"And meanwhile we are fairly safe from interference," chimed in Mr. Mainwaring. "The Hurons are accustomed to stand aloof from other braves, and therefore we are hardly likely to have visitors. If some come, Flying Bird will entertain them." Daylight showed that the authorities at Quebec were determined to retake their late prisoner if possible. Canoes filled with soldiers and trappers swarmed on the river, and the steep shore all along on either side of the city was closely scrutinised. Then a strong party was sent out along the banks of the St. Charles river, for that was a likely direction for a fugitive to take. Once a party of trappers even came to the Huron wigwam lying in the hollow. "We seek a pale face who has broken away from the city," said their spokesman, addressing Flying Bird, who alone appeared to meet them. "Have you seen traces of him. He broke away last night." "Then his trail will have been stamped out by the coming and going of the people," was the curt answer. "Here, however, there may be traces, my brothers. I have not looked for them, but if they are here surely you who are accustomed to the forest and the trail should be able to discover them. For us, we are resting. We require favours before we will help your countrymen." Flying Bird remained seated all the while, smoking placidly. The Frenchmen stared at him doubtfully, muttered words beneath their breath, and moved away. "Let the dog sit there and rot if he will," growled [Illustration: "WE SEEK A PALE FACE WHO HAS BROKEN AWAY FROM THE CITY"] one. "These Indians are either completely out of control, and far too eager even for our hot bloods, or they are sulky and will not stir a finger. Let the dog sit and smoke." They moved away in none of the best tempers, for these trappers and the French in general were more than beginning to see that the price they had to pay for the use of their numerous tribes of ruthless savages would prove heavy in the end. Already they knew that it had roused the British from their apathy. There were tales even then in Quebec that the backwoodsman and the regular who fought for England had a new battle cry, that bayonets were more vengeful and terrible than ever before. A week later the hue and cry had died down, and the party made ready to escape. Flying Bird sauntered off towards Quebec early in the morning, his musket over his shoulder, and a fishing line strung to his belt. Entering a canoe down by the stage, he paddled out into the river, rounded the promontory to the west of Quebec, and sent his craft along parallel to the steep cliff, at the top of which lay the Plains of Abraham. His comrades above saw him occasionally, for he had paddled to the far shore, and was diligently fishing. He was there at dusk, and those who had the curiosity to look at him from the city saw that he was pulling up his line and preparing to return home.