The Owl, with his warriors and captive, descended in time into the low country in the northwest.  They, too, had been on snowshoes, but now they discarded them, since they were entering a region in which little snow had fallen, the severity of the weather abating greatly.  Robert was still treated well, though guarded with the utmost care.  The Indians, who seemed to be from some tribe about the Great Lakes, did not speak any dialect he knew, and, if they understood English, they did not use it.  He was compelled to do all his talking with the Owl who, however, was not at all taciturn.  Robert saw early that while a wonderful woodsman and a born partisan leader, he was also a Gascon, vain, boastful and full of words.  He tried to learn from him something about his possible fate, but he could obtain no hint, until they had been traveling more than three weeks, and Langlade had been mellowed by an uncommonly good supper of tender game, which the Indians had cooked for him.

“You’ve been trying to draw that information out of me ever since you were captured,” he said.  “You were indirect and clever about it, but I noticed it.  I, Charles Langlade, have perceptions, you must understand.  If I do live in the woods I can read the minds of white men.”

“I know you can,” said Robert, smilingly.  “I observed from the first that you had an acute intellect.”

“Your judgment does you credit, my young friend.  I did not tell you what I was going to do with you, because I did not know myself.  I know more about you than you think I do.  One of my warriors was with Tandakora in several of his battles with you and Willet, that mighty hunter whom the Indians call the Great Bear, and Tayoga, the Onondaga, who is probably following on our trail in the hope of rescuing you.  I have also heard of you from others.  Oh, as I tell you, I, Charles Langlade, take note of all things.  You are a prisoner of importance.  I would not give you to Tandakora, because he would burn you, and a man does not burn valuable goods.  I would not send you to St. Luc, because, being a generous man, he might take some foolish notion to exchange you, or even parole you.  I would not give you to the Marquis Duquesne at Quebec, because then I might lose my pawn in the game, and, in any event, the Marquis Duquesne is retiring as Governor General of New France.”

“Is that true?  I have met him.  He seemed to me to be a great man.”

“Perhaps he is, but he was too haughty and proud for the powerful men who dwelt at Quebec, and who control New France.  I have heard something of your appearance at the capital with the Great Bear and the Onondaga, and of what chanced at Bigot’s ball, and elsewhere.  Ah, you see, as I told you, I, Charles Langlade, know all things!  But to return, the Marquis Duquesne gives way to the Marquis de Vaudreuil.  Oh, that was accomplished some time ago, and perhaps you know of it.  So, I do not wish to give you to the Marquis de Vaudreuil.  I might wait and present you to the Marquis de Montcalm when he comes, but that does not please me, either, and thus I have about decided to present you to the Dove.”

“The Dove!  Who is the Dove?”

Langlade laughed with intense enjoyment.

“The Dove,” he replied, “is a woman, none other than Madame de Langlade herself, a Huron.  You English do not marry Indian women often ­and yet Colonel William Johnson has taken a Mohawk to wife ­but we French know them and value them.  Do not think to have an easy and careless jailer when you are put in the hands of the Dove.  She will guard you even more zealously than I, Charles Langlade, and you will notice that I have neither given you any opportunity to escape nor your friend, Tayoga, the slightest chance to rescue you.”

“It is true, Monsieur Langlade.  I’ve abandoned any such hope on the march, although I may elude you later.”

“The Dove, as I told you, will attend to that.  But it will be a pretty play of wits, and I don’t mind the test.  I’m aware that you have intelligence and skill, but the Dove, though a woman, possesses the wit of a great chief, and I’ll match her against you.”

There was a further abatement of the weather, and they reached a region where there was no snow at all.  Warm winds blew from the direction of the Great Lakes and the band traveled fast through a land in which the game almost walked up to their rifles to be killed, such plenty causing the Indians, as usual, now that they were not on the war path, to feast prodigiously before huge fires, Langlade often joining them, and showing that he was an adept in Indian customs.

