he ignored the insult of my air.

I shook my head. "None, monsieur. None short of Montreal."

He tapped the floor, and frowned. His look went beyond me, and he was
absorbed. "None short of Montreal. Indeed you live a strange life.
Monsieur, is it far to Montreal?"

I shrugged. "Yes, it is a long journey. Come, monsieur, we waste
time. I wish you good-day."

He glanced up quickly. His was a misleading face, for while his words
were meaningless, and showed him of a small and trifling mind, his look
was yet keen. He saw that I had wearied of him, and he put out his
hand to beg my attention.

"Wait, monsieur!" he cried.

"Monsieur, you waste my time."

"I shall waste no more. I have made up my mind. Listen. I promised
you my story." He had regained all his quiet arrogance. "It is soon
told. I am an Englishman,--or a colonist, if you like the term better.
I was in a village on the Connecticut frontier, when your savages came
down upon us. No, I am wrong. They did nothing so manly as to come
down upon us boldly. They slid among us like foul vermin afraid of the
light. They achieved a notable victory, monsieur. I see that you
recognize their prowess, and that the feast you have prepared for them
is lavish. It was a noble battle. I regret you could not have seen
it. There were some hundreds of the Indians, and a scattering handful
of us. A quiet farming community, monsieur, that worked hard, supped
early, and slept the deep sleep of quiet living and sober minds. We
waked to find the scalping knives at our throats, and the death scream
of children in our ears. Look over the bags of scalps, and see the
number of women and old men that your braves had to overcome. You will
be proud of them, monsieur."

I clenched my hand, and wished myself elsewhere. "But our Hurons say
they were neutral," I defended.

He lifted his brows. "You prefer to give all the praise to the
Algonquins?" he asked smoothly. "I understand. Yes, I have heard that
the Algonquins stand even closer to you than your Hurons here. They
are more than brothers. Indeed, it is said that your Count Frontenac
calls them his children. Well, they did you credit. It took ten of
them to silence Goodman Ellwood's musket, but they butchered him in the
end. If you find a scalp with long silky white hair, monsieur, it
belongs to John Ellwood. Value it, and nail it among your trophies,
for it cost you the lives of a full half-dozen A