“When Tayoga speaks he speaks from his head as well as his heart, and I who am his sworn brother, although we are of different races, know that he doesn’t boast when he refers to the power of the Hodenosaunee.”

“And may it not be possible, sir, that you have been deceived by your friendship?”

Robert looked at him in surprise.  The man’s manner was pointed as if he were making an issue, and so he did not answer just then, but de Courcelles by his side leaned forward a little and said: 

“Perhaps, Mr. Lennox, you have not yet been introduced formally to the chevalier, Chevalier Pierre Boucher, who has been only a year from Paris, but who is already a comrade good and true.”

“No, I don’t think I’ve been deceived,” replied Robert, keeping his temper, and bowing to the introduction.  “The Hodenosaunee, better known to you as the Iroquois, are a very powerful league, as many of the villages of Canada can tell.”

The man’s face darkened.

“Is it wise,” he asked, “to remind us of the ferocious deeds the Iroquois have done upon us,”

But de Courcelles intervened.

“Peace!  Peace, chevalier!” he said in a good-humored tone.  “Mr. Lennox meant no innuendo.  He merely stated a fact to prove a contention.”

The chevalier subsided into silence, but Robert saw a significant look pass between them, and instantly he became keen and watchful.  What did it mean?  Willet’s warning words came back to him.  The more he studied Boucher the less he liked him.  With his thin face, and great hooked nose, and long, bony fingers like talons, he reminded him of some great bird of prey.  He noticed also that while the others were drinking wine, although he himself did not, the chevalier was the only one within his view who also abstained.

The dinner was long.  One or two of the ladies sang to the music, another danced, and then de Galisonniere, in a full, round tenor voice, sang “The Bridge of Avignon.”

“Hier sur le pont d’Avignon
J’ai oui chanter la belle
Lon, la,
J’ai oui chanter la belle,
Elle chantait d’un ton si doux
Comme une demoiselle
Lon, la,
Comme une demoiselle.”

It was singularly appealing, and for a moment tears came to the eyes of all those who were born in France.  They saw open fields, stone fences, and the heavy grapes hanging in the vineyards, instead of the huge rivers, the vast lakes and the mighty wilderness that curved almost to their feet.  But it was only for a moment.  This was Quebec, the seat of the French power in America, and they were in the Intendant’s palace, the very core and heart of it.  The laughter that had been hushed for a thoughtful instant or two came back in full tide, and once more the Chevalier Pierre Boucher spoke to Robert.

“The songs of our France are beautiful,” he said.  “None other have in them so much of poetry and haunting lament.”

The youth detected as before the challenging under note in a remark that otherwise would have seemed irrelevant, and an angry contradiction leaped swiftly to his lips, but with the recollection of Willet’s warning look he restrained himself again.