But he had heard my step, and drew himself up to face me. He turned
with composure, and fronted me with so much dignity that I stood like a
blundering oaf trapped by my own emotion. There was no emotion in his
look. He had been thinking, not despairing, and his face was sharpened
and lighted with such concentration that I felt slapped with cold
steel. He looked all intellect and determination,--a thing of
will-power rather than flesh and brawn.

My Huron speech seemed out of place, but there was no choice left me,
so I used it. There was refuge for my dignity in the sonorous
syllables, and I spoke as to a fellow sachem. Then I asked the
prisoner his name, and waited for response.

None came. I knew that I had spoken rapidly, so I tried again. I
chose short words, and framed my sentences like a schoolmaster. The
prisoner listened negligently. Then he put out his hand. "Pardon,
monsieur. But I speak French,--though indifferently," he said, with a
slight shrug.

My anger made my ears buzz; I would not bandy words with a man of so
small and sly a spirit. I turned to leave.

But the prisoner stepped between me and the door. "You were sent here
with a message," he said; "I am listening."

His sunken brown eyes were so deep in melancholy that I could not hold
my wrath. "Was it a gentleman's part to lead me on to play the clown?"
I asked. "I came in kindness."

He smiled a little,--a bitter smile that did not reach his eyes. "I am