I caught his arm across the table.  “Cadillac!” I cried, with an oath.  “You would not do that!”

He shook off my hand, and looked at me with more regret than anger.  “I am the rat in the trap,” he said simply.  “What did you expect me to do?”

I rose.  “Do you mean,” I cried, my voice rasping, “that you will not attempt a defense? that you will hand a man, a white man, over to those fiends of hell?  Good God, man, you are worse than the Iroquois!”

He came over, and seized my arm.  “I could run you through for that speech,” he said, his teeth grating.  “Are you a child, that you cannot look beyond the moment?  Suppose I defy the Ottawas.  Then I must call on the Baron to help me, since it was his men who brought the prisoner to camp.  Why, man, are you crazed?  Look at the situation.  Kondiaronk, the Huron, will reason as the Ottawas have done, and throw his forces on their side.  I should be left with only the Baron to back me,—­the Baron, who has been whetting his knife for my throat for the last year.  Why, this is what he wants; this is why he brought the prisoner here!  Would you have me walk into his trap?  Would you have me sacrifice my men, this garrison, why, this country even, to save the life of one puny Englishman, who is probably himself a spy?” He stopped a moment.  “Why, man, you sicken me!” he cried, and he slashed at me with his sword as if I were a reptile.

I took my own sword, and laid it on the table.  “I am a fool,” I said, not for the first time that day.  “But how will Frontenac look at your handing a white man over to torture?”

Cadillac put up his sword.  “My orders are plain,” he said, tapping a sheaf of papers on his desk.  “They came in the last packet.  I am to treat all prisoners in the Indian manner.  As you say, the Indians have come to think us chicken-hearted.  We must give them more than words if we are to hold them as allies.”

I seized sword and hat.  “You are a good servant,” I said.  “I wish you joy of your obedience,” and I plunged toward the door.

But an orderly stopped me on the threshold.  “Is Monsieur de la Mothe-Cadillac within?” he asked.  “The Baron desires an audience with him.”

Cadillac pushed up behind me.  “I am here,” he called to the orderly.  “Tell the Baron that I will see him when the sun touches the water-line.”  Then he pulled me back into the room.  “How much do you think the Baron knows?” he demanded.

I felt shame for my forgetfulness.  “Pemaou was in the Ottawa camp,” I said, and I told him what had happened.

Cadillac’s face hardened.  “Then they have sent to demand the prisoner,” he pondered moodily.  “I had hoped for a few hours’ respite.  There might have been some way for the prisoner to escape.”