“That is my brother Chaudière Noire,” he grunted, as a response came from farther ahead. “Black Kettle waits at the fire of our father Metaminens.” Three Mohegans, then! So much the better, thought Crawford, knowing what grim warriors were these men whom even the Mohawks deemed worthy of adoption and alliance. Their very presence in this wilderness was proof of their worth. Presently they came to a rivulet which ran thigh-deep with icy water. Plunging through this torrent of melted snow, Le Talon came to an abrupt halt on the farther brink. From the bushes above him emerged a figure, stripped to the waist, scalplock greased, face painted; this was Black Kettle, a younger man than his companion. He spoke briefly to Le Talon. “The sickness is on Metaminens. He sleeps. Be careful not to waken him.” Crawford made a sign of assent, then followed Black Kettle and Le Talon into a marshy thicket of spruce saplings, where the muskeg quivered like jelly underfoot. In the midst of this thicket, perfectly screened from all discovery, was a brush shelter covering a blanketed figure. Caribou meat hung drying over a small fire. Packs of goods were near by. All four halted to gaze at the sick man. Crawford stepped forward--then repressed an exclamation of amazement. This man, whom the Mohegans in their own fashion of speech had termed “father,” was a white man! Now, in the midst of his amazement, Crawford caught a mutter of feverish delirium from the invalid, and turned. He drew Le Talon to one side and spoke quietly, swiftly, Frontin joining them. “What does this mean? Who is this man?” “He is Metaminens,” was the surprised response. “In the great lodge of Onontio at Montreal he is called Sieur Nicholas Perrot, but throughout the frontier he is Metaminens--Little Indian Corn--the bringer of peace whose canoe is always filled with ransomed captives. Who are you, that you have not heard this name?” “I have heard it,” said Crawford, and dark Frontin whistled softly. Heard it, indeed! Who had not heard that name, so blackly cursed by the English, so adoringly reverenced by voyageur and engagé of the French! And here, delirious and helpless, beyond aid or comfort, lay the explorer and first opener of the west, the man who had saved to Canada all her western empire--the famous Nicholas Perrot. “We must get him out of here at once,” said Crawford decisively. “In this marsh he will die, for fever is on him. Give us some food and we will talk.” They were soon wolfing some of the caribou meat. Crawford had already made up his mind what course to take, for it was impossible to abandon Sieur Perrot. So the four men squatted at one side of the little opening among the trees, and Crawford talked.