“Ah, I see, sir, that you’re a man of sentiment,” said Monsieur Jolivet, laughing and rubbing his hands.  “It is well that one can feel it in this rough world of ours.  But will Monsieur see a young officer who has come from the commandant?  Merely a little inquiry about your identity and an examination of your papers, if you have any.  It’s according to our custom, and it’s just a formality, nothing more.”

Robert knew that it was far from being a formality, but his comrades and he had nothing to fear, as their mission was duly accredited and they carried the letters to the Marquis Duquesne.  The young officer, a Frenchman of Canadian birth, entered presently, and with the courtesy characteristic of the French race, a trait that Robert liked, asked for an account of themselves, which was given readily.  As usual the effect of the letters addressed to the Marquis Duquesne was magical, and, as the officer withdrew, he tendered them all the help he could give for a speedy and pleasant voyage to Quebec.

Monsieur Jolivet gave them a supper in his best style.  Although a native of New France he was of Provencal blood, and he had a poetic strain.  He offered to his guests not an excellent inn alone, but a magnificent view also, of which he made full use.  The evening being warm with a soft and soothing wind, Marie and Lizette set the table in a little garden, in which early flowers were blooming already, offering delicate colors of pink and rose and pale blue.  The table was spread with a white cloth, and silver and china were not lacking.  The eyes of Robert, who had a fastidious taste, glistened.

“Monsieur Jolivet may be our enemy or not,” he said, “but I like him.  It is not often that one can dine at such an inn, with such a view of mountain, forest and magnificent river.  In truth, the French do some things well.”

“They surpass us in the matter of inns,” said Willet.  “They think more about it—­and take more trouble.  I’m sorry we have to quarrel with the French.  They’re good people, though they haven’t been oversqueamish in the use of savages against us, and they’re really responsible for the cruelties done by the painted demons.”

He spoke freely of red “savages” before Tayoga, knowing that the young Onondaga would never think of applying the word to himself.  Willet had shown too often that he considered the people of the Hodenosaunee the equals of anybody.  Then he took their three rifles, laid them together on the grass by the side of a graveled walk and, looking at the vast expanse of mountain, forest and river, drew a deep breath.

“It’s not much like fighting for our lives back there in the gorge, is it, Robert?” he asked.  “It’s a strange world here in America.  We’re lying in a rocky hollow one day, shooting at people who are shooting at us, and both sides shooting to kill, and two or three days later we’re sitting at an inn in a town, eating off silver and china.”