“Perchance, Monsieur,” he said quietly, “it might be best for you first to speak with this friend of mine.”
“What friend? Sacre! What is the fellow to me? Who is he? another one of La Salle’s spawn?”
La Forest, still bareheaded, his forehead bleeding, pressed down the swordblade.
“The company is a good one,” he said bluntly enough, “and just now well worth belonging to. I am Francois de la Forest, Monsieur, one time commandant at Detroit; at present messenger from the King of France.”
“King’s messenger––you! Mon Dieu! you look it. Come, man, what mummery is this?”
“No mummery, Monsieur. I left France two months since, bearing the King’s own word to M. la Barre. ’Tis with his endorsement I journeyed hither to restore Henri de Tonty to his rightful command of Fort St. Louis.”
“You lie!” Cassion cried hotly, eyes blazing hatred and anger, “’tis some hellish trick.”
“Monsieur, never before did man say that to me, and live. Were you not felon, and thief I would strike you where you stand. Ay, I mean the words––now listen; lift that sword point and I shoot you dead. Monsieur de Tonty, show the man the papers.”
Cassion took them as though in a daze, his hand trembling, his eyes burning with malignant rage. I doubt if he ever saw clearly the printed and written words of the document, but he seemed to grasp vaguely the fact of La Barre’s signature.