One evening, just as they were about to light the fire, the warrior who had been posted as sentinel at the edge of the forest gave a signal and a few moments later a tall, spare figure in a black robe with a belt about the waist appeared.  Robert’s heart gave a great leap.  The wearer of the black robe was an elderly man with a thin face, ascetic and high.  The captive recognized him at once.  It was Father Philibert Drouillard, the priest, whose life had already crossed his more than once, and it was not strange to see him there, as the French priests roamed far through the great wilderness of North America, seeking to save the souls of the savages.

Langlade, when he beheld Father Drouillard, sprang at once to his feet, and Robert also arose quickly.  The priest saw young Lennox, but he did not speak to him just yet, accepting the food that the Owl offered him, and sitting down with his weary feet to the fire that had now been lighted.

“You have traveled far, Father?” said Langlade, solicitously.

“From the shores of Lake Huron.  I have converts there, and I must see that they do not grow weak in the faith.”

“All men, red and white, respect Philibert Drouillard.  Why are you alone, Father?”

“A runner from the Christian village came with me until yesterday.  Then I sent him back, because I would not keep him too long from his people.  I can go the rest of the way alone, as it will be but a few days before I meet a French force.”

Then he turned to Robert for the first time.

“And you, my son,” he said, “I am sorry it has fared thus with you.”

“It has not gone badly, Father,” said Robert.  “Monsieur de Langlade has treated me well.  I have naught to complain of save that I’m a prisoner.”

“It is a good lad, Charles Langlade,” said the priest to the partisan, “and I am glad he has suffered no harm at your hands.  What do you purpose to do with him?”

“It is my present plan to take him to the village in which Madame Langlade, otherwise the Dove, abides.  He will be her prisoner until a further plan develops, and you know how well she watches.”

A faint smile passed over the thin face of the priest.

“It is true, Charles Langlade,” he said.  “That which escapes the eyes of the Dove is very small, but I would take the lad with me to Montreal.”

“Nay, Father, that cannot be.  I am second to nobody in respect for Holy Church, and for you, Father Drouillard, whose good deeds are known to all, and whose bad deeds are none, but those who fight the war must use their judgment in fighting it, and the prisoners are theirs.”

Father Drouillard sighed.

“It is so, Charles Langlade,” he said, “but, as I have said, the prisoner is a good youth.  I have met him before, as I told you, and I would save him.  You know not what may happen in the Indian village, if you chance to be away.”

“The Dove will have charge of him.  She can be trusted.”

“And yet I would take him with me to Montreal.  He will give his parole that he will not attempt to escape on the way.  It is the custom for prisoners to be ransomed.  I will send to you from Montreal five golden louis for him.”

Langlade shook his head.

“Ten golden louis,” said Father Drouillard.

“Nay, Father, it is no use,” said the partisan.  “I cannot be tempted to exchange him for money.”

“Fifteen golden louis, Charles Langlade, though I may have to borrow from the funds of the Church to send them to you.”

“I respect your motive, Father, but ’tis impossible.  This is a prisoner of great value and I must use him as a pawn in the game of war.  He was taken fairly and I cannot give him up.”

Again Father Drouillard sighed, and this time heavily.

“I would save you from captivity, Mr. Lennox,” he said, “but, as you see, I cannot.”

Robert was much moved.

“I thank you, Father Drouillard, for your kind intentions,” he said.  “It may be that some day I shall have a chance to repay them.  Meanwhile, I do not dread the coming hospitality of Madame Langlade.”

The priest shook his head sadly.

“It is a great and terrible war,” he said, “though I cannot doubt that France will prevail, but I fear for you, my son, a captive in the vast wilderness.  Although you are an enemy and a heretic I have only good feeling for you, and I know that the great Chevalier, St. Luc, also regards you with favor.”

“Know you anything of St. Luc?” asked Robert eagerly.

“Only that the expedition he was to lead against Albany has turned back and that he has gone to Canada to fight under the banner of Montcalm, when he comes with the great leaders, De Levis, Bourlamaque and the others.”

“I thought I might meet him.”

“Not here, with Charles Langlade.”

The priest spent the night with them and in the morning, after giving them his blessing, captors and captive alike, he departed on his long and solitary journey to Montreal.

“A good man,” said Robert, as he watched his tall, thin figure disappear in the surrounding forest.

