I am glad for you to know this.
Will you forget that I was a madman, monsieur?"
CHAPTER XXVI
FROM HOUR TO HOUR
It was well that I slept alone that night, for more than once before
day dawned I found myself with my feet on the floor and my free arm
searching for a knife. I had flouted at imagination, but now every
howling dog became an Indian raising the death cry. I asked Cadillac
to double the guard before the woman's quarters, but even then I slept
with an ear pricked for trouble. And I was abroad early.
There are no straight roads in the wilderness; all trails are devious.
So with an Indian's mind. I sat in Longuant's skin-roofed lodge and
filled hours with talk of Singing Arrow. The girl was to wed Pierre at
noon the next day. The marriage was to be solemnized in the chapel the
next afternoon, and the whites were to attend. The affair was perhaps
worth some talk, if Longuant and I had been squaws yawning over our
basket-work. But we were men with knives, and Fear was whispering at
our shoulders.
The sun climbed, and noises and odors of midday came in the tent door.
I plumped out a direct question.
"The tree of friendship that grows for the Ottawas and the French,--are
its roots deep, Longuant?"
The old chief looked at me.
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