Robert’s heart began to throb as the handsomest and most gallant figure of them all walked into the red glow of the firelight, a tall man, young, lithe, athletic, fair of hair and countenance, his manner at once graceful and proud, a man to whom the others turned with deference, and perhaps in the case of De Courcelles and Jumonville with a little fear.  He wore a white uniform with gold facings, and a small gold hilted sword swung upon his thigh.  Even in the forest, dress impresses, and Robert was quite sure that St. Luc was in his finest attire, not from vanity, but because he wished to create an effect.  It would be like him, when his fortunes were lowest, to assume his highest manner before both friend and foe.

“You’d think from his looks that he had nothing but a string of victories and never knew defeat,” whispered Willet.  “Anyway, his is the finest spirit in all that crowd, and he’s the greatest leader and soldier, too.  Notice how they give way to him, and how they stop asking questions of Garay, leaving it to him.  And now Garay himself bows low before him, while De Courcelles, Jumonville and Tandakora stand aside.  I wish we could hear what they say; then we might learn something worth all our risk in coming here.”

But their voices did not reach so great a distance, though the three, eager to use eye even if ear was of no use, still lay in the bushes and watched the flow of life in the great camp.  Many of the French and Indians who had been asleep awoke, sat up and began to cook breakfast for themselves, holding strips of game on sharp sticks over the coals.  St. Luc talked a long while with Garay, afterward with the French officers and Tandakora, and then withdrew to a little knoll, where he leaned against a tree, his face expressing intense thought.  A dark, powerfully built man, the Canadian, Dubois, brought him food which he ate mechanically.

The dusk floated away, and the sun came up, great and brilliant.  The three stirred in their covert, and Willet whispered that it was time for them to be going.

“Only the most marvelous luck could save us from detection in the daylight,” he said, “because presently the Indians, growing restless, will wander about the camp.”

“I’m willing to go,” Robert whispered back.  “I know the danger is too great.  Besides I’m starving to death, and the odors of all their good food will hasten my death, if I don’t take an antidote.”

They retreated with the utmost care and Robert drew an immense breath of relief when they were a full mile away.  It was well to look upon the French and Indian camp, but it was better to be beyond the reach of those who made it.

“And now we make a camp of our own, don’t we?” he said.  “All my bones are stiff from so much bending and creeping.  Moreover, my hunger has grown to such violent pitch that it is tearing at me, so to speak, with red hot pincers.”

“Dagaeoga always has plenty of words,” said Tayoga in a whimsical tone, “but he will have to endure his hunger a while longer.  Let the pincers tear and burn.  It is good for him.  It will give him a chance to show how strong he is, and how a mighty warrior despises such little things as food and drink.”