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
sagamite 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?"
The commandant shook his head. "My hare is still at large," he
confessed. "Though just now---- Come, Monsieur de Montlivet, let us
to plain speech. We are talking as slantingly as savages. I have a
Huron messenger at my quarters. Come with me, and interpret."
"A messenger from your own camp?"
"Is it my own camp?" he queried soberly.
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