"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. "Principally 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.