“A forgery,” he gasped. “Ah, De Baugis, see here; these damned curs of La Salle would play trick on me. Look at the paper.”
The dragoon took it, and smoothed it out in his hands. His face was grave, as his eyes searched the printed lines.
“’Tis the great seal of France,” he said soberly, looking about at the faces surrounding him, “and the signature of the governor. How came it here?”
“By my hand,” returned La Forest proudly. “You know me––Monsieur Francois la Forest.”
“Ay, I know you, ever a follower of La Salle, and friend of Frontenac. ’Twas through his influence you got this. ’Tis little use for us to quarrel, M. Cassion––the order is genuine.”
“Mon Dieu, I care not for such an order; it does not supersede my commission; I outrank this De Tonty.”
“Hush, do not play the fool.”
“Better the fool than the coward.”
“Wait,” said La Forest sharply, “the matter is not ended. You are Francois Cassion, of Quebec?”