of Ottawas, and, barred by the aristocracy of a palisade, a village of
Hurons. The scale of precedence was plain to read. The huts of the
savages were wattled, interlaced of poles and bark; the French
buildings were of wood, but roofed with rough cedar; the only houses
with board roofs were those of the Jesuits. In later times when I
found Father Carheil hard to understand, I used to say to myself that
he was not to be held too strictly to account for his contradictions,
for though one learns to think great thoughts in the wilderness, it is
not done easily when there is sawed lumber to shut away the sky.

Cadillac came back to me in a few moments. He had lost his swelling
port, and was frowning with thought. "I saw you in the Huron camp,
Montlivet," he said. "Do you understand their speech?"

Now this was a question that I thought it as well to put by. "Would
you call it speech?" I demurred. "It sounded more like snarling."

"Then you do understand it?"

I kicked at the dogs at my feet. "Frowns are a common language. I
could understand them, at least. The camp is restless. Are they
hungry?"

Cadillac shrugged his shoulders. "Possibly. But it is not hunger that
sagamité or maize cakes can reach. Would a taste of Iroquois broth put
them in better condition, do you think?"

I turned away somewhat sickened. "It is a savage remedy," I broke out.
"And a good cook will catch his hare before he talks of putting it in
the pot. Where is your Iroquois hare, Monsieur de la Mothe-Cadillac?"