Onondaga

The Chevalier completely ignored the count, either in converse or in
looks. D'Hérouville was not at all embarrassed. Rather it added to
the zest of this strange predicament in which they were placed. It was
a tonic to his superb courage to think that one day or another he must
fight and kill these three men or be killed himself.

Occasionally the vicomte would stare at the Chevalier, long and
profoundly. Only Victor was aware of this peculiar scrutiny. It often
recalled to him that wild night at the Hôtel de Périgny in Rochelle.
But the scrutiny was untranslatable.

No one spoke of madame; there was no need, as each knew instinctively
that she was always in the others' thoughts. The Chevalier no more
questioned the poet as to her identity. Was she living or dead, in
captivity or safe again in Quebec? Not one laid his head down at night
without these questions.

The monotonous beating of the drum went on. Harsh laughter rose; for
every night the Indians contrived to find new epithets with which to
revile the captives. So far there had been no hint of torture save the
gamut. The Chevalier, even with his inconsequent knowledge of the
tongue, caught the meaning of some of the words. The jests were coarse
and vulgar, and the women laughed over them as heartily as the men.
Modesty and morality were not among the red man's immediate obligations.

The Chevalier devoted his time to dreaming. It was an occupation which
all shared in, as it took them mentally away from their surroundings.
He conjured up faces from the sparkle of the fire. He could see the
Rubens above the mantel at the hôtel in Rochelle, the assembly at the
Candlestick, the guardroom at the Louvre, the kitchens along the quays,
or the cabarets in the suburbs. A camp song rises above the clinking
of the bottles and glasses; a wench slaps a cornet's face for a
pilfered kiss; a drunken guardsman quarrels over an unduly heavy die.