I nodded.  “Undoubtedly an Englishman.”

“And you made nothing of him?”

I could only shake my head.  “Nothing.  He tells the story that I should tell if I were lying,—­yet he may be telling the truth.  He is a bundle of inconsistencies; that may be nature or art.  He may be a hot-headed youth, who knows nothing beyond his own bitterness over his capture, or he may be a clever actor.  I do not know.”

Cadillac gave a long breath that was near a sigh.  “Poor soul!” he said unexpectedly.  “Well, spy or otherwise, it matters little for the few hours remaining.”