"Man! Are you mad?" I demanded, uncertain whether he were apostrophizing Diable's squaw, or abstract glory. "Speak out!" I shouted, shaking him by the shoulder.
"These—are they all friends?" asked Louis, suddenly cooled and looking suspiciously at the group.
"All," said I, still holding him by the shoulder.
"That—that thing—that bear—that bruin—he a friend?" and Louis pointed to Mr. Sutherland.
"Friend to the core," said I, laying both hands upon his shoulders. "Core with prickles outside," gibed Louis.
"Louis," I commanded, utterly out of patience, "what of Miriam? Speak plain, man! Have you brought the tribe as you promised?"
It must have been mention of Miriam's name, for the white, drawn face of Eric Hamilton bent over my shoulder and fiery, glowing eyes burned into the very soul of the Frenchman. Louis staggered back as if red irons had been thrust in his face.
"Sacredie," said he, backing against Father Holland, "I am no murderer."
It was then I observed that Frances Sutherland had followed me. Her slender white fingers were about the bronzed hand of the French adventurer.
"Monsieur Laplante will tell us what he knows," she said softly, and she waited for his answer.