He had been scanning
the mass of his own craft, packed behind him, fading into the shadows
out of the light. There was a peculiar look in his eyes when he faced
DesCaut again, a thrust to his square jaw. In that backward look he had
caught sight of the brown face of Maren Le Moyne, the white garment,
glittering with its beads,--but he had seen, too, the crown of braids,
wrapped round her head after the manner of the white woman.
"Go yer ways," he said; "we thravel fast on urgent business,--ye cannot
throuble us wid yer lookin' an' pokin'. Tell yer fri'nds--No."
At this there was commotion among the Indians. A hurried consultation
took place, with indrawing of canoes under the flambeaux, waving arms,
and angry gestures.
"Then, M'sieu,--we come,--make way!" It was DesCaut, important and
ugly.
"No, ye don't, me lad. Shwing back The Little Devil, bhoys!"
The leader's canoe shifted sidewise and another craft, heavy,
lumbersome, and vastly bigger than the light boats of the rest poked
its nose into its place,--and that nose was brass and round with a
gaping maw,--a small cannon, scarcely big enough for the name, but a
roaring braggart for all that.
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