There were
ferret-sharp black eyes and peasant-dull blue ones, but all were
glittering. And the faces, bronze or white, took on the same
look,--they were strained, arid of all expression but the fever for
war. A slow tingle crawled over me, and I saw the crowd sway. A
cautious, muffled cry broke from the shore and was answered from the
canoes. It was a hoarse note, for the lust for blood crowds the throat
full.
I looked to see Cadillac riding a surge of triumph, but when our hands
met I was chilled. He showed no gladness. His purple face had lines,
and he looked hot and jaded. Had his men failed him? No, I reviewed
them. French, Hurons, and Ottawas, they made a goodly showing.
Onanguisse was there, and his Pottawatamies, oiled, feathered, and
paint-decked, were beautiful as catamounts. All was well. Cadillac
was not in his first youth, and had abused himself. His look meant
fatigue.
"Ottawas, Hurons, Pottawatamies, Malhominis, Chippewas, Sacs,
Winnebagoes." I counted them off to him. "Monsieur de la
Mothe-Cadillac, it is a sight worthy your eyes. New France has not
seen such a gathering since the day when Saint Lusson planted our
standard at the straits and fourteen tribes looked on.
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