Kern of Old Brunswick House, Achard of New; Ki-wa-nee, the Indian of Flying Post—­these and others told briefly of many things, each in his own language.  To all Galen Albret listened in silence.  Finally Louis Placide from the post at Kettle Portage got to his feet.  He too reported of the trade,—­so many “beaver” of tobacco, of powder, of lead, of pork, of flour, of tea, given in exchange; so many mink, otter, beaver, ermine, marten, and fisher pelts taken in return.  Then he paused and went on at greater length in regard to the stranger, speaking evenly but with emphasis.  When he had finished, Galen Albret struck a bell at his elbow.  Me-en-gan, the bowsman of the Factor’s canoe, entered, followed closely by the young man who had that afternoon arrived.

He was dressed still in his costume of the voyageur—­the loose blouse shirt, the buckskin leggings and moccasins, the long tasselled red sash.  His head was as high and his glance as free, but now the steel blue of his eye had become steady and wary, and two faint lines had traced themselves between his brows.  At his entrance a hush of expectation fell.  Galen Albret did not stir, but the others hitched nearer the long, narrow table, and two or three leaned both elbows on it the better to catch what should ensue.

Me-en-gan stopped by the door, but the stranger walked steadily the length of the room until he faced the Factor.  Then he paused and waited collectedly for the other to speak.

This the Factor did not at once begin to do, but sat impassive—­apparently without thought—­while the heavy breathing of the men in the room marked off the seconds of time.  Finally abruptly Galen Albret’s cavernous voice boomed forth.  Something there was strangely mysterious, cryptic, in the virile tones issuing from a bulk so massive and inert.  Galen Albret did not move, did not even raise the heavy-lidded, dull stare of his eyes to the young man who stood before him; hardly did his broad arched chest seem to rise and fall with the respiration of speech; and yet each separate word leaped forth alive, instinct with authority.

“Once at Leftfoot Lake, two Indians caught you asleep,” he pronounced.  “They took your pelts and arms, and escorted you to Sudbury.  They were my Indians.  Once on the upper Abitibi you were stopped by a man named Herbert, who warned you from the country, after relieving you of your entire outfit.  He told you on parting what you might expect if you should repeat the attempt—­severe measures, the severest.  Herbert was my man.  Now Louis Placide surprises you in a rapids near Kettle Portage and brings you here.”