“Truly spoken,” said the Owl.  “I am little of a churchman myself, the forest and the war trail please me better, but the priests are a great prop to France in the New World.  They carry with them the authority of His Majesty, King Louis.”

A week later they reached a small Indian village on Lake Ontario where the Owl at present made his abode, and in the largest lodge of which his patient spouse, the Dove, was awaiting him.  She was young, much taller than the average Indian woman, and, in her barbaric fashion, quite handsome.  But her face was one of the keenest and most alert Robert had ever seen.  All the trained observation of countless ancestors seemed stored in her and now he understood why Langlade had boasted so often and so warmly of her skill as a guard.  She regarded him with a cold eye as she listened attentively to her husband’s instructions, and, for the remainder of that winter and afterward, she obeyed them with a thoroughness beyond criticism.

The village included perhaps four hundred souls, of whom about a hundred were warriors.  Langlade was king and Madame Langlade, otherwise the Dove, was queen, the two ruling with absolute sovereignty, their authority due to their superior intelligence and will and to the service they rendered to the little state, because a state it was, organized completely in all its parts, although composed of only a few hundred human beings.  In the bitter weather that came again, Langlade directed the hunting in the adjacent forest and the fishing conducted on the great lake.  He also made presents from time to time of gorgeous beads or of huge red or yellow blankets that had been sent from Montreal.  Robert could not keep from admiring his diplomacy and tact, and now he understood more thoroughly than ever how the French partisans made themselves such favorites with the wild Indians.

His own position in the village was tentative.  Langlade still seemed uncertain what to do with him, and held him meanwhile for a possible reward of great value.  He was never allowed to leave the cluster of tepees for the forest, except with the warriors, but he took part in the fishing on the lake, being a willing worker there, because idleness grew terribly irksome, and, when he had nothing to do, he chafed over his long captivity.  He slept in a small tepee built against that of Monsieur and Madame Langlade, and from which there was no egress save through theirs.

He was enclosed only within walls of skin, and he believed that he might have broken a way through them, but he felt that the eyes of the Dove were always on him.  He even had the impression that she was watching him while he slept, and sometimes he dreamed that she was fanged and clawed like a tigress.

Langlade went away once, being gone a long time, and while he was absent the Dove redoubled her watchfulness.  Robert’s singular impression that her eyes were always on him was strengthened, and these eyes were increased to the hundred of Argus and more.  It became so oppressive that he was always eager to go out with the warriors in their canoes for the fishing.  On Lake Ontario he was sure the eyes of the Dove could not reach him, but the work was arduous and often perilous.  The great lake was not to be treated lightly.  Often it took toll of the Indians who lived around its shores.  Winter storms came up suddenly, the waves rolled like those of the sea, freezing spray dashed over them, and it required a supreme exertion of both skill and strength to keep the light canoes from being swamped.

Yet Robert was always happier on water than on land.  On shore, confined closely and guarded zealously, his imaginative temperament suffered and he became moody and depressed, but on the lakes, although still a captive, he felt the winds of freedom.  When the storms came and the icy blasts swept down upon them he responded, body and soul.  Relief and freedom were to be found in the struggle with the elements and he always went back to shore refreshed and stronger of spirit and flesh.  He also had a feeling that Tayoga might come by way of the lake, and when he was with the little Indian fleet he invariably watched the watery horizon for a lone canoe, but he never saw any.

The absence of news from his friends, and from the world to which they belonged, was the most terrible burden of all.  If the Indians had news they told him none.  He seemed to have vanished completely.  But, however numerous may have been his moments of despondency, he was not made of the stuff that yields.  The flexible steel always rebounded.  He took thorough care of his health and strength.  In his close little tepee he flexed and tensed his muscles and went through physical exercises every night and morning, but it was on the lake in the fishing, where the Indians grew to recognize his help, that he achieved most.  Fighting the winds, the water and the cold, he felt his muscles harden and his chest enlarge, and he would say to himself that when the spring came and he escaped he would be more fit for the life of a free forest runner than he had ever been before.  Langlade, when he returned, took notice of his increased size and strength and did not withhold approval.

