“A Huron of Lorette—­does that mean a full-blooded Indian of the Huron tribe, such as one reads of in Parkman?” It was the Englishman who asked, responding to something I had not heard.

“There’s no such animal as a full-blooded Huron,” stated the Canadian.  “They’re all French-Indian half-breeds now.  Lorette’s an interesting scrap of history, just the same.  You know your Parkman?  You remember how the Iroquois followed the defeated Hurons as far as the Isle d’Orleans, out there?” He nodded toward where the big island lay in the darkness of the St. Lawrence.  “Well, what was left after that chase took refuge fifteen miles north of Quebec, and founded what became and has stayed the village of Indian Lorette.  There are now about five or six hundred people, and it’s a nation.  Under its own laws, dealing by treaty with Canada, not subject to draft, for instance.  Queer, isn’t it?  They guard their identity vigilantly.  Every one, man or woman, who marries into the tribe, as they religiously call it, is from then on a Huron.  And only those who have Huron blood may own land in Lorette.  The Hurons were, as Parkman put it, ‘the gentlemen of the savages,’ and the tradition lasts.  The half-breed of today is a good sort, self-respecting and brave, not progressive, but intelligent, with pride in his inheritance, his courage, and his woodscraft.”

The Canadian, facing me, spoke distinctly and much as Americans speak; I caught every word.  But I missed what the French general threw back rapidly.  I wondered why the Frenchman should be excited.  I myself was interested because my guides, due to meet me at the club station tomorrow, were all half-breed Hurons.  But why the French officer?  What should a Frenchman of France know about backwaters of Canadian history?  And with that he suddenly spoke slowly, and I caught several sentences of incisive if halting English.

“Zey are to astonish, ze Indian Hurong.  For ze sort of work special-ment, as like scouting on a stomach.  Qu-vick, ver’ qu-vick, and ver’ quiet.  By dark places of danger.  One sees zat nozzing at all af-frightens zose Hurong.  Also zey are alike snakes, one cannot catch zem—­zey slide; zey are slippy.  To me it is to admire zat courage most—­personnel—­selfeesh—­because an Hurong safe my life dere is six mont’, when ze Boches make ze drive of ze mont’ of March.”

At this moment food arrived in a flurry, and I lost what came after.  But I had forgotten the Chateau Frontenac; I had forgotten the group of officers, serious and responsible, who sat on at the next table.  I had forgotten even the war.  A word had sent my mind roaming.  “Huron!” Memory and hope at that repeated word rose and flew away with me.  Hope first.  Tomorrow I was due to drop civilization and its tethers.