He shook his head. "No," he said, with the air of justice I had liked
in him heretofore; "no, they were not cruel. Indeed they were almost
kind, in that they left me a great deal alone. I feared from the
clemency they showed me that they were reserving me for torture."

I eyed him with some skepticism. "It was not the Hurons, but their
rivals, the Ottawas, who would have sent you to the stake," I explained
curtly. "The Hurons--those of the Baron's band--would have held you as
a hostage,--perhaps as a deputy."

He looked up with interested eyes. "You are playing some political
game, and these tribes are your counters. I should like to understand."

I examined his look, but could make nothing of it. "You will pardon
me, monsieur," I said with a shrug, "but these are troublous times, and
I find it hard to believe you as ignorant as you seem."

He still met my look. "And if I were not ignorant?" he asked. "Could
I, one Englishman, alone and unarmed, accomplish anything that would
hurt you? You see that I am harmless. Why not be friends?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"So you are determined that I am a secret ambassador," he meditated.
"Well, I must act my part with dignity. And you think we cannot be
comrades? I dislike to irritate you as I do."

I answered him soberly. "We will be partners," I agreed; "friends for
the night's bivouac, willing to help and to share."