“Dat scélérat Le Pendu he tell to me dis, an’ he h’ask Jules to mak’ war on vous,” Jules answered slowly.
Both men were silent.
Outside the noise had increased, and the babel of voices came to them distorted and strange, mingled with curses and the sounds of the Indian Wobbano songs.
“And whut ’d ye say to him?” MacTavish said at last, watching Jules closely.
“Ah tell to heem dat Jules Verbaux no keel mans v’en he no have to!”
“But ye’ll fecht wi’ us, mon, won’t ye? We’ll pay ye weel fur ’t!”
Jules drew himself up proudly, and the factor winced at the sombre gleam of the gray eyes.
“Non!” Verbaux answered. “Ah no tak’ l’or to keel, M’sieu’ le Facteur!” He turned for the door. “Rememb’ vat Jules he tell you: gare les Crees!”
“Verba’, fur God’ sake don’t leave me like that, mon; I meaned na eensult to ye. Whut am I to dae? The min are all druunk, as ye can see. I had to gie ’em the liquor tae keep ’em frae the Houdson Bay people!”
Jules stopped, his hand on the latch. “M’sieu’ MaacTaveesh,” he said, “eef you had beene bon to dose Indians dey vould no leave vous for hoddaire Compagnie!”