Baron La Hontan, on all fours, intruded his gay face on the inmates of the lodge.  There were three of them.  His palms encountered a carpet of hemlock twigs, which spread around a central fire to the circular wall, and was made sweetly odorous by the heat.  A thick couch of the twigs was piled up beyond the fire, and there sat an Abenaqui girl in her winter dress of furs.  She was so white-skinned that she startled La Hontan as an apparition of Europe.  He got but one black-eyed glance.  She drew her blanket over her head.  The group had doubtless heard the conference outside, but ignored it with reticent gravity.  The hunter of the lodge was on his heels by the embers, toasting collops of meat for the blanketed princess; and an Etchemin woman, the other inmate, took one from his hand, and paused, while dressing it with salt, to gaze at the Frenchman.

La Hontan had not found himself distasteful to northwestern Indian girls.  It was the first time an aboriginal face had ever covered itself from exposure to his eyes.  He felt the sudden respect which nuns command, even in those who scoff at their visible consecration.  The usual announcement made on entering a cabin—­“I come to see this man,” or “I come to see that woman,”—­he saw was to be omitted in addressing this strangely civilized Indian girl.

“Mademoiselle,” said Baron La Hontan in very French Abenaqui, rising to one knee, and sweeping the twigs with the brim of his hat as he pulled it off, “the Baron de Saint-Castin of Pentegoet, the friend of your chief Madockawando, is at your lodge door, tired and chilled from a long hunt.  Can you not permit him to warm at your fire?”

The Abenaqui girl bowed her covered head.  Her woman companion passed the permission on, and the hunter made it audible by a grunt of assent.  La Hontan backed nimbly out, and seized the waiting man by the leg.  The main portion of the baron was in the darkening April woods, but his perpendicular soles stood behind the flap within the lodge.

“Enter, my child,” he whispered in excitement.  “A warm fire, hot collops, a black eye to be coaxed out of a blanket, and full permission given to enjoy all.  What, man!  Out of countenance at thought of facing a pretty squaw, when you have three keeping house with you at the fort?”

“Come out, La Hontan,” whispered back Saint-Castin, on his part grasping the elder’s arm.  “It is Madockawando’s daughter.”

“The red nun thou hast told me about?  The saints be praised!  But art thou sure?”

“How can I be sure?  I have never seen her myself.  But I judge from her avoiding your impudent eye.  She does not like to be looked at.”

“It was my mentioning the name of Saint-Castin of Pentegoet that made her whip her head under the blanket.  I see, if I am to keep my reputation in the woods, I shall have to withdraw from your company.”

“Withdraw your heels from this lodge,” replied Saint-Castin impatiently.  “You will embroil me with the tribe.”