Montlivet | Page 8

much dignity that I stood like
a blundering oaf trapped by my own emotion. There was no emotion in
his look. He had been thinking, not despairing, and his face was
sharpened and lighted with such concentration that I felt slapped with
cold steel. He looked all intellect and determination,--a thing of
will-power rather than flesh and brawn.
My Huron speech seemed out of place, but there was no choice left me,
so I used it. There was refuge for my dignity in the sonorous syllables,
and I spoke as to a fellow sachem. Then I asked the prisoner his name,
and waited for response.
None came. I knew that I had spoken rapidly, so I tried again. I chose
short words, and framed my sentences like a schoolmaster. The
prisoner listened negligently. Then he put out his hand. "Pardon,
monsieur. But I speak French,--though indifferently," he said, with a
slight shrug.
My anger made my ears buzz; I would not bandy words with a man of
so small and sly a spirit. I turned to leave.
But the prisoner stepped between me and the door. "You were sent here
with a message," he said; "I am listening."
His sunken brown eyes were so deep in melancholy that I could not
hold my wrath. "Was it a gentleman's part to lead me on to play the

clown?" I asked. "I came in kindness."
He smiled a little,--a bitter smile that did not reach his eyes. "I am not,
like you, a gentleman by birth, monsieur," he said slowly, "and so often
trip in my behavior. Granted that you were amusing,--and you were,
monsieur,--can you blame me for using you for a diversion? I infer that
you have come to tell me that the time left me, either for amusement or
penitence, is short."
It was bravely said, but I knew from the careful repression of his tone
that his hardness was a brittle veneer. He was young to carry so bold a
front when his heart must be hammering, and I would willingly have
talked any doggerel to have afforded him another smile.
"I know nothing of your future," I hastened, "save that, arguing from
your youth, it will probably be a long one. It was your past that I was
sent to ask concerning. The commandant sent me. Since you speak
French, my mission is over. The commandant will come himself."
The prisoner laid his hand upon a chair. "Will you sit? I would rather it
be you than the commandant, if it must be any one. What were you sent
to ask?"
I waved away the chair, for I thought of the passing moments and of
what I had promised Father Carheil. "I must hasten," I said irritably.
"What was I to ask? Why, your name, the account of your capture,--the
story of your being here, in brief."
He saw that I glanced at the door, and he walked over to it. "Wait!" he
interposed. "I can answer you in a line. But one question first.
Monsieur, I--I"--
"Yes, monsieur."
"Monsieur, I--I must think a moment. Be patient, if you will."
His voice was calm, but there was something in his look that forced my
pity. "Tell me nothing that I must not tell the commandant," I warned.

"But be assured of my good will."
I think he did not hear. He sat with his forehead on his hand, and I
knew that he was thinking. He looked up with a new decision in his
glance.
"Monsieur, you lead a strange life in this place. I see nothing but men.
Have you no families?"
I swore under my breath. I had expected some meat from his remark,
and he gave me trivialities. I had no time for social preliminaries, and I
felt sudden distaste for him. I pointed him to the window.
"We are not all men. There are Indian women in plenty. Shall I draw
the shade that you may see? There are many of my countrymen to tell
you that they find them fair."
"But are there no white families in the settlement?" He was leaning
forward, and he ignored the insult of my air.
I shook my head. "None, monsieur. None short of Montreal."
He tapped the floor, and frowned. His look went beyond me, and he
was absorbed. "None short of Montreal. Indeed you live a strange life.
Monsieur, is it far to Montreal?"
I shrugged. "Yes, it is a long journey. Come, monsieur, we waste time.
I wish you good-day."
He glanced up quickly. His was a misleading face, for while his words
were meaningless, and showed him of a small and trifling mind, his
look was yet keen. He saw that I had wearied of him, and he put out his
hand to beg