lingered undecided for a moment on the top
step of the veranda, and then wandered down the little street, if
street it could be called where horses there were none. On the left
ranged the square whitewashed houses with their dooryards, the old
church, the workshop. To the right was a broad grass-plot, and then
the Moose, slipping by to the distant offing. Over a little bridge the
stranger idled, looking curiously about him. The great trading-house
attracted his attention, with its narrow picket lane leading to the
door; the storehouse surrounded by a protective log fence; the fort
itself, a medley of heavy-timbered stockades and square block-houses.
After a moment he resumed his strolling. Everywhere he went the people
looked at him, ceasing their varied occupations. No one spoke to him,
no one hindered him. To all intents and purposes he was as free as the
air. But all about the island flowed the barrier of the Moose, and
beyond frowned the wilderness--strong as iron bars to an unarmed man.

Brooding on his imprisonment the Free Trader forgot his surroundings.
The post, the river, the forest, the distant bay faded from his sight,
and he fell into deep reflection. There remained nothing of physical
consciousness but a sense of the grateful spring warmth from the
declining sun. At length he became vaguely aware of something else.
He glanced up. Right by him he saw a handsome French half-breed
sprawled out in the sun against a building, looking him straight in
the face and flashing up at him a friendly smile.

"Hullo," said Achille Picard, "you mus' been 'sleep. I call you two
t'ree tam."

The prisoner seemed to find something grateful in the greeting even
from the enemy's camp. Perhaps it merely happened upon the
psychological moment for a response.

"Hullo," he returned, and seated himself by the man's side, lazily
stretching himself in enjoyment of the reflected heat.

"You is come off Kettle Portage, eh," said Achille, "I t'ink so. You
is come trade dose fur? Eet is bad beez-ness, dis Conjur' House. Ole'
man he no lak' dat you trade dose fur. He's very hard, dat ole man."

"Yes," replied the stranger, "he has got to be, I suppose. This is the
country of _la Longue Traverse_."

"I beleef you," responded Achille, cheerfully; "w'at you call heem
your nam'?"

"Ned Trent."

"Me Achille--Achille Picard. I capitaine of dose dogs on dat winter
_brigade_."

"It is a hard post. The winter travel is pretty tough."