One or two might have been taken for white men had it not been for an odd cast of the eye.  Yet it might happen the Indian and the white man were full brothers.  The general character of the faces was stolid rather than passionate.

There was little talk.

The room having been cleared, they went inside.  The women had disappeared.  Simon Grampierre sat at an end of the room, with Ambrose at his right, and his sons ranged about him.  The other men faced them from the body of the room.

There were not chairs for all, but indeed chairs suggested church, the trader’s house, and other places of ceremony; and those without, squatting on their heels around the walls, were the happier.

Talk was slow to start.  They kept their hats on and stolidly looked down their noses.  When it began to grow dark a single little lamp was brought in and stood upon a dresser in the corner.

The wide room with its one spot of light and all the still, shadowy figures conveyed an effect of grimness.

Simon Grampierre opened the meeting.  Out of courtesy to Ambrose all the talk was in English.

“Men!” said the patriarch.  “John Gaviller send word that he will pay only one-fifty a bushel for our grain.  We meet to talk and decide what to do.  All must agree.  In agreement there is strength.

“Already there has been much talk about our grain.  I will waste no words now.  For myself and my sons I pledge that we will not sell one bushel of grain less than dollar-seventy-five.  What do the others say?”

One by one the men arose and repeated the pledge, each raising his right hand.  Ambrose began to be aware that the stolidity masked a high emotional tension.  It was his own presence that restrained them.

Simon rose again.  “I have heard talk that you will spoil your grain,” he said.  “Some say let the cattle and horses in the field while it is green.  Some say burn it when it gets ripe.  That is foolish talk.

“Grain is as good as money or as fur.  A man does not feed money to cattle nor burn up fur.  I say cut your grain and thrash it and store it.  Some one will buy it.

“Gaviller himself got to buy when he see we mean to stand together.  He has made contracts to send flour to the far north.  Who wants to speak?”

A little man of marked French characteristics sprang to his feet.  His eyes flashed.  “I speak!” he cried.

“This Jean Bateese Gagnon,” explained Simon to Ambrose.

“Simon Grampierre say wait!” cried the little man passionately.  “Always he say, ‘Wait, wait, wait!’ All right for Simon Grampierre to wait.  He got plenty beef and potatoes and goods in his house.  He can wait.

“What will a poor man do while he wait?  What will I do—­starve, and see my children starve?  If we not sell grain we get no credit at the store.  Where I get warm clothes for the winter and meat and sugar and powder for my gun?