I shook my head.  I pointed to a stale bear print, and set the men upon it.  Then I turned and slipped back to camp.

I walked with uneasiness in my throat.  Why did a Huron dog us in this fashion?  Was he alone?  Did he mean mischief to the Englishman?  Was the Englishman in league with him?  Too many questions for a slow man.  I felt entrapped and befogged.  I must see for myself.  And so I crept to the camp to spy upon it.

I have never seen sweeter spot for an anchorage than we had found that day.  We had not camped on the open coast as had been our custom, but in a sun-warmed meadow a few paces inland, where there were birds, and tasseling grasses, and all kinds of glancing lights and odors to steal into a man’s blood.  I parted the trees.  The blur of gray ashes from our fire was undisturbed; our canoes lay, bottom upwards, waiting to have the seams newly pitched, and the cargo was piled, untouched, against a tree.  All was as we left it.  And there, in the shade of a maple, lay the Englishman, asleep on his scarlet blanket.

I went softly, and looked down at him.  I ought to have waked him, and rated him for sleeping at his post, but I could not.  It was balm to find him here safe.  He was twisted like a kitten with his head in his arm, and I noticed that his dark hair, which he kept roughly cut, was curly.  He must have been wandering in the woods, for he had a bunch of pink blossoms, very waxy and odorous, shut tight in his hand.  I looked at him till I suddenly wanted him to wake and look at me.  I picked a grass stalk, and, leaning over, brushed it against his lips.

He woke as a child does, not alert at once, but with drowsy stirrings, and finally with open eyes so sleep-filled that they were as expressionless as a fawn’s.  He stared as if trying to remember who I was.

I sat beside him.  “I am the owner of that cargo you are guarding,” I supplied to aid his memory, and then laughed to see the red flood his face when he came to himself and realized what he had done.  But I was not at ease.  He had shivered and drawn back when he first opened his eyes.  Could he be afraid of me?  I should not wish that.  I tried to be crafty.

“Who did you think I was when you first woke?” I asked, taking my pipe and preparing to be comfortable.

He pushed back his hair.  “Benjamin,” he answered vaguely.  He was still half asleep.

“But you told me your name was Benjamin!” I put down my flint and tinder.

He met my look.  “I have a cousin Benjamin, as well,” he rejoined.  “I was dreaming of him.  Monsieur, I am humiliated to think that I went to sleep.  I have never done so before.”

My pipe drew well, and I did not feel like chiding.  “It does not matter,” I said, with a yawn.  “You must not take it amiss, monsieur, if I confess that, as a guard, I have never considered you much more seriously than I would that brown thrush above you.  What is your posy?” and I leaned over and took the flowers from his hand.