Lake Michigan was a deep sapphire color, and from where she stood below the sally-port 'Tite Laboise could see the mainland's rim of beach and slopes of forest near and distinct in transparent light. And she could hear the farthest shaking of echoes from island to island like a throb of some sublime wind instrument. The whitewashed block-house at the west angle of the fort shone a marble turret. There was a low meadow between the Fur Company's yard and pine heights. Though no salt tang came in the wind, it blew sweet, refreshing the men at their dog-day labor. And all the spell of that island, which since it rose from the water it has held, lay around them.
Étienne St. Martin picked up a beaver-skin, and in the sight of 'Tite Laboise her husband laid hold of it.
“Release that, Mange'-du-lard,” he said.
“Eh bien!” responded Étienne, knowing that he was challenged and the eyes of the whole yard were on him. “This fine crow he claims all Mackinac because he carries a black feather in his cap. There are black feathers in other brigades.”
“But you never wore one in any brigade.”
They dropped the skin and faced each other, feeling the fastenings of their belts. Old Robert Stuart slipped up a window in the office and grinned slyly out at the men surging towards that side of the yard. He would not usually permit a breach of discipline. But the winter had been so long!
“Myself I have no need of black feathers.” Étienne gave an insolent cast of the eye to the height where 'Tite Laboise stood.
Charle', magnificent of inches, scorned his less-developed antagonist.
“Eh, man Gurdon,” softly called old Robert Stuart from his window, “set them to it, will ye? The lads will be jawing till the morn's morn.”
This equivocal order had little effect on the ordained course of a voyageur's quarrel.