“I like any prisoner of mine to flourish,” he laughed.  “The more superior you become the greater will be the reward for me when I dispose of you.  You have found the Dove all I promised you she should be, haven’t you, Monsieur Lennox?”

“All and more,” replied Robert.  “Although she may be out of sight I feel that her eyes are always on me, and this is true of the night as well as the day.”

“A great woman, the Dove, and a wife to whom I give all credit.  If it should come into the king’s mind to call me to Versailles and bestow upon me some kind of an accolade perhaps Madame Langlade would not feel at home in the great palace nor at the Grand Trianon, nor even at the Little Trianon, and maybe I wouldn’t either.  But since no such idea will enter His Majesty’s mind, and I have no desire to leave the great forests, the Dove is a perfect wife for me.  She is the true wilderness helpmate, accomplished in all the arts of the life I live and love, and with the eye and soul of a warrior.  I repeat, young Monsieur Lennox, where could I find a wife more really sublime?”

“Nowhere, Monsieur Langlade.  The more I see you two together the more nearly I think you are perfectly matched.”

The Owl seemed pleased with the recognition of his marital felicity, and grew gracious, dropping some crumbs of information for Robert.  He had been to Montreal and the arrival of the great soldier, the Marquis de Montcalm, with fresh generals and fresh troops from France, was expected daily at Quebec.  The English, although their fleets were larger, could not intercept them, and it was now a certainty that the spring campaign would sweep over Albany and almost to New York.  He spoke with so much confidence, in truth with such an absolute certainty, that Robert’s heart sank and then came back again with a quick rebound.

After a winter that had seemed to the young captive an age, spring came with a glorious blossoming and blooming.  The wilderness burst into green and the great lake shining in the sun became peaceful and friendly.  Warm winds blew out of the west and the blood flowed more swiftly in human veins.  But spring passed and summer came.  Then Langlade announced that he would depart with the best of the warriors, and that Robert would go with him, although he refused absolutely to say where or for what purpose.

Robert’s joy was dimmed in nowise by his ignorance of his destination.  He had not found the remotest chance to escape while in the village, but it might come on the march, and there was also a relief and pleasant excitement in entering the wilderness again.  He joyously made ready, the Dove gave her lord and equal, not her master, a Spartan farewell, and the formidable band, Robert in the center, plunged into the forest.

When the great mass of green enclosed them he felt a mighty surge of hope.  His imaginative temperament was on fire.  A chance for him would surely come.  Tayoga might be hidden in the thickets.  Action brought renewed courage.  Langlade, who was watching him, smiled.

“I read your mind, young Monsieur Lennox,” he said.  “Have I not told you that I, Charles Langlade, have the perceptions?  Do I not see and interpret everything?”

“Then what do you see and interpret now?”

“A great hope in your heart that you will soon bid us farewell.  You think that when we are deep in the forest it will not be difficult to elude our watch.  And yet you could not escape when we were going through this same forest to the village.  Now why do you think it will be easier when you are going through it again, but away?”

“The Dove is not at the end of the march.  Her eyes will no longer be upon me.”

The Owl laughed deeply and heartily.

“You’re a lad of sense,” he said, “when you lay such a tribute at the feet of that incomparable woman, that model wife, that true helpmate in every sense of the word.  Why should you be anxious to leave us?  I could have you adopted into the tribe, and you know the ceremony of adoption is sacred with the Indians.  And let me whisper another little fact in your ear which will surely move you.  The Dove has a younger sister, so much like her that they are twins in character if not in years.  She will soon be of marriageable age, and she shall be reserved for you.  Think!  Then you will be my brother-in-law and the brother-in-law of the incomparable Dove.”

“No!  No!” exclaimed Robert hastily.

Now the laughter of the Owl was uncontrollable.  His face writhed and his sides shook.

“A lad does not recognize his own good!” he exclaimed, “or is it bashfulness?  Nay, don’t be afraid, young Monsieur Lennox!  Perhaps I could get the Dove to intercede for you!”

Robert was forced to smile.

“I thank you,” he said, “but I am far from the marriageable age myself.”

