“I am gratified to see you again, monsieur.”  Now it was a civil phrase, and well spoken, but it annoyed me.  I could not understand his change of look, and I dislike complexities.  What was the man concealing that he should drop his eyes before me.  In spite of the seriousness of our joint state, I felt much inclination to take time, then and there, to box his ears, and tell him to be more forthright.  My annoyance made it easier for me to come without phrases to the meat of the matter.  I pressed him to a chair, and stood over him.

“You looked out of the window, Monsieur Starling.  What did you learn?”

He glanced upward.  “The Indians are excited.  Am I the cause?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

His glance fell.  “They want me—­for torture,” he said, with steadiness I could not but commend.  Then he turned suddenly.  “Can your commandant protect me?”

Now this was unexpected.  I had intended to lead up to this situation gradually, and the question caught me unguarded.  The prisoner was looking me full in the face, and he read there what I had hoped to hide.

“I understand,” he said.

I have been with many men when they heard their death sentence, and those who take it as this man did, with spirit and knowledge, rob me of my hold on myself, so that I show emotion of which I am ashamed.  I turned away.  “Wait, wait, monsieur, I have not said all!” I cried.  “There is still one chance for you.”

He shook his head.  “Small chance for me with that swarm outside.  Well, what must come, will come.”  He was white, and his eyes grew even more sombre; but, though his blood might play him traitor, his will was unshaken.  I saw that.  I saw, too, that his manner had lost all bravado.  He suddenly came to me, and laid his hand on my arm.  “I am glad, monsieur, that it was you who came to tell me.  It is much easier to hear it from you.  All day you have been thoughtful for me; for me, a stranger and an enemy.  I wish that my blessing might bring you happiness, monsieur.”  And before I could check him, he raised my hand to his lips.

I was greatly disturbed.  “Stop!  Stop!  Stop!” I expostulated, too much stirred to think what I was saying.  “This is not the end.  You are to go west with me.”

He drew away.  “With you?  Who are you?  What is the west?  You said—­you said that I had to die.”

I felt unsteady, and ill at ease.  “Let us discuss this like sane men!” I exclaimed, angry at myself.  “You jump at conclusions.  That is a woman’s foible.  Who am I?  A trader, Armand de Montlivet, from Montreal.  I am going west for peltries.  It will be a hard trip, and you will suffer; but it is your only chance.  I will get you to the canoe in some fashion soon after dusk.  I have not made my plans.  I must reconnoitre.  Hold yourself ready to do what I ask.”

Still he drew away.  “I shall be a burden.  Tell me the truth, shall I be a burden?”