He was a figure for Bacchus when I found him, and I pricked at him with
my sword, and drove him to the water, where I saw him well immersed.

"Now for quick work," I admonished. "I must see the commandant, but
only for a moment. You gather the men, and have the canoes in waiting.
There will be no tobacco for you to-night, if you are not ready when I
come."

He shook the water from his red locks, and wagged his head in much more
docile fashion than I had expected. "My master cannot go too fast for
me," he said, with a twist of his great protruding lip. "I have no
liking for white meat broth myself."

He drew back like one who has hit a bull's-eye and waited for me to ask
questions, but I thought that I knew my man, and laughed at his
childishness.

"No more of that!" I said with perfunctory sternness. "What pot-house
rabble of Indians have you been with that you should prattle of making
broth of white men, and dare bring such speech to me as a jest! That
is not talk for civilized men, and if you repeat it I shall send you
back to France. You are more familiar with the savages than I like a
man of mine to be. Remember that, Pierre. Now go."

But he lingered. "It is no pot-house story," he defended sulkily.
"The Ottawas say they will go to war if the prisoner is not put in the
pot before to-morrow morning. And what can the commandant do? The
Ottawas are two thousand strong."