I clenched my hand, and wished myself elsewhere. "But our Hurons say
they were neutral," I defended.

He lifted his brows. "You prefer to give all the praise to the
Algonquins?" he asked smoothly. "I understand. Yes, I have heard that
the Algonquins stand even closer to you than your Hurons here. They
are more than brothers. Indeed, it is said that your Count Frontenac
calls them his children. Well, they did you credit. It took ten of
them to silence Goodman Ellwood's musket, but they butchered him in the
end. If you find a scalp with long silky white hair, monsieur, it
belongs to John Ellwood. Value it, and nail it among your trophies,
for it cost you the lives of a full half-dozen Algonquin braves."

I kept my eyes down. I had come here to unearth a certain fact, and I
would pursue it. "But were the Hurons neutral?" I persisted.

I could not even guess at what raw nerve I touched, but he suddenly
threw his arms wide as men do when a shot is mortal. His cool
insolence dropped from him, and he was all fire and helpless defiance.
He stamped his foot, till, slender as he was, the boards rang. "Were
the Hurons neutral?" he mocked, in a voice so like my own I could have
sworn it was an echo. "What manner of man are you? Are you made of
chalk? If you had seen a child's brains dashed out against a tree,
would you stop to ask the Indian who held the dripping corpse what
dialect he spoke? Oh, a man should be ashamed to live who has seen
such things, and who keeps his sword sheathed while one of your Indian
family--brothers or children--remains alive! If you had blood in your
veins, you would be man enough not to put even an enemy upon the rack,
in this way, and force him to live that time over to glut your
curiosity. Here is my answer, which you may take to your commandant.