Cadillac stopped.  “No Iroquois!” he echoed heavily.

“No, monsieur.  They have an Englishman.”

It was as if I had struck him.  He stepped back, and his face grew dull red.

“A spy?”

I shook my head.  I could feel my blood pumping hard, but I answered by rote.  “Not by the Huron’s story.”

The commandant snapped his fingers.  “That for his story!  As idle as wind in the grass!” he snorted.  “But what did he say?”

I grew as laconic as the Huron.  “That they left here as a hunting party,” I said categorically.

“That they soon joined a war party of Algonquins, and went with them to the English frontier.  I could make little of his geography, but I infer that they went in the direction of Boston,—­though not so far.  There the Algonquins fell upon a village, where they scalped and burned to their fill.  He says that the Hurons remained neutral, and this prisoner, he maintains, is theirs by purchase.  They bought him from the Algonquins for two white dressed deerskins, and they have treated him well.  They have found him a man of spirit and importance, and they ask that you make a suitable feast in honor of what they have done.  The Huron is waiting for your answer.”

Cadillac had listened nodding, and his reply was ready.  “Tell him that they must bring the prisoner to-morrow early,—­soon after daybreak.  Tell him that Monsieur de la Mothe-Cadillac knows his part, and that the kettles shall be full of dog-meat, and the young men painted and ready for the dancing.”  He spoke rapidly, his hand on his sword, and his great shoulders lifted as if eager to meet their new burden.  He turned to me with a smile that would have conquered enmity in a wolf.  “This is great news, Montlivet.  I could almost ask you to drink the health of the Baron, and all his scurvy, seditious crew.  For, look you, even if the Englishman is a spy, and the Hurons have brought him here to make a secret treaty, why, he is in our hands, and Boston is a continent away.  He will have opportunity to learn some French before he goes back to his codfish friends.  What say you, monsieur?”

I laughed rather ruefully.  I saw that the game was to be exciting, and I had never been backward at a sport.  Yet I knew that I must turn my face from it.

“What do I say?” I repeated.  “Nothing, monsieur, but that I am a trader, not a diplomat, and that to-morrow I must be on my way to the west.  I will take your answer to the Huron.  Monsieur, I hope you will sleep long and sweetly to-night.  You will need a clear head to-morrow.”

Cadillac looked at me, and wagged his head.  “Good-day to you, trader,” he said, with one of his noiseless laughs.  “How well you must sleep who have no thought beyond your beaver skins,—­even though you do carry brandy and muskets hidden in your cargo.  Never mind, never mind.  Keep your secrets.  Only see that Father Carheil does not smell your brandy, or I may be forced to send you back to Montreal.”