the chains of three centuries in his defiance. The thought
of his filling his cavernous stomach with tripe de roche--which is a
rock lichen, slimy and tasteless--moved me somewhat.

"You dare disobey me, Pierre?"

"But the master is sick."

I shrugged, but the logic held. "Then tell the chief," I capitulated.
"And see that I have something to wear."

Water was brought by one squaw, and another fetched more broth and
bound my shoulder with fresh dressings. Then leggings, robe, and
girdle of wolfskin were left for me. I put them on with difficulty,
and went to find Outchipouac.

I stepped out into a glare of sunshine and stood blinking. The braves
were gathered in a group, and a line of squaws barred me from them. I
started toward them, but the squaws waved me back; they pointed me to
the shore and the waiting canoe. Pierre rolled forward, uneasy and
scowling.

"The braves will not speak to us; they say our talk means nothing."

"Who said that?"

"Outchipouac. He showed me a grass ring hanging on a pole by his
lodge. He says that when you come again and hang a silver one in its
place it will be time for him to listen."

I knew the Indians were watching, though covertly, so I could only bow.
I went to the canoe and looked to its provisioning. There were two
bags of rice, one of jerked meat, some ears of maize, and the dried
rind of a squash; a knife and a hatchet lay with them. Our hosts had
been generous. We were to be aided even if we were to be disciplined.
I found my place, and Pierre took the paddle and pushed away.

It is one thing to be at enmity with savages, it is another to be an
outcast among them. I knew that their attitude had excuse, and I was
sick with myself. Then my Indian dress chafed my pride. I was sure
that Pierre was laughing under his wrinkled red skin, and I was
childish enough to be ready to rate him if he showed so much as a
pucker of an eye. For I had always refused to let my men adopt the
slightest particular of the savage dress. I had held--and I contend
rightly--that a man must resist the wilderness most when he loves it
most, and that he is in danger when he forgets the least point of his
dress or manner. After that the downward plunge is swift. I had said
this many times, and I knew Pierre must be recalling it.

And so I was sore with fate. Wounded, skin-clad, I was not heroic in
look; it was hard to be heroic in mind. I had jeopardized the chance
of an emp