"That is true, monsieur. The only one. He is the Hawk, the leader of those men whom we attacked a week ago. It is a fine capture."
"You have done well, sergeant. This man is of more value even than that news could have been. He is wounded, you say?"
"There is a bullet lodged in his ribs, Monsieur. He bled much, and is weak, so that we were forced to carry him. But he may have recovered now, and will stand if we lift him to his feet."
At a sign from the sergeant, the Indians raised their prisoner, and stood looking at him critically, wondering whether this pale face, of whom they had heard before, would fail now, or whether he would have sufficient courage to overcome his weakness. But they had little need to fear the result, for though Steve was weak, as weak and weary as a tired child, he had a determined spirit, and moreover felt intuitively as if this was the supreme moment of his life, as if his future, his safety in fact, depended upon his courage now. He set his teeth, placed his feet well apart, and stood erect, his face towering above that of Jules.
"The Hawk thanks the braves who carried him," he said, as steadily as he could. "They treated him honourably, and though he has no gift to make, he gives them thanks a thousand times."
"He is a man. We are satisfied," was the answer.
"He is more. He is a spy!"
Jules darted forward with a cry of delight, and snatched at Steve's skin cap, to the top of which was attached an eagle's crest.
"Tell me, sergeant," he said, swinging round with an air of triumph, "this prisoner was captured out on the ice. Had he a blanket?"
"Not when captured, monsieur. But all who supported him were dressed so. They had the appearance of Indians."