He laughed easily, evidently no little amused at my retort, twisting his small mustache through his slender fingers as he eyed me.

“Ah! but that is all one to me; it is ever the blood and not the name that counts, my friend.  Now I am French by many a generation, Gascon by birth, and bearing commission in the Guard of the Emperor; yet sooth, ’t is the single accursed drop of Irish blood within my veins that brings me across the great seas and maroons me in this howling wilderness.  But sit down, Monsieur.  There will be both food and wine served presently, and I would speak with you more at ease.”

As he spoke he flung himself upon a low settee, carelessly motioning me toward another.

“On my word,” he said, eying me closely as I crossed over to the bench, “but you are a big fellow for your years, and ’t is strength, not flabby flesh, or I know not how to judge.  You would make a fine figure of a soldier, John Wayland.  Napoleon perchance might offer you a marshal’s baton, just to see you in the uniform. Parbleu!  I have seen stranger things happen.”

“You are now connected with the French army?” I questioned, wondering what could have brought him to this remote spot.

“Ay, a Captain of the Guard, yet an exile, banished from the court on account of my sins. Sacre! but there are others, Monsieur.  I have but one fault, my friend,—­grave enough, I admit, yet but one, upon my honor, and even that is largely caused by that drop of Irish blood.  I love the ladies over-well, I sometimes fear; and once I dared to look too high for favor.”

“And have you stopped here long?”

“Here—­at Hawkins’s, mean you?  Ten days, as I live; would you believe I could ever have survived so grievous a siege?” and he looked appealingly about upon the bare apartment.  “Ten days of Hawkins and of Sam, Monsieur; ay! and of Ol’ Burns; of sky, and woods, and river, with never so much as a real white man even to drink liquor with.  By Saint Louis! but I shall be happy enough to face you across the board to-night.  Yet surely it is not your purpose to halt here long?”

“Only until I succeed in joining some party travelling westward to the Illinois country.”

“No! is that your aim?  ’T is my trip also, if Fate be ever kind enough to bring hither a guide. Sacre! there was one here but now, as odd a devil as ever bore rifle, and he hath taken the western trail alone, for he hated me from the start.  That was Ol’ Burns.  Know you him?”

“’T was he who brought the message that sent me here; yet he said little of his own journey.  But you mention not where you are bound?”

“I seek Fort Dearborn, on the Great Lake.”

“That likewise is to be the end of my journey.  You go to explore?”

“Explore?  Faith, no,” and he patted his hand upon the bench most merrily.  “There are but two reasons to my mind important enough to lure a French gentleman into such a hole as this, and send him wandering through your backwoods,—­either war or love, Monsieur; and I know of no war that calleth me.”