He was as strong as an old bear, but his joints were stiffened with age, and he had difficulty in keeping up with the rapid pace of the Indians. “What sinews these Iroquois have!” he thought, as he struggled on. “No Algonquin could hold his own with them; they run as well as our own young coureurs des bois!”
When it became evident that he could go no farther, they stopped their journey along the ice and, turning into the forest, went about a quarter of a mile from the river’s bank. Here they found a dense evergreen thicket and prepared to make their camp. A fire was built, and some strips of dried meat they carried were heated and eaten; then they stretched themselves on evergreen boughs which had been piled on the snow near the fire. A tall young Indian, who seemed to be the leader of the little band, now turned to Antoine de la Carre and, much to his surprise, spoke to him in French.
“Old man, eat and warm yourself. We have far to go, and you are not yet to die.”
Antoine obeyed, and after he had managed to swallow some of the tough meat he felt better. “How do you, that are of the Iroquois, who trade with the English and Dutch, come to speak French?” he asked of the young Indian.
“A French girl was brought a captive to our tribe; my father, who was a great warrior, took her for his squaw, and she was my mother. She taught me the language of the French, and taught me also to listen to the words of the black-robed Jesuits who used to come south to teach the Iroquois. My mother loved my father, and bade me fight the enemies of his people, and so I am here. But I wish the Jesuit teachers would come among the Iroquois as they used to do. I liked to hear them talk in that strange tongue they called the Latin.”
“Did you?” said Antoine, glad to make friends with the young Iroquois. “When young I was taught by the monks, and know some Latin.”
“That is well,” returned the Indian, with much satisfaction. “I too was a pupil of the monks, and always listened to them gladly. Stand up and repeat to us some of the Latin you learned. When the good Jesuit would talk in that tongue to my mother and to me, the words came like music, and then he would tell us the meaning—it told of adventures and battles and great warriors. Repeat to us this musical tongue.”
Antoine de la Carre would rather have fought a bull moose single-handed; but here was no choice, and he stood up and did his best. That was not very well; for his voice was as hoarse as a swamp-raven’s, and it was many years since he had looked in a book.
The Iroquois lying around on the evergreen boughs were greatly amused at his efforts, laughing at his hoarse voice and at his stammering over the Latin words.
“You do not do it as well as did the Jesuit,” exclaimed the half-breed. “Be careful, Frenchman! Remember, I am no dull log of a Montagnais—I am an Iroquois, a lord of the woods, and will have no trifling!”