They had come to wipe the war paint from our soldiers' faces. They gave another belt.
They wished the sun to shine on us. They gave a large marble as red as the sun.
They wished the rain of heaven to wash away hatred. They gave a chain of wampum.
And so on and on and on. They gave belts, beavers, trinkets. They had peace in their mouths and kindness in their hearts. They desired to tie up the hatchet, to sweep the road between the French and themselves free from blood. But with that clause they gave no belt. They made no mention of the English prisoners, and they desired to close their friendly visit and to go home.
Cadillac looked at them with contempt. He was always too choleric to hide his mind, and he answered with little pretense at civility. He gave them permission to go home, and sent a knife by them to their kindred. It was not for war, he told them, but that they might cut the veil that hung before their eyes, and see things as they really were. He left their belts lying on the floor, and dismissed the council. He motioned to me to follow, and we went at once to his room.
And alone in his room we looked at each other with relief. We had gained one point, and though the road was long ahead, we could breathe for a moment. We had not healed the sore, but it was covered, cauterized. We dropped into chairs and sought our pipes.
But Cadillac's fingers were soon drumming. "It was odd that they did not demand the English prisoners," he said.
I felt placid enough as regarded that point. "They did not dare. When do the Senecas leave?"
"To-morrow morning. Oh, Montlivet, it grinds me to let them go!"
I shrugged at his choler. "We will follow," I comforted. "We will overtake them at La Baye."