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Updated: May 31, 2025
In its uncompromising illumination Me-en-gan, the bowsman, standing straight and tall and silent by the door, studied his master's face and knew him to be deeply angered. For Galen Albret was at this moment called upon to deal with a problem more subtle than any with which his policy had been puzzled in thirty years.
They stood exactly so for an appreciable interval, bewildered by the suddenness of this outcome; Galen Albret's hand outstretched in denunciation; the girl like a broken lily, supported in the young man's arms; he searching her face passionately for a sign of life; Me-en-gan, straight and sorrowful, again at the door. Then the old man's arm dropped slowly, His gaze wavered.
After a moment Matthews, the English servant, came running in. To him the Factor was at first physically unable to utter a syllable. Then finally he managed to ejaculate the name of his bowsman with such violence of gesture that the frightened servant comprehended by sheer force of terror and ran out again in search of Me-en-gan. This supreme effort seemed to clear the way for speech.
Soon one of the Indian servants entered the room for the purpose of conducting him to a smaller apartment, where he was left alone for some time longer. Food was brought him. He ate heartily, for he considered that wise. Then at last the summons for which he had been so long in readiness. Me-en-gan himself entered the room, and motioned him to follow.
Me-en-gan glided into the room. Galen Albret at once addressed him in the Ojibway language, gaining control of himself as he went on. "Listen to me well," he commanded. "You shall make a count of all rifles in this place at once. Let no one furnish this man with food or arms. You know the story of la Longue Traverse. This man shall take it. So inform my people. I, the Factor, decree it so.
But where did you get this rifle?" "I stole it." "You were alone?" Ned Trent paused for a barely appreciable instant. It was not possible that the Indians had failed to establish the girl's presence, and he feared a trap. Then he caught the expressive eye of Me-en-gan at the door. Evidently Virginia had friends. "I was alone," he repeated, confidently. "That is a lie.
The canoe had now caught its speed. Conjuror's House was dropping astern. The rhythm of the song quickened as the singers told of how the king's son had aimed at the black duck but killed the white. "Ah fils du roi, tu es mèchant, En roulant ma boule, Toutes les plumes s'en vont au vent, Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant." "Way wik! way wik!" commanded Me-en-gan, sharply, from the bow.
Ned Trent had already prepared his message on the back of an envelope, writing it with the lead of a cartridge. He now pressed the bit of paper into the Indian's palm. "For O-mi-mi," he explained. Me-en-gan bored him through with his bead-like eyes of the surface lights. "Nin nissitotam," he agreed after a moment. He led the way.
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