At the sight of the Oxford House men Gaspard Follet began to utter a series of joyous squeals.
"Blessed be the Virgin," he cried. "Here is safety. Oh! name of the dead saints, I was lost, lost—lost!"
He sprang to Dunvegan, ingratiating himself, praising, fawning, beseeching. The Ojibway fort runner looked grimly at the antics of his prize.
"The Little Fool is glad to meet with the Company's servants," he observed in ironic fashion. "It gives him great joy."
Dunvegan looked into Maskwa's face, quite surprised at the tone.
"Why not?" he questioned.
"That did not dwell in his mind until I caught him," the Indian declared. "Neither was the Little Fool lost."
"What do you mean, Maskwa?" Dunvegan asked. "My brother, you speak in riddles. Gaspard has evidently wandered from Oxford House and lost his way." To the idiot, he added: "Do you know where you are at all?"
"No, no," moaned Gaspard piteously. "I was lost, I tell you. I do not know this country."
The Ojibway fort runner grunted in derision. "Strong Father," he said, "the Little Fool was not lost as you believe. He has been following the Caribou Ridge all day. And Strong Father will remember that the trail on the Caribou Ridges, though it cannot be traveled with dog teams, shortens by half the distance to the fort of the French Hearts where we journey. That is how the Little Fool thought to reach it first!"