The hunter laughed deep in his throat, and it was a satisfied laugh.

"It did look like it," he said, "and it was war, red war, but nobody was
responsible for it. The Marquis Duquesne, the Governor General of
Canada, who is Onontio to our Iroquois, will raise his jeweled hand, and
protest that he knew nothing about those Indians, that they were wild
warriors from the west, that none of his good, pious Indians of Canada
could possibly have been among them. And the Intendant, François Bigot,
the most corrupt and ambitious man in North America, will say that they
obtained no rifles, no muskets, no powder, no lead from him or his
agents. Oh, no, these fine French gentlemen will disown the attack upon
us, as they would have disavowed it, just the same, if we had been
killed. I want to warn you, Robert, and you, Tayoga, that when you reach
Quebec you'll breathe an air that's not that of the woods, nor yet of
Albany or New York. It's a bit of old Europe, it's a reproduction on a
small scale of the gorgeous Versailles over there that's eating the
heart out of France. The Canadian Frenchman is a good man, brave and
enduring, as I ought to know, but he's plundered and fooled by those
people who come from France to make fame or quick fortunes here."

He spoke with earnestness, but not as a hunter. Rather he seemed now to
Robert, despite his forest dress, to be a man of the world, one who
understood cities as well as the wilderness.

"I don't know all your life, Dave," said young Lennox, "but I'm quite
sure you know a great deal more than you would have people to think.
Sometimes I believe you've been across the great water."

"Then you believe right, Robert. I never told you in so many words
before, but I've been in Europe. I'll talk to you about it another time,