We followed closely. The lodge was large, and was roofed and floored with rush mats. The smoke hung in a cloud over our heads, but the air around us was sufficiently clear for us to see,--though with some rubbing of the eyes. An aged Indian sat close to the blaze, and Father Nouvel walked over to him. "Onanguisse," he said, "two strangers lift the mat before your door,--strangers with white faces. Do you bid them take broth and shelter?" The old chief nodded. He had lacked curiosity to look out at us while we had stood talking before his door, and now he scarcely lifted his eyes. "Is the Huron with them?" he asked the priest. I pushed forward. "What Huron?" I demanded, in the Pottawatamie speech. The chief stirred somewhat at hearing me use his language. "A Huron is in the woods," he said indifferently. "Every one must live, thieves as well as others, but I do not like it that he stole our squashes. When a Huron comes, you will soon see the French." I would have asked questions, for I craved more news, but before the words could form, since I am slow, the woman spoke. "Nadouk!" she exclaimed. "I understand that word. It means Huron. Are the Hurons pursuing us?" Her woman's voice echoed oddly in that smoke-grimed place. Onanguisse looked up. I have lived among Indians, and know some sides of their nature, but I am never prepared for what they may do. The old chief stared and then rose. "A white thrush!" he said, and he looked at Father Nouvel for explanation. "They come to be married," the priest hastened. "Have you an empty lodge for the maiden?" Onanguisse listened, then walked to the woman, and looked at her as he would study a blurred trail in the forest. She bore his scrutiny well, and he grunted approval. Now that he had risen he was impressive. He was tall, and had that curious, loose-jointed suppleness that, I have heard women say, comes only from gentle blood. As he stood beside Father Nouvel it came to me that the two men were somewhat kin. One face was patrician and the other savage, but they were both old men who bore their years with wisdom and kept the salt of humor close at hand. The chief turned to me. "To marry? It is the moon of flowers, and the birds are mating. It is well. The white thrush shall sleep in my lodge to-night. I will go elsewhere. Come," and pointing to the door, he would have driven the priest and myself outside without more words. I glanced around. The lodge was unexpectedly neat, and though I dreaded to leave the woman in the smoke, I knew it was unwise to protest. Would she be willing to stay? She was often ruled by impulse, and it would be like her to clamor for the clean starlight. I told her, in short phrase, what the chief had said. "And I beg you to show as little repugnance as possible," I added. She listened without showing me her eyes,--which were always the only index I had to what was in her mind.