The prisoner laid his hand upon a chair. "Will you sit? I would rather it be you than the commandant, if it must be any one. What were you sent to ask?"
I waved away the chair, for I thought of the passing moments and of what I had promised Father Carheil. "I must hasten," I said irritably. "What was I to ask? Why, your name, the account of your capture,—the story of your being here, in brief."
He saw that I glanced at the door, and he walked over to it. "Wait!" he interposed. "I can answer you in a line. But one question first. Monsieur, I—I"—
"Yes, monsieur."
"Monsieur, I—I must think a moment. Be patient, if you will."
His voice was calm, but there was something in his look that forced my pity. "Tell me nothing that I must not tell the commandant," I warned. "But be assured of my good will."
I think he did not hear. He sat with his forehead on his hand, and I knew that he was thinking. He looked up with a new decision in his glance.
"Monsieur, you lead a strange life in this place. I see nothing but men. Have you no families?"
I swore under my breath. I had expected some meat from his remark, and he gave me trivialities. I had no time for social preliminaries, and I felt sudden distaste for him. I pointed him to the window.
"We are not all men. There are Indian women in plenty. Shall I draw the shade that you may see? There are many of my countrymen to tell you that they find them fair."