“A messenger from your own camp?”

“Is it my own camp?” he queried soberly.  “I do not know.  I have reason to think that many of my Hurons are ripe for English bribes,—­or even for the Iroquois.  It is a strange menagerie that I rule over here, and the Hurons are the foxes,—­when they are not trying to be lions.  You say that their camp is restless.  I do not speak their language, but I can tell you more.  They are in two factions.  Those who follow old Kondiaronk, the Rat, are fairly loyal, but the faction under the Baron would sell us to the English for the price of a cask of rum.  Truly our scalps sit lightly on our heads here in this garrison.”

I hesitated.  I did not like this situation, and prudence whispered that I had best cut the conversation here, and make my way as swiftly as possible to the west.  But curiosity urged me to one more question.  I asked it with my lips pursing to a whistle, that I might seem indifferent.  “Is the messenger from the Baron?”

Cadillac nodded contentedly.  “So you have decided to help me,” he said, with a smile that read my indecision perfectly, and I felt, with a rush of blood to my face, much less sure of myself, and more respect for him.  “I wish that I had inducements to keep you here,” he went on, “for I hear from Montreal that you have wonderful command of Indian dialects.  But I will take what you are willing to give, and be thankful.  As to this messenger,—­this is the tale.  Some months ago a small band of Hurons left here for the south.  Hunting, or war, or diplomacy, how shall I say what was their errand?  But I mistrust them, for they are followers of the Baron.  They returned this morning, and are in camp on the island.  Their sending a messenger in advance looks as if they had a prisoner, and so desired to be welcomed in state.  If the prisoner should be an Iroquois”——­

Now certain tales were fresh in my ears, and so I did not like the implication of the unfinished sentence, and hastened to cover it.  “It is a favorable sign, monsieur, that the messenger came to you first.”

“How do I know that he came to me first?  He came to me—­yes.  But because a snake slips out of one hole, can you swear that he has not been in another?  Will you go to him now?”

There was no door open for escape, and the matter was not important enough for me to be willing to force one.  “If you wish,” I agreed.

Cadillac looked relieved.  “Good!  You will find the messenger at my quarters.  I shall let you go alone, for I can make nothing of the man’s speech, and he smells somewhat rancid for a close acquaintance.  When you are through, you will find me here.”

I bowed, and made my way to his quarters.  I knew as I opened his door that I might be entering more than appeared upon the surface, but the excitement of the game was worth the hazard,—­even the hazard of a possible delay,—­and I pushed the door wide, and went in.