“Then the Dove and I are not to have you for a brother-in-law?” said Langlade.  “You show little appreciation, young Monsieur Lennox, when it is so easy for you to become a member of such an interesting family.”

Robert was confirmed in his belief that there was much of the wild man in the Owl, who in many respects had become more Indian than the Indians.  He was a splendid trailer, a great hunter, and the hardships of the forest were nothing to him.  He read every sign of the wilderness and yet he retained all that was French also, lightness of manner, gayety, quick wit and a politeness that never failed.  It is likely that the courage and tenacity of the French leaders were never shown to better advantage than in the long fight they made for dominion in North America.  Despite the fact that he was an enemy, and his belief that Langlade could be ruthless, on occasion, Robert was compelled to like him.

The journey, the destination yet unknown to him, was long, but it was not tedious to the young prisoner.  He watched the summer progress and the colors deepen and he was cheered continually by the hope of escape, a fact that Langlade recognized and upon which he commented in a detached manner, from time to time.  Now and then the leader himself went ahead with a scout or two and one morning he said to Robert: 

“I saw something in the forest last night.”

“The forest contains much,” said Robert.

“But this was of especial interest to you.  It was the trace of a footstep, and I am convinced it was made by your friend Tayoga, the Onondaga.  Doubtless he is seeking to effect your escape.”

Robert’s heart gave a leap, and there was a new light in his eyes, of which the shrewd Owl took notice.

“I have heard of the surpassing skill of the Onondaga,” he continued, “but I, Charles Langlade, have skill of my own.  It will be some time before we arrive at the place to which we are going, and I lay you a wager that Tayoga does not rescue you.”

“I have no money, Monsieur Langlade,” said Robert, “and if I had I could not accept a wager upon such a subject.”

“Then we’ll let it be mental, wholly.  My skill is matched against the combined knowledge of Tayoga and yourself.  He’ll never be able, no matter how dark the night, to get near our camp and communicate with you.”

Although Robert hoped and listened often in the dusk for the sound of a signal from Tayoga, Langlade made good his boast.  The two were able to establish no communication.  It was soon proved that he was in the forest near them, one of the warriors even catching a sufficient glimpse of his form for a shot, which, however, went wild.  The Onondaga did not reply, and, despite the impossibility of reaching him, Robert was cheered by the knowledge that he was near.  He had a faithful and powerful friend who would help him some day, be it soon or late.

The summer was well advanced when Langlade announced that their journey was done.

“Before night,” he said triumphantly, “we will be in the camp of the Marquis de Montcalm, and we will meet the great soldier himself.  I, Charles Langlade, told you that it would be so, and it is so.”

“What, Montcalm near?” exclaimed Robert, aflame with interest.

“Look at the sky above the tops of those trees in the east and you will see a smudge of smoke, beneath which stand the tents of the French army.”

“The French army here!  And what is it doing in the wilderness?”

“That, young Monsieur Lennox, rests on the knees of the gods.  I have some curiosity on the subject myself.”

An hour or two later they came within sight of the French camp, and Robert saw that it was a numerous and powerful force for time and place.  The tents stood in rows, and soldiers, both French and Canadian, were everywhere, while many Indian warriors were on the outskirts.  A large white marquee near the center he was sure was that of the commander-in-chief, and he was eager to see at once the famous Montcalm, of whom he was hearing so much.  But to his intense disappointment, Langlade went into camp with the Indians.

“The Marquis de Montcalm is a great man,” he said, “the commander-in-chief of all the forces of His Majesty, King Louis, in North America, and even I, Charles Langlade, will not approach him without ceremony.  We will rest in the edge of the forest, and when he hears that I have come he will send for me, because he will want to know many things which none other can tell him.  And it may be, young Monsieur Lennox, that, in time, he will wish to see you also.”

So Robert waited with as much patience as he could muster, although he slept but little that night, the noises in the great French camp and his own curiosity keeping him awake.  What was Montcalm doing so far from the chief seats of the French power in Canada, and did the English and Americans know that he was here?

