“He is Metaminens,” was the surprised response. “In the great lodge of Onontio at Montreal he is called Sieur Nicholas Perrot, but throughout the frontier he is Metaminens—Little Indian Corn—the bringer of peace whose canoe is always filled with ransomed captives. Who are you, that you have not heard this name?”
“I have heard it,” said Crawford, and dark Frontin whistled softly.
Heard it, indeed! Who had not heard that name, so blackly cursed by the English, so adoringly reverenced by voyageur and engagé of the French! And here, delirious and helpless, beyond aid or comfort, lay the explorer and first opener of the west, the man who had saved to Canada all her western empire—the famous Nicholas Perrot.
“We must get him out of here at once,” said Crawford decisively. “In this marsh he will die, for fever is on him. Give us some food and we will talk.”
They were soon wolfing some of the caribou meat. Crawford had already made up his mind what course to take, for it was impossible to abandon Sieur Perrot. So the four men squatted at one side of the little opening among the trees, and Crawford talked.
He told the Mohegans how he had come hither and what he sought, showed them the star at his throat, spoke briefly as possible—for the afternoon was fast drawing on. He was startled by the utter stupefaction of the two redskins at his words; sight of the Star of Dreams brought a wondering awe into their eyes. They were far too courteous to interrupt him, however, and sat in grave silence while he told them the present situation; none the less, a certain blaze of excitement was in their eyes.
“We must take instant decision,” he concluded. “Sieur Perrot is in grave danger here, both from fever and from the Stone Men. Are other men with you? Is any post near by?”
“No,” said Le Talon. “We are in strange country. We came from Montreal, with Metaminens.”
“Last summer?”
“No. We came by canoe to the Nottawasaga, for the streams were open. Here in the north they were closed, and we came on by the ice to this spot.”