The Englishman had sat apart from us since we landed, and now I found him with his back against a rock ledge looking at the water. I was in a mood when I had to wag my tongue to some one and ease myself of some spreading fancies. So I dropped down beside him.
"Monsieur," I began by way of introduction to my theme, "are you indeed a yeoman?"
He looked up with an excess of solemnity. "No, monsieur."
This was not the answer I had expected,—though, in truth, I had given the matter little thought. "Then you are a gentleman?" I asked, deflected from my intended speech.
He shook his head. "No, monsieur, no gentleman."
I did not like his hidden play with words, although I understood it.
"That is a farce!" I said unkindly. "It is folly to say that in your
Colonies you will have no caste. You cannot change nature. Can you
make a camel of a marmoset? I asked you what you were born?"
He smiled. "I was born an English subject. Monsieur, I have answered three questions. You owe me three in turn. Did you ever know Robert Cavelier?"
I stared. "The Seigneur de la Salle?"
"The same."
I stared again. "He has been dead for eight years. What do you, an
Englishman, know of him?"