Of course, Pemaou would
spare me, and so prolong the game. As the son of the leader of the
Hurons, he had more to learn from Longuant's speech than I. We were
playing with the same cards, but his stakes were the larger. I
suddenly realized that I was enjoying myself more than in a long time.
But the test was to come. When Pemaou had heard all he wished, he
would aim the spear at my throat, and so, though I threw negligently, I
watched like a starved cat. I heard the council agree upon a decisive
measure, and I knew that the Huron's moment had arrived. He seized it.
His spear whistled at me like a bullet, but my muscles were braced and
waiting. I caught the weapon, and held it, though the wood ate into my
palms. The savages told the Huron in a derisive roar that the
Frenchman was the better man.
And now it was my turn. So far I had thrown fair, without twist or
trickery, but I knew one turn of the wrist that could do cruel work.
Should I use it? Pemaou had tried to murder me. I looked at his
red-and-white body, and reptile eyes, and hate rushed to my brain like
liquor. I took the spear and snapped it.
"Take your plaything!" I cried, and I tossed the fragments in his face.
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