“And does Philibert still run his warehouse beneath his sign of the Golden Dog?”

“No, Robert.  He was too brave, or not cautious enough, and they assassinated him, but there are plenty of others like him.  The French are a brave and honest people, none braver or more honest.  I tell you so, because I know them, but their government is corrupt through and through.  The House of Bourbon is dying of its own poison.  It may seem strange to you, hearing me say it here in the Western world, so far from Versailles, but I’m not the only one who says so.”

“But I like Quebec,” said Robert.  “I haven’t seen another city that speaks to the eye so much.”

They were now well into the Upper Town, and the porter guided them to the Inn of the Eagle, where Monsieur Paul Berryer, the host, gave them a welcome, and from whom they learned that the Governor General, the Marquis Duquesne, was absent in the east, but would return in two or three days.  Robert was not sorry for the delay, as it would give them a chance to see the city, and perhaps, through de Galisonniere, make acquaintances among the French officers.

They were able to secure a large room with three beds, and both Robert and Willet drew from their small store of baggage suits quite in the fashion, three-cornered hats, fine coats and waistcoats, knee breeches, stockings and buckled shoes, and as a last and crowning triumph they produced handsome small swords or rapiers that they buckled to their belts.

“That canoe of ours wasn’t large, but it brought a lot in it,” said the hunter.

Robert surveyed himself in a small glass, and his clothes brought great pride.  A chord in his nature responded to splendor of raiment, and the surroundings of the great world.  Quebec might be corrupt but he could not hide from himself his immense interest in it.  He noticed, too, that Willet wore his fine costume naturally.

“It’s not the first time that you’ve been in such clothes, Dave,” he said, “and it’s not the first time that you’ve been in a society like that which makes its home in Quebec.”

“No, it is not,” replied Willet, “and some time, Robert, I’ll tell you about those days, but not now.”

Tayoga remained in his dress of a young Indian chief.  Even if he had had any other he would not have put it on, and the fine deerskin and the lofty headdress became him and stamped him for what he was, a prince of the forest.  He held in his heart, too, a deeper feeling against the French than any that animated either Robert or Willet.  He could not forget that this was not Quebec, but Stadacona of the Ganeagaono, whose rights were also the rights of the other nations of the Hodenosaunee, and it was here that Frontenac, who had slaughtered the Iroquois, had made his home and fortress.  The heart of Tayoga of the clan of the Bear of the nation Onondaga, of the great League of the Hodenosaunee, burned within him and the blood in his veins would not grow cool.