The father looked at her.  “I could almost think that age and loneliness have undone my mind,” he said slowly.  “You talk of kings and courtiers.  Who are you?”

I waited, perhaps more eagerly than the priest himself, for her reply.  None came.  I thought she gave a flitting look toward me, and so I shrugged my shoulders and thrust myself again into the priest’s thought.

“If we were kings, courtiers, and Jacobites all in one,” I said as airily as might be in view of my aching muscles, “the titles would yet clink dully as leaden coins, travel-worn as we are.  Can you marry us this evening, Father Nouvel?”

He looked at me keenly, not altogether pleased.  “And you are”—­he asked.

“Armand de Montlivet, from Montreal.”

He relaxed somewhat.  “I have heard of you.  No, I cannot marry you to-night.  I will find a lodge for this demoiselle, and we will talk of this to-morrow.  Come now and let me bring you to the chief,” and with a beckoning of the hand he led the way into the lodge behind him.

We followed closely.  The lodge was large, and was roofed and floored with rush mats.  The smoke hung in a cloud over our heads, but the air around us was sufficiently clear for us to see,—­though with some rubbing of the eyes.  An aged Indian sat close to the blaze, and Father Nouvel walked over to him.

“Onanguisse,” he said, “two strangers lift the mat before your door,—­strangers with white faces.  Do you bid them take broth and shelter?”

The old chief nodded.  He had lacked curiosity to look out at us while we had stood talking before his door, and now he scarcely lifted his eyes.

“Is the Huron with them?” he asked the priest.

I pushed forward.  “What Huron?” I demanded, in the Pottawatamie speech.

The chief stirred somewhat at hearing me use his language.  “A Huron is in the woods,” he said indifferently.  “Every one must live, thieves as well as others, but I do not like it that he stole our squashes.  When a Huron comes, you will soon see the French.”

I would have asked questions, for I craved more news, but before the words could form, since I am slow, the woman spoke.

“Nadouk!” she exclaimed.  “I understand that word.  It means Huron.  Are the Hurons pursuing us?”

Her woman’s voice echoed oddly in that smoke-grimed place.  Onanguisse looked up.  I have lived among Indians, and know some sides of their nature, but I am never prepared for what they may do.  The old chief stared and then rose.  “A white thrush!” he said, and he looked at Father Nouvel for explanation.

“They come to be married,” the priest hastened.  “Have you an empty lodge for the maiden?”

Onanguisse listened, then walked to the woman, and looked at her as he would study a blurred trail in the forest.  She bore his scrutiny well, and he grunted approval.  Now that he had risen he was impressive.  He was tall, and had that curious, loose-jointed suppleness that, I have heard women say, comes only from gentle blood.  As he stood beside Father Nouvel it came to me that the two men were somewhat kin.  One face was patrician and the other savage, but they were both old men who bore their years with wisdom and kept the salt of humor close at hand.  The chief turned to me.