"A spy?"

I shook my head. I could feel my blood pumping hard, but I answered by
rote. "Not by the Huron's story."

The commandant snapped his fingers. "That for his story! As idle as
wind in the grass!" he snorted. "But what did he say?"

I grew as laconic as the Huron. "That they left here as a hunting
party," I said categorically.

"That they soon joined a war party of Algonquins, and went with them to
the English frontier. I could make little of his geography, but I
infer that they went in the direction of Boston,--though not so far.
There the Algonquins fell upon a village, where they scalped and burned
to their fill. He says that the Hurons remained neutral, and this
prisoner, he maintains, is theirs by purchase. They bought him from
the Algonquins for two white dressed deerskins, and they have treated
him well. They have found him a man of spirit and importance, and they
ask that you make a suitable feast in honor of what they have done.
The Huron is waiting for your answer."

Cadillac had listened nodding, and his reply was ready. "Tell him that
they must bring the prisoner to-morrow early,--soon after daybreak.
Tell him that Monsieur de la Mothe-Cadillac knows his part, and that
the kettles shall be full of dog-meat, and the young men painted and
ready for the dancing." He spoke rapidly, his hand on his sword, and
his great shoulders lifted as if eager to meet their new burden. He
turned to me with a smile that would have conquered enmity in a wolf.
"This is great news, Montlivet. I could almost ask you to drink the