sing hours
of good daylight playing the dish game they had learned among the
Ottawas. I heard them stake their patrimony in this world, and their
hopes of the next, on the throw of the black and yellow balls, but I
smoked my pipe, and let them brag and squabble. The bees were droning,
the sun lay warm on my back, and the forest was at peace. Two years
before, I remembered, I had worn lace and periwig on this day, and had
stood in his majesty's antechamber. Now I was gaunt and rusty as a
bear in spring. I looked at the secret forest, the uncharted water,
and at my smoke-grimed men squatting like monkeys over a savage game,
and I smote my knee with content. Truly it was a satisfying thing to
live while the world afforded such contrasts! And if I played my
present cards with skill, there might be a still greater contrast in
store for me when next I stood in that ante-chamber and heard my name
carried within. But that thought made me restless, and I went in
search of the Englishman.

The Englishman had sat apart from us since we landed, and now I found
him with his back against a rock ledge looking at the water. I was in
a mood when I had to wag my tongue to some one and ease myself of some
spreading fancies. So I dropped down beside him.

"Monsieur," I began by way of introduction to my theme, "are you indeed
a yeoman?"

He looked up with an excess of solemnity. "No, monsieur."

This was not the answer I had expected,--though, in truth, I had given
the matter little thought. "Then you are a gentleman?" I asked,
deflected from my intended speech.

He shook his head. "No, monsieur, no gentleman."

I did not like his hidden play with words, although I understood it.
"That is a farce!" I said unkindly. "It is folly to say that in your
Colonies you will have no caste. You cannot change nature. Can you
make a camel of a marmoset? I asked you what you were born?"

He smiled. "I was born an English subject. Monsieur, I have answered
three questions. You owe me three in turn. Did you ever know Robert
Cavelier?"

I stared. "The Seigneur de la Salle?"

"The same."

I stared again. "He has been dead for eight years. What do you, an
Englishman, know of him?"

He gave a wave of the hand. "It was my question," he reminded. "I
asked if you knew him."

I could not but be amused. How he liked to play at mystery! I would
copy his brevity. "Yes," I replied.

He looked up with much interest. "So