"Who's that?" said Muroc.

"You wouldn't know his name. He's trying to find eggs in last year's
nest," answered Benolt with a leer.

"He means the Seigneur," said Muroc. "Look to your son-in-law,
Lajeunesse. He's kicking up a dust that'll choke Pontiac yet.
It's as if there was an imp in him driving him on."

"We've had enough of the devil's dust here," said Lajeunesse. "Has he
been talking to you, Muroc?"

Muroc nodded. "Treason, or thereabouts. Once, with him that's dead in
the graveyard yonder, it was France we were to save and bring back the
Napoleons--I have my sword yet. Now it's save Quebec. It's stand alone
and have our own flag, and shout, and fight, maybe, to be free of
England. Independence--that's it! One by one the English have had
to go from Pontiac. Now it's M'sieu' Medallion."

"There's Shandon the Irishman gone too. M'sieu' sold him up and shipped
him off," said Gingras the shoemaker.

"Tiens! the Seigneur gave him fifty dollars when he left, to help him
along. He smacks and then kisses, does M'sieu' Racine."

"We've to pay tribute to the Seigneur every year, as they did in the days
of Vaudreuil and Louis the Saint," said Duclosse. "I've got my notice--a
bag of meal under the big tree at the Manor door."

"I've to bring a pullet and a bag of charcoal," said Muroc. "'Tis the