I care nothing for your life, and I need
this story. I will have it if I have to choke it out of your throat."
"I am trying to tell you the story, monsieur."
"No. You are telling me a pleasant fairy tale of a love-lorn knight
searching the wilderness for his lost mistress. A moving tale,
monsieur, but not the true one. I want the real story. The story of
the English spy who wishes to ransom his cousin, but who also treats
secretly with the Hurons,--who treats with Pemaou, monsieur. Tell me
his story."
His face did not alter. "You believe me a spy?"
"I have reason, monsieur."
Still he regarded me. "You might be right, but you are not. Monsieur,
I am a broken man. I want nothing but my cousin. If there is intrigue
around me I do not know it. I am telling you the truth."
I fought hard against the man's fascination, his splendid, ruined pomp.
"You must have a code," I burst out. "There must be something you hold
dear. Will you swear to me by the name of the woman that you have not
had secret dealings with the Hurons?"
"I swear."
"But the profile that the Huron carried!"
"Those pictures I scattered broadcast. You will find them among the
Algonquins, and the Ottawas of the upper river.
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