Hugon sat down upon the log, helped himself to the mixture with a grand
air, and shook the yellow dust from his ruffles. The action, meant to be
airy, only achieved fierceness. From some hidden sheath he drew a knife,
and began to strip from the log a piece of bark. "Tell me, you," he said.
"Have you been to France? What manner of land is it?"

"A gay country," answered Haward; "a land where the men are all white, and
where at present, periwigs are worn much shorter than the one monsieur
affects."

"He is a great brave, a French gentleman? Always he kills the man he
hates?"

"Not always," said the other. "Sometimes the man he hates kills him."

By now one end of the piece of bark in the trader's hands was shredded to
tinder. He drew from his pocket his flint and steel, and struck a spark
into the frayed mass. It flared up, and he held first the tips of his
fingers, then the palm of his hand, then his bared forearm, in the flame
that licked and scorched the flesh. His face was perfectly unmoved, his
eyes unchanged in their expression of hatred. "Can he do this?" he asked.

"Perhaps not," said Haward lightly. "It is a very foolish thing to do."

The flame died out, and the trader tossed aside the charred bit of bark.
"There was old Pierre at Monacan-Town who taught me to pray to _le bon
Dieu_. He told me how grand and fine is a French gentleman, and that I was
the son of many such. He called the English great pigs, with brains as
dull and muddy as the river after many rains. My mother was the daughter
of a chief. She had strings of pearl for her neck, and copper for her