"Armand de Montlivet, from Montreal."

He relaxed somewhat. "I have heard of you. No, I cannot marry you
to-night. I will find a lodge for this demoiselle, and we will talk of
this to-morrow. Come now and let me bring you to the chief," and with
a beckoning of the hand he led the way into the lodge behind him.

We followed closely. The lodge was large, and was roofed and floored
with rush mats. The smoke hung in a cloud over our heads, but the air
around us was sufficiently clear for us to see,--though with some
rubbing of the eyes. An aged Indian sat close to the blaze, and Father
Nouvel walked over to him.

"Onanguissé," he said, "two strangers lift the mat before your
door,--strangers with white faces. Do you bid them take broth and
shelter?"

The old chief nodded. He had lacked curiosity to look out at us while
we had stood talking before his door, and now he scarcely lifted his
eyes.

"Is the Huron with them?" he asked the priest.

I pushed forward. "What Huron?" I demanded, in the Pottawatamie speech.

The chief stirred somewhat at hearing me use his language. "A Huron is
in the woods," he said indifferently. "Every one must live, thieves as
well as others, but I do not like it that he stole our squashes. When
a Huron comes, you will soon see the French."