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."