Bourbon were not yet disclosed, even to the shrewdest observers, and a
spell was cast upon all the civilized nations by the gorgeous and
glittering world of fashion and the world of arms. The influence reached
even into the depths of the vast North American wilderness and was felt
by Robert as he sat beside the camp fire in the savage woods with the
Frenchmen.

He drank a little of the red wine, but only a very little, and Tayoga
would not touch it at all. Willet took a small leather cup of it, but
declined a second. The food was good, better cooked than it usually was
among the English colonists, where the table was regarded as a
necessity, and in no particular as a rite. Robert, despite his habitual
caution, found his heart warming toward his French hosts. It could not
be possible that the Indians had been set upon his comrades and himself
by the French! The warmth of his heart increased when one of the
Canadians took a violin from a cloth cover and began to play wailing old
airs. Like so many others, Robert was not made melancholy by melancholy
music. Instead, he saw through a pleasing glow and the world grew poetic
and tender. The fire sank and Americans, French, Canadians and Indians
listened with the same silent interest. Presently the violinist played a
livelier tune and the _habitants_ sang to the music:

"Malbrouck, s'en va t-en guerre
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;
Malbrouck s'en va t-en guerre
Ne sait quand reviendra."

Then he left Malbrouck, and it was:

"Hier sur le pont d'Avignon