"You would be drunk."
"Drunk as a fiddler on Saturday night. Now, I am going to promote my
character among these rascals by doing some medicine work myself." And
he burst forth sonorously in profanity, waving his hands and swaying
his body. He recalled every oath in his extensive camp vocabulary.
The expression on his face was sober, and Victor had a suspicion that
this exhibition was not all play. The savages regarded the vicomte as
one suddenly gone demented, till it dawned upon one of them that the
white man was committing a sacrilege, mocking the reverend medicine
man. He rose up behind the vicomte, reached over and struck him
roughly on the mouth. The vicomte wheeled like a flash. The Indian
folded his arms across his bronzed chest and looked the furious man
calmly in the eye. The vicomte presently dropped his balled fists,
shrugged, and sat down. It was the best and wisest thing he could do.
D'Hérouville, roused from his apathy, laughed. "Eh, you laugh?" said
the vicomte, wiping his bloody lips. His eyes snapped wickedly.
"It is a habit I have," retorted D'Hérouville, glancing boldly at the
Chevalier.
"Some day your habit will choke you to death."
D'Hérouville's cheeks darkened. He returned to the contemplation of
his boots.
"Ten thousand livres!" The vicomte wiped his lips again, and became
quiet.
This was one evening among many of its like. The poet busied himself
with taking some of the burs from his hair and absently plucking them
to pieces. . . . And Paul had had an intrigue with Gabrielle which had
lasted nearly two years! And madame was unknown to him! What was her
purpose? Blind fool that he had been, with all his dreams. Ever was
he hearing the music of her voice, breathing the vague perfume of her
flowering lips, seeing the heavenly shadows in her eyes. Once he had
come upon her while she slept. Oh, happy thief, to have pressed his
lips upon that cheek, blooming delicately as a Persian peach! And that
memory was all he had. She did not love him!
The musing came to an abrupt end. A moccasined foot shot out and
struck Victor in the small of the back, sending him reeling toward the
fire. In trying to save himself he extended his hands. He fell upon a
glowing ember, and his palms were burned cruelly. Cries of laughter
resounded through the hut. Victor bit his lips to repress the cry of
pain.
With the agility of a panther, the Chevalier sprang toward the bully.
There was a terrible smile on his face as he seized the young brave's
wrists in a grip of iron. The Oneida was a strong youth, but he
wrestled in vain. The Chevalier had always been gifted with strength,
and these weeks of toil and hardship had turned his muscles into fibers
unyielding as oak. Gradually he turned the Indian around. The others
watched the engagement with breathless interest. Presently the Indian
came to his knees. Quick as light the Chevalier forced him upon his
face, caught an arm by the elbow and shoved the brown hand into the
fire. There was a howl of pain and a yell of laughter. Without
seeming effort the Chevalier then rolled the bully among the
evil-tempered dogs. So long as he continued to smile, the Indians saw
nothing but good-natured play, such as had been the act which caused
Victor his pain. The Chevalier sat down, drew his tattered cloak
around his shoulders, and once more resumed his study of the fire.