A figure filled the doorway, silhouetted in the yellow rectangle of afternoon sunlight.
Pierre at once recognized the truculent set of Raoul's broad shoulders, the forward thrust of his head under the wide-brimmed hat.
Pierre had time for one more anguished thought of self-reproach as his younger brother strode toward them.
For this, too, I should have better prepared Auguste.
Raoul's boots sounded on the flagstone floor.
Pierre tugged on Auguste's arm, helping him to his feet. He heard Nicole whisk away the bucket.
"So, this is the little mongrel?" Raoul's deep voice boomed in the cavernous log hall.
"Raoul," Pierre said, "this is your nephew, Auguste."
Pierre turned to Auguste and in Sauk said, "This is your uncle, Raoul. He lives here with me and your grandfather. He speaks with a rough tongue, but do not fear him."
How could the boy not fear a man like Raoul?