South of the fort were some huts set along the margin of Ontario according to early French custom, which demanded a canoe highway in front of every man’s door. West of these, half hid by forest, was an Indian village; and distinct between the two rose the huge white cross planted by Father Hennepin when he was first sent as missionary to Fort Frontenac.
An officer appeared beside the sentinel at the gate, and took off his hat before the muffled shape led first into his fortress. She bent her head for this civility and held her father’s arm in silence. Canoemen and followers with full knowledge of the place moved on toward barracks or bakery. But the officer stopped their master, saying,—
“Monsieur le Ber, I have news for you.”
“I have none for you,” responded the merchant. “It is ever the same story,—men lost in the rapids and voyagers drenched to the skin. However, we had but one man drowned this time, and are only half dead of fatigue ourselves. Let us have some supper at once. What are your reports?”
“Monsieur, the Sieur de la Salle arrived here a few hours ago from the fort on the Illinois.”
“The Sieur de la Salle?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Why did you let him in?” demanded Le Ber, fiercely. “He hath no rights in this fortress now.”