Curiously enough he had little apprehension for himself, it was rather a feeling of joy that he had returned to the world of great affairs.  Soon he would know what had been occurring during the long winter when he was buried in an Indian village, and he might even hear of Willet.  Toward dawn he slept a little, and after daylight he was awakened by Langlade who was as assured and talkative as usual.

“It may be, my gallant young prisoner,” he said, ruffling and strutting, “that I am about to lose you, but if it is so it will be for value received.  I, Charles Langlade, have seen the great Marquis de Montcalm, but it was an equal speaking to an equal.  It was last night in his grand marquee, where he sat surrounded by his trusted lieutenants, De Levis, St. Luc, Bourlamaque, Coulon de Villiers and the others.  But I was not daunted at all.  I repeat that it was an equal speaking to an equal, and the Marquis was pleased to commend me for the work I have already done for France.”

“And St. Luc was there?”

“He was.  The finest figure of them all.  A brave and generous man and a great leader.  He stood at the right hand of the Marquis de Montcalm, while I talked and he listened with attention, because the Chevalier de St. Luc is always willing to learn from others.  No false pride about him!  And the Marquis de Montcalm is like him.  I gave the commander-in-chief much excellent advice which he accepted with gratitude, and in return for you, whom he expects to put to use, he has raised me in rank, and has extended my authority over the western tribes.  Ah, I knew that you were a prize when I captured you, and I was wise to save you as a pawn.”

“How can I be of any value to the Marquis de Montcalm?”

“That is to be seen.  He knows his own plans best.  You are to come with me at once into his presence.”

Robert was immediately in a great stir.  He straightened out, and, with his hands, brushed his own clothing, smoothed his hair, intending, with his usual desire for neatness, to make the best possible appearance before the French leader.

After breakfast Langlade took him to the great marquee in which Montcalm sat, as the morning was cool, and when their names had been taken in a young officer announced that they might enter, the officer, to Robert’s great surprise, being none other than De Galissonniere, who showed equal amazement at meeting him there.  The Frenchman gave him a hearty grasp of the hand in English fashion, but they did not have time to say anything.

Robert, walking by the side of Langlade, entered the great tent with some trepidation, and beheld a swarthy man of middle years, in the uniform of a general of France, giving orders to two officers who stood respectfully at attention.  Neither of the officers was St. Luc, nor were they among those whom Robert had seen at Quebec.  He surmised, however, that they were De Levis and Bourlamaque, and he learned soon that he was right.  Langlade paused until Montcalm was ready to speak to him, and Robert stood in silence at his side.  Montcalm finished what he had to say and turned his eyes upon the young prisoner.  His countenance was mild, but Robert felt that his gaze was searching.

“And this, Captain Langlade,” he said, “is the youth of whom you were speaking?”

So the Owl had been made a captain, and the promotion had been one of his rewards.  Robert was not sorry.

“It is the one, sir,” replied Langlade, “young Monsieur Robert Lennox.  He has been a prisoner in my village all the winter, and he has as friends some of the most powerful people in the British Colonies.”

Montcalm continued to gaze at Robert as if he would read his soul.

“Sit down, Mr. Lennox,” he said, not unkindly, motioning him to a little stool.  Robert took the indicated seat and so quick is youth to warm to courtesy that he felt respect and even liking for the Marquis, official and able enemy though he knew him to be.  De Levis and Bourlamaque also were watching him with alert gaze, but they said nothing.

“I hear,” continued Montcalm, with a slight smile, “that you have not suffered in Captain Langlade’s village, and that you have adapted yourself well to wild life.”

“I’ve had much experience with the wilderness,” said Robert.  “Most of my years have been passed there, and it was easy for me to live as Captain Langlade lived.  I’ve no complaint to make of his treatment, though I will say that he has guarded me well.”

Montcalm laughed.

“It agrees with Captain Langlade’s own account,” he said.  “I suppose that one must be born, or at least pass his youth in it, to get the way of this vast wilderness.  We of old Europe, where everything has been ruled and measured for many centuries, can have no conception of it until we see it, and even then we do not understand it.  Although with an army about me I feel lost in so much forest.  But enough of that.  It is of yourself and not of myself that I wish to speak.  I have heard good reports of you from one of my own officers, who, though he has been opposed to you many times, nevertheless likes you.”

