“We shall push on at daybreak to-morrow,” I told the men.  “Hang the kettles.  To-night we shall have a boiling pot.”

Truly a fire makes home of a wilderness.  We sat with our heels to the blaze, and grew jovial.  The Englishman said little, but was alert to serve us.

“It is salt to the broth to have it given me by a pretty squaw,” I told him as he filled my bowl a second time.

He flushed with anger, and I thought myself that it was a cheap jest and unworthy.  He had been considerate to wear his disguise without complaint.

“I shall find something for you to wear when we shift our cargo to leave,” I promised him, and since my mood was still mellow, I looked him over with a smile.  He had smoothed and rounded in a wonderful manner in his two days of rest, and I was pleased by the red in his cheeks.  “You will soon be a second Pierre if you sleep and eat in this fashion,” I laughed at him, “and then there will be no room for you in the canoe.  If all your countrymen sleep as you do, it is small wonder that they have left us undisturbed in the beaver lands.”

He smiled a little in deference to my small jest, but the next instant he looked away.  “I had not slept in weeks,” he said softly, as if ashamed of his excuse.

That shamed me, and I came to my feet and let my bowl of broth spill where it would.

“Sleep well, lad.  You are safe with us,” I cried, and I left my meal unfinished, and went to the hidden cargo.  Then and there I would find proper clothing for the Englishman.  I had been slothful in the matter.

The clothing was stored deep, and I was bending to the search with some shortness of breath, when the Englishman touched my shoulder.

“Is it clothing for me?”

I handed him a blanket coat for answer.  “It is large, but warm,” I said, and bent again to my task.

Still he kept a hand on my shoulder.  “Monsieur, I am satisfied with my dress.”

I could be putty in his hands one moment and scorn him the next.  “Nonsense!” I snapped over my shoulder.

But he clung like a gnat.  “It is not nonsense.  Stop a moment and listen to my reasons.”

I drew myself up reluctantly.  “Well?”

He stood with arms akimbo, his head to one side.  “It is as plain as a pikestaff.  In this dress I can go where you cannot.  I can reconnoitre for you.  In your man’s coat I should be grotesque, for it is twice my size.  I should be noticeable and draw comment on us.  As it is, I can go unobserved.”

Now this was partly true.  “But the presence of a woman would discredit our canoes,” I objected.

He turned this over.  “A woman would discredit your party?”

“Of course.”

“But no one sees you but the Indians.”

“They report to the priests.”

“And you care what the priests think?”

“I care for the good name of my company.  Monsieur, do you like to wear a squaw’s dress?”