This laughter did not reassure Maître le Borgne, who had seen Huguenots and Catholics laughing and dying in the streets.
"Ho, Maître, but you are a droll fellow!" Bouchard exclaimed. "This Indian is accompanied by Fathers Chaumonot and Jacques. It is not impossible that they have relieved La Chaudière Noire of his tomahawk and scalping-knife. And besides, this is France; even a Turk is harmless here. Monsieur the Black Kettle speaks French and is a devout Catholic."
"A Catholic?" incredulously.
"Aye, pious and abstemious," with a sly glance at the innkeeper, who was known to love his wines in proportion to his praise of them.
"The patience of these Jesuits!" the host murmured, breathing a long sigh, such as one does from whose shoulders a weight has been suddenly lifted. "Ah, Messieurs, but your joke frightened me cruelly. And they call him the Black Kettle? But perhaps they will stay at the episcopal palace, that is, if the host from Dieppe arrives to-night. And who taught him French?"
"Father Chaumonot, who knows his Indian as a Turk knows his Koran."
"And does his Majesty intend to make Frenchmen of these savages?"
"They are already Frenchmen," was the answer. "There remains only to teach them how to speak and pray like Frenchmen."
"And he will be quiet and docile?" ventured the inn-keeper, who still entertained some doubts.
"If no one offers him an indignity. The Iroquois is a proud man. But I see Monsieur Nicot calling to you; Monsieur Nicot, whose ancestor, God bless him! introduced this weed into France;" and Du Puys refilled his pipe, applied an ember, took off his faded baldric and rapier, and reclined full length on the bench. Maître le Borgne hurried away to attend to the wants of Monsieur Nicot. Presently the soldier said: "Shall we sail to-morrow, Master Mariner?"