“The Chevalier de St. Luc!”

“Aye, the Chevalier de St. Luc.  I know, also, that you have been in the councils of some of the Colonial leaders.  You are a friend of Sir William Johnson.”

“Colonel William Johnson?”

“No, Sir William Johnson.  In reward for the affair at Lake George, in which our Dieskau was unfortunate, he has been made a baronet by the British king.”

“I am glad.”

“And doubtless Sir William is also.  You know him well, I understand, and he was still at the lake when you left on the journey that led to your capture.”

Robert was silent.

“I have not asked you to answer,” continued Montcalm, “but I assume that it is so.  His army, although it was victorious in the battle there, did not advance.  There was much disagreement among the governors of the British Colonies.  The provinces could not be induced to act together?”

Robert was still silent.

“Again I say I am not asking you to answer, but your silence confirms the truth of our reports.”

Robert flushed, and a warm reply trembled on his lips, but he restrained the words.  A swift smile passed over the dark face of Montcalm.

“You see, Mr. Lennox,” he continued, “I am not asking you to say anything, but there was great disappointment among the British Colonials because there was no advance after the battle at the lake.  It has also cooled the enthusiasm of the Iroquois, many of whom have gone home and who perhaps will take no further part in the war as the allies of the English.”

Again Robert flushed and again he bit back the hot reply.  He looked uneasily at De Levis and Bourlamaque, but their faces expressed nothing.  Then Montcalm suddenly changed the subject.

“I am going to make you a very remarkable offer,” he said, “and do not think for a moment it is going to imply any change of colors on your part, or the least suspicion of treason, which I could not ask of the gentleman you obviously are.  I request of you your parole, your word of honor that you will not take any further part in this war.”

“I can’t do it!  As I have often told Captain Langlade, I intend to escape.”

“That is impossible.  If you could not do so when you were in Captain Langlade’s village, you have no chance at all now that you are surrounded by an army.  But since you will not give me your parole it will become necessary to keep you as a prisoner of war, and to send you to a safe place.”

“Many of our people in this and former wars with the French have been held prisoners in the Province of Quebec.  I know somewhat of the city of Quebec, and it is not wholly an unpleasant place.”

“I did not have Quebec, either the province or the city, in mind so far as concerns you, Mr. Lennox.  Three of our ships are to return shortly to France, and, not wishing to give us your parole, you are to go to France.”

“To France?”

“Yes, to France.  Where else?  And you should rejoice.  It is a fair and glorious land.  And I have heard there is a spirit in you, Mr. Lennox, which is almost French, a kindred touch, a Gallic salt and savor, so to speak.”

“I’m wholly American and British.”

“Perhaps there are others who know you better than you know yourself.  I repeat, there is about you a French finish.  Why should you deny it?  You should be proud of it.  We are the oldest of the great civilized nations, and the first in culture.  Your stay in France should be very pleasant.  You can drink there at the fountain of ancient culture and glory.  The wilderness is magnificent in its way, but high civilization is magnificent also in its own and another way.  You can see Paris, the city of light, the center of the world, and you can behold the splendid court of His Majesty, King Louis.  That should appeal to a young man of taste and discernment.”

Robert felt a thrill and his pulses leaped, but the thrill lasted only a moment.  It was clearly impossible that he should go even as a prisoner, though a willing one, to France, and he did not see any reason why the Marquis de Montcalm should take any personal interest in his future.  But responding invariably to the temperature about him his manner was now as polite as that of the French general.

“You have my thanks, sir,” he said, “for the kindly way in which you offer to treat a prisoner, but it is impossible for me to go to France, unless you should choose to send me there by sheer force.”

The slight smile passed again over the face of the Marquis de Montcalm.

“I fancied, young sir,” he said, “that this would be your answer, and, being what it is, I cannot say that it has lowered you aught in my esteem.  For the present, you abide with us.”

Robert bowed.  Montcalm inspired in him a certain liking, and a decided respect.  Then, still under the escort of Langlade, he withdrew.