terrible engines of war. And I controlled
them! I felt the lift of the heart that strengthens a man's will.
That is something rarer than pride; a flitting vision of the unsounded
depths of human power.

And the canoes that approached made a strange pageant. I could not in
a moment rid myself of a rooted custom; I wished the woman were there
to see. French and Indians sat side by side, so that blankets rubbed
uniforms. They were packed in close bending ranks, their bodies
crouching to the paddles, their eyes upon the shore. 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."

He nodded heavily, "The Senecas are still in camp?"

"Yes, monsieur. We can attack to-night."

But he turned away. "Montlivet, your wife is in the Seneca camp."

I looked at him coldly, I think, though I remember that I clutched his
shoulder.

"Monsieur, you mistake. My wife went east."

He tried to draw me aside, but I resisted him stolidly. I eyed him
searchingly, angrily, but he could not look at me. "Listen," he
begged, and he spoke very slowly and tapped my arm. Yet I was
understanding him perfectly. "Listen, Montlivet, there is no mistake.
When Father Carheil told me that there were Hurons in Starling's escort
I sent Ottawas in pursuit. I have heard from them. Starling's