In view of what I had just seen, I felt impatient.  “You do my handful of stolid peasants too much honor,” I said dryly.  “They would need more wit and ingenuity than I have ever seen in them to be able to teach outlawry to anything that they find here.  But I am looking for them now.  You will pardon me if I hasten.”

But his hand pulled at me.  “Is one of your men lipped like a bull-moose and red as Rufus?”

“Pierre Boudin to the life,” I chuckled.  “What deviltry is he at now?”

The priest’s face lost its flame.  He looked suddenly the old man worn out in the service of a savage people.  “He is with an Ottawa girl,” he said sadly; “a girl the Indians call Singing Arrow for her wit and her laughter.  She is not a convert, but she is a good girl.  I wish you would get your man away.”

I felt shame for my man and myself.  “I will go at once,” I promised soberly.  “I will be westward bound by afternoon.”

The old priest looked at me with friendly eyes.  “There will be trouble before sundown,” he said gravely.  “If you wish to get away, go quickly, or you may not go at all.  Now you must report to the commandant.”

But I had turned my face the other way.  “Not till I have found Pierre,” I returned.

I had no summer stroll before me.  Pierre, Anak that he was, was as lost as a leaf in a whirlpool, and though I had quick eyes, and shoulders that could force a passage for me in a crowd, I could see no sign of his oriole crest of red head in all the bobbing multitude of blackbirds.  Instead I stumbled upon Cadillac.

He linked his arm in mine.  “Do you know,” he said abruptly, “the prisoner has spirit and to spare.  He may be a man of importance after all.”

I answered like a fool.  “I think not.  He is dressed like a yeoman.”

Cadillac put me at arm’s length, and puffed his cheeks with silent laughter.  “Plumage, eh?  Are you willing to be judged by your own?” He stopped to let his glance rest on my shabby gear.  “Truly it must be a long year since you fronted a mirror, or you would not be so complacent.  No, monsieur, the prisoner is a gentleman.  No yeoman ever carried his head with such a poise.  But who is he?  I would give all the pistoles in my pocket—­though, in faith, they’re few enough—­if I could understand English.  But you may be able to help me.  Go speak to the prisoner in Huron.  He must have picked up something of the Indian speech in his trip here.”

This was my opportunity.  “Monsieur,” I said, “I should like an understanding.  Remember how little all this can mean to me,—­a trader,—­and do not think me churlish if I try to keep myself free from this intrigue.  I will go to the prisoner now, if you wish; but, that done, I beg you to hold me excused of any further service in this matter.”