CHAPTER VI
MAIZE
"Ola! Jean Breboeuf," called out Du Mesne to that worthy, who presently appeared, breathing hard from his climb up the river bluff. "Know you what has been concluded?"
"No; how should I guess?" replied Jean Breboeuf. "Or, at least, if I should guess, what else should I guess save that we are to take boat at once and set back to Montréal as fast as we may? But that—what is this? Whose house is that yonder?"
"'Tis our own, mon enfant," replied Du Mesne, dryly. "'Twas perhaps the property of the Iroquois a moon ago. A moon before that time the soil it stands on belonged to the Illini. To-day both house and soil belong to us. See; here stood the village. There are the cornfields, cut and trampled by the Iroquois. Here are the kettles of the natives—"
"But, but—why—what is all this? Why do we not hasten away?" broke in Jean Breboeuf.
"Pish! We do not go away. We remain where we are."
"Remain? Stay here, and be eaten by the Iroquois? Nay! not Jean Breboeuf."