As he recovered a bit, he heard someone laugh softly in a distant part of the room, and someone else speak in the pale eyes' language. The tone of contempt was unmistakable. He was overwhelmed with shame. He had made a fool of himself before his entire de Marion family and their whole tribe. He had disgraced the Sauk. He had embarrassed his father. It was as he had feared. He could not stay here. It was too painful. _Tonight_, he promised himself, holding his aching belly. _Tonight I leave the land of the pale eyes forever._ * * * * * Reproaching himself, Pierre knelt beside Auguste, trying through the pressure of his hand on the boy's back to tell Auguste that he loved him. _He said he had tasted wine, but I should have known he could not drink so much. The poor boy must be dying of shame, and it is all the fault of stupid Pierre._ Auguste coughed and wiped the back of his hand over his face. Pierre patted him gently on the back. Nicole, kneeling on Auguste's other side, suddenly turned her head toward the door and drew in a frightened breath. Pierre looked up to see what it was. A figure filled the doorway, silhouetted in the yellow rectangle of afternoon sunlight. Pierre at once recognized the truculent set of Raoul's broad shoulders, the forward thrust of his head under the wide-brimmed hat. Pierre had time for one more anguished thought of self-reproach as his younger brother strode toward them. _For this, too, I should have better prepared Auguste._ Raoul's boots sounded on the flagstone floor. Pierre tugged on Auguste's arm, helping him to his feet. He heard Nicole whisk away the bucket. "So, this is the little mongrel?" Raoul's deep voice boomed in the cavernous log hall. "Raoul," Pierre said, "this is your nephew, Auguste." Pierre turned to Auguste and in Sauk said, "This is your uncle, Raoul. He lives here with me and your grandfather. He speaks with a rough tongue, but do not fear him." How could the boy not fear a man like Raoul? "Auguste, is it? A fine French name for a redskin." Raoul set his fists on his hips, throwing back his blue jacket to show his gilt-handled pistol and a huge knife in its scabbard. At the sight of the weapons Pierre's heart pounded. Raoul went up to Auguste and stared into his face as Pierre stood tensely. Raoul said, "Well, brother, you actually did it. You made yourself a son." "I'm glad you admit that," said Pierre. "Oh, I admit that. He's got de Marion written all over his dirty face. But don't call him my 'nephew.' I reserve that title for legitimate kin." Pierre hoped Auguste's knowledge of English was not enough to let him understand how he was being insulted. The boy looked from Pierre to Raoul as they spoke, his large, dark eyes watchful, his face expressionless. "Raoul, stop this." It was Nicole, back from getting rid of the bucket. "I'm Auguste's aunt and you're his uncle, and you might as well get used to it."