“A storm bird,” said Haward calmly.  “Okee is perhaps angry with his Monacans, and sent it.”

“Was it Audrey?”

Haward laughed.  “No, it was not Audrey.  And so, Monacan, you have yourself fallen into the pit which you digged.”

From the fireplace came the schoolmaster’s slow voice:  “Dear sir, can you show the pit?  Why should this youth desire to harm you?  Where is the storm bird?  Can you whistle it before a justice of the peace or into a court room?”

If Haward heard, it did not appear.  He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the trader’s twitching face in a cold and smiling regard.  “Well, Monacan?” he demanded.

The half-breed straightened himself, and with a mighty effort strove in vain for a composure that should match the other’s cold self-command,—­a command which taunted and stung now at this point, now at that.  “I am a Frenchman!” he cried, in a voice that broke with passion.  “I am of the noblesse of the land of France, which is a country that is much grander than Virginia!  Old Pierre at Monacan-Town told me these things.  My father changed his name when he came across the sea, so I bear not the de which is a sign of a great man.  Listen, you Englishman!  I trade, I prosper, I buy me land, I begin to build me a house.  There is a girl that I see every hour, every minute, while I am building it.  She says she loves me not, but nevertheless I shall wed her.  Now I see her in this room, now in that; she comes down the stair, she smiles at the window, she stands on the doorstep to welcome me when I come home from my hunting and trading in the woods so far away.  I bring her fine skins of the otter, the beaver, and the fawn; beadwork also from the villages and bracelets of copper and pearl.  The flowers bloom around her, and my heart sings to see her upon my doorstep....  The flowers are dead, and you have stolen the girl away....  There was a stream, and the sun shone upon it, and you and she were in a boat.  I walked alone upon the bank, and in my heart I left building my house and fell to other work.  You laughed; one day you will laugh no more.  That was many suns ago.  I have watched”—­

Foam was upon his lips, and he strained without ceasing at his bonds.  Already pulled far awry, his great peruke, a cataract of hair streaming over his shoulders, shading and softening the swarthy features between its curled waves, now slipped from his head and fell to the floor.  The change which its absence wrought was startling.  Of the man the moiety that was white disappeared.  The shaven head, its poise, its features, were Indian; the soul was Indian, and looked from Indian eyes.  Suddenly, for the last transforming touch, came a torrent of words in a strange tongue, the tongue of his mother.  Of what he was speaking, what he was threatening, no one of them could tell; he was a savage giving voice to madness and hate.