“He is with me. A mission Indian.”
“Does he know French? Has he understood us?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. Here is Father Claude de Casson. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Yes, indeed.”
The Lieutenant rose to greet the priest, and then the three sat together.
“You asked me about the fight, didn’t you, Menard? I don’t seem able to hold to a subject very long to-night. We struck out from La Famine on the morning of the twelfth of 372 July. You know the trail that leads south from La Famine? We followed that.”
Menard smiled at the leaping fire.
“Don’t laugh, Menard; that was no worse than what we’ve done from the start. The Governor never thought but what we’d surprise them as much on that road as on another. And after all, we won, though it did look bad for a while. There was a time, at the beginning of the fight,––well, I’m getting ahead of myself again. We were in fairly good order. Callières had the advance with the Montreal troops. He threw out La Durantaye, with Tonty and Du Luth,––the coureurs de bois, you know,––to feel the way. La Durantaye had the mission Indians, from Sault St. Louis and the Montreal Mountain, on his left, and the Ottawas and Mackinac tribes on his right.”
“How did the Ottawas behave?”
“Wretchedly. They ran at the first fire. I’ll come to that. The others weren’t so bad, but there was no holding them. They spread through the forest, away out of reach. Perrot had the command, but he could only follow after and knock one down now and then.”