"Yes, monsieur."
"I thought so. It is fortunate for the success of your somewhat complicated plans that you are a Catholic and a Jacobite."
"Is there a slur in that remark, monsieur?"
"Not unless the facts themselves are insulting, Our priests would see no hidden purpose in your story. They would be predisposed in favor of a Catholic and follower of James. They would give you letters where a commandant would not. It was good policy to go to them."
"But, monsieur, I am a Catholic!"
"Which, I repeat, is fortunate."
"Monsieur, this is wanton insult. Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me here, here with this tragedy around us? It is a dog's trick. I will not fight you."
Again I took out my knife. "I will not fight you here,—here with this tragedy around us,—but I may kill you. I shall do it if you do not tell me this story fairly. I care nothing for your life, and I need this story. I will have it if I have to choke it out of your throat."
"I am trying to tell you the story, monsieur."
"No. You are telling me a pleasant fairy tale of a love-lorn knight searching the wilderness for his lost mistress. A moving tale, monsieur, but not the true one. I want the real story. The story of the English spy who wishes to ransom his cousin, but who also treats secretly with the Hurons,—who treats with Pemaou, monsieur. Tell me his story."