“Rene de Artigny!” he cried, his joy finding expression in his face. “Ay, an old comrade, indeed, and only less welcome here than M. de la Salle himself. ’Twas a bold trick you played tonight, but not unlike many another I have seen you venture. You bring me message from Monsieur?”
“Only that he has sailed safely for France to have audience with Louis. I saw him aboard ship, and was bidden to tell you to bide here in patience, and seek no quarrel with De Baugis.”
“Easy enough to say; but in all truth I need not seek quarrel––it comes my way without seeking. De Baugis was not so bad––a bit high strung, perhaps, and boastful of his rank, yet not so ill a comrade––but there is a newcomer here, a popinjay named Cassion, with whom I cannot abide. Ah, but you know the beast, for you journeyed west in his company. Sacre! the man charged you with murder, and I gave him the lie to his teeth. Not two hours ago we had our swords out, but now you can answer for yourself.”
De Artigny hesitated, his eyes meeting mine.
“I fear, Monsieur de Tonty,” he said finally, “the answer may not be so easily made. If it were point of sword now, I could laugh at the man, but he possesses some ugly facts difficult to explain.”
“Yet ’twas not your hand which did the deed?”
“I pledge you my word to that. Yet this is no time to talk of the matter. I have wounds to be looked to, and would learn first how Barbeau fares. You know not the lady; but of course not, or your tongue would never have spoken so freely––Monsieur de Tonty, Madame Cassion.”
He straightened up, his eyes on my face. For an instant he stood motionless; then swept the hat from his head, and bent low.
“Your pardon, Madame; we of the wilderness become rough of speech. I should have known, for a 296 rumor reached me of your accident. You owe life, no doubt, to Sieur de Artigny.”