“Who aire ye?” he asked Jules.
No answer. Then Le Pendu interrupted eagerly.
“M’sie’u le Facteur, dat homme ees Jules Verbaux, du Nor’ouest Compagnie. Ah see heem vonce t’ree mont’ gon’; he say den dat he no mak’ fight avec nous; to-night he come ici an’ he t’ink dat dees place encore Nor’ouest Compagnie. Ve h’all h’ask heem du Lac la Pluie; he no tell; ve mak’ le feu, den, for heem. Dat bon, hein?”
The factor knelt and severed Jules’s bonds with his own knife for answer, while the rest stood aghast and Le Pendu fell back step by step, muttering angrily.
“Ye aire Verbaux?” the Scotchman asked then.
“Oui, M’sieu’ le Facteur,” Verbaux answered as he rose to his feet.
“Thrree min bring him to the store,” the factor said, and went away.
The sheen of the flames was on the angry faces that threatened with black looks and growlings; three big Indians stepped forward and fell in beside Jules. One hit him on the back with his fist; like lightning Verbaux turned to retaliate, but he restrained himself and walked ahead quietly between his guards. They led him to the store, showed him up the steps and in the low door; four candles flared uncertainly by a table at which the factor and another stranger sat.
“Get out!” the factor ordered, and the Indians disappeared.
“Weel, Verbaux! we have ye mon nou! What d’ ye say is to be doune wid ye?”