The Englishman had sat apart from us since we landed, and now I found
him with his back against a rock ledge looking at the water. I was in
a mood when I had to wag my tongue to some one and ease myself of some
spreading fancies. So I dropped down beside him.

"Monsieur," I began by way of introduction to my theme, "are you indeed
a yeoman?"

He looked up with an excess of solemnity. "No, monsieur."

This was not the answer I had expected,--though, in truth, I had given
the matter little thought. "Then you are a gentleman?" I asked,
deflected from my intended speech.

He shook his head. "No, monsieur, no gentleman."

I did not like his hidden play with words, although I understood it.
"That is a farce!" I said unkindly. "It is folly to say that in your
Colonies you will have no caste. You cannot change nature. Can you
make a camel of a marmoset? I asked you what you were born?"

He smiled. "I was born an English subject. Monsieur, I have answered
three questions. You owe me three in turn. Did you ever know Robert
Cavelier?"

I stared. "The Seigneur de la Salle?"

"The same."