Kingswell bowed low for the second time, and again shook hands with the elder Trigget. Then he stepped over to D'Antons and murmured a few courteous words in so low a voice that his men caught nothing of them. Each gentleman laid his left hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. Each bowed, laced hat in hand, until his long hair fell forward about his face. D'Antons' locks were raven-black, and straight as a horse's mane. Young Kingswell's were bright as pale gold, and soft as a woman's. Both were of goodly proportions and gallant bearing, though the Frenchman was the taller and thinner of the two.
D'Antons slipped his arm within Kingswell's, and, motioning to the others to follow, started toward the stockade. William Trigget immediately strode forward and walked on Master Kingswell's other hand, as if determined to assert his rights as a leader of the mixed company. Ouenwa and the seamen of the Pelican, and the Donnellys and young Trigget, followed close on the heels of their superiors.
"And who may ye be, lad?" inquired John Trigget of Ouenwa, as they crossed the level of frost-seared grass.
"I am Ouenwa," replied the boy, frankly, "and Master Kingswell is my strong friend and protector. My grandsire was Soft Hand, the head chief of this country. His enemies—barking foxes who name themselves wolves—pulled him down in the night-time."
The big settler nodded, and the others uttered ejaculations of pity and interest. The story was not news to them, however.
"Ay," said John Trigget, "Soft Hand were pulled down in the night, sure enough. The Injuns run fair crazy, what with murderin' each other an' burnin' each other's camps. I was huntin', two days to the north, when the trouble began. I come home without stoppin' to make any objections, an' the skipper kep' our gates shut for a whole week. They rebels was for wipin' out everybody; an' they captured two French ships, an' did for the crews. They be moved away inlan' now, thank God. We be safe till spring, I'm thinkin'."
"There be worse folks nor they tormentin' Injuns around these here soundin's, an' ye can take my word for that," growled the elder Donnelly, in guarded tones.
"Belay that," whispered John Trigget. "The devil can cook his stew plenty quick enough. Us won't bear a hand till the pot boils over."
Captain d'Antons glanced back at the talkers. His black eyes gleamed suspiciously.