And then I turned to the woman. But with Cadillac's voice a change had come. My mind was again heavy with anxiety. I remembered the thronging Indians without, the pressing responsibilities within. I remembered the volcano under us. For the moment I could not think of my personal claims on the woman. I could think only of my anxiety for her. Yet I went to her and took her hand.

"Mary,--I am weary of madame and monsieur between us,--you are my wife.

May I talk of our future?"

I spoke in the very words I had used the night I asked her to marry me,--to marry me for my convenience. I remembered it as I heard my tongue form the phrase, and it recalled my argument of that time,--that she must marry me because my plans were more to me than her wishes.

She withdrew from me. "Monsieur Cadillac is waiting for you. You wield great power."

Something new had come to her tone. I would have none of it. "Mary, may I talk to you?"

But still she drew away. "Monsieur, I am confused, and you are needed elsewhere. Not to-night, I beg you, not to-night."

I could not protest. In truth, I knew that Cadillac needed me. I went with her to the door.

"To-morrow, then?" I begged. "Will you listen to-morrow, madame?"

But she had grown very white. "You are important here. There is work for you. Be careful of your safety. Please be careful."

I took her hand. "Thank you, madame."

There was much in my tone that I kept out of my words, but she was not conscious of it. She was not thinking of herself, and her eyes, that were on mine, were full of trouble. All the restraint that the last weeks had taught her had come back to her look.

"You wield great power," she repeated. "You are to be the leader of the west. I see that. But oh, be careful! Good-night, monsieur."

CHAPTER XXV

OVER CADILLAC'S TABLE

I found Cadillac writing, writing. Letters were his safety valve. I had only to look at his table to see how much he was perturbed.

And when I sat across from him, with the candles between, I saw that he was also perplexed. That was unusual, for commonly he was off-hand in his judgments, and leaped to conclusions like a pouncing cat. He looked at me through the candle-gloom and shook his head.

"Montlivet, you have lost twenty pounds since I saw you, and aged. Out on you, man! It is not worth it. We live ten years in one in this wilderness. We throw away our youth. Then we go back to France and find ourselves old men, worn out, uncouth, out at elbows, at odds with our generation. It is not worth it. It is not worth it, I say."

I was impatient. "What has happened since the Senecas came?"

He made a tired grimace. "Princ.i.p.ally that I have not slept," he yawned.

"You have seen no signs of an uprising?"

He put his head between his hands, and I saw that he was indeed weary.

"There are never signs till the uprising is on us. You know that. I have done what I could. The guards are trebled, and we sleep on our swords. Montlivet, tell me. What have you been doing in the west?"

I had expected him to finesse to this question. I liked it that he gave it to me with a naked blade.

"I have been forming an Indian league," I answered bluntly.

He nodded. "I know. There have been rumors. Then I knew what you did with the St. Lawrence tribes last year. Why did you not tell me when you went through here last spring?"

I shook my head. "I wished to prove myself. It was an experiment.

Then I desired a free hand."

"You did not wish my help?"

"I wished to test the ground without entangling you. If I failed,--why, I was nothing but a fur trader. There had been no talk, no explanations, nothing. A trader went west; he returned. That would end it."

"But if you succeeded?"

I bowed to him. "If I succeeded I intended to come to you for help and consultation, monsieur."

I saw his eyes gleam. The man loved war, and his imagination was fertile as a jungle. I knew that already he had taken my small vision, magnified it a thousand-fold, and peopled it with fantasies. That was the man's mind. Fortunately he had humor, and that saved him,--that and letter-writing. He tapped out his emotion through noisy finger-tips.

"How much are you ready to tell me now?" he asked.

"Everything,--if you have patience." I rested my well arm on the table, and went carefully--almost day by day--over the time that separated me from May. I gave detail but not embroidery. Facts even if they be numerous can be disposed of shortly, if fancy and philosophy be put aside. So my recital did not take me long.

The gleam was still in Cadillac's eyes. "And, you think the western tribes would follow you now?"

"They would have followed me a week ago."

He heard something sinister in my reply. "You could have wiped out that Seneca camp," he meditated.

"Yes, it could have been done."

He gave me a look. "The Malhominis wished it?"

"Yes."

"And you thought it unwise?"

"They could not have done it without a leader. And I could not lead them. I had to come here."

He smote the table till the candles flared. "You were wrong. You were wrong. You could have gathered your forces and had the attack over in a week,--in less time. Then you could have brought your troops with you, and come to my aid. You were wrong."

I moved the candles out of danger. "I had to follow madame," I said mechanically. "She might have needed me."

Cadillac's teeth clicked. "Madame"--he began, but he swallowed the sentence, and rose and walked the floor. "Do you realize what you have done? Do you realize what you have done?" he boiled out at me. "This desertion may have cost you your hold with the western tribes."

"I realize that."

And then he cursed till the candles flared again. "It was the chance of a lifetime," he concluded.

Why does the audience always feel that they understand the situation better than the actor? I was willing enough to let Cadillac rage, but resentful of the time he was using.

"What happened when the Senecas came?" I demanded.