Within the hut, which was about twenty feet square, men, women and children had packed themselves.  The air was foul, and the smoke from the blazing pine knots, having no direct outlet, rolled and curled and sank.  The savages sprawled around the fire, bragging and boasting and lying as was their wont of an evening.  Near-by the medicine man, sorcerer so-called, beat upon a drum in the interest of science and rattled bears’ claws in a tortoise-shell.  A sick man lay huddled in skins at the farthest end of the hut.  His friends and relatives gave him scant attention.  Indians were taught to scorn pity.  Drawings on the walls signified that this was the house of the Tortoise.

Four white men sat among them; sat doggedly in defeat.  Gallantry is a noble quality when joined to wisdom and foresight; alone, it leads into pits and blind alleys.  And these four men recognized with no small bitterness the truth of this aphorism.  They had been ambushed scarce four hours from Quebec by a baud of marauding Oneidas.  Only Jean Pauquet had escaped.  They had been captives now for several weeks.  Rage had begun to die out, fury to subside; apathy seized them in its listless embrace.  Heavy, unkempt beards adorned their faces, and their hair lay tangled and matted upon their shoulders.  They were all pictures of destitution, and especially the whilom debonair poet.  His condition was almost pitiable.  Some knavish rascal had thrust burdocks into his hair and another had smeared his face with balsam sap.  He had thrashed one of these tormentors, and had been belabored in return.  He had by now grown to accept each new indignity with the same patient philosophy which made the Chevalier and the vicomte objects of admiration among the older redskin stoics.  As for D’Herouville, he had lost but little of his fire, and flew into insane passions at times; but he always paid heavily for the injuries which he inflicted upon his tormentors.  His wound, however, had entirely healed, and the color on his cheeks was healthful.  He would become a formidable antagonist shortly.  And there were intervals when the vicomte eyed him morosely.

The Chevalier completely ignored the count, either in converse or in looks.  D’Herouville was not at all embarrassed.  Rather it added to the zest of this strange predicament in which they were placed.  It was a tonic to his superb courage to think that one day or another he must fight and kill these three men or be killed himself.

Occasionally the vicomte would stare at the Chevalier, long and profoundly.  Only Victor was aware of this peculiar scrutiny.  It often recalled to him that wild night at the Hotel de Perigny in Rochelle.  But the scrutiny was untranslatable.

No one spoke of madame; there was no need, as each knew instinctively that she was always in the others’ thoughts.  The Chevalier no more questioned the poet as to her identity.  Was she living or dead, in captivity or safe again in Quebec?  Not one laid his head down at night without these questions.