I tried to understand exactly what he meant, but couldn’t. The truth was that I was afraid to think clearly: afraid to think what might happen to Ellen if Marie de Sabrevois ever made up her mind the girl could continue to be dangerous to her.

“Does Nathaniel know what’s become of us?” I asked.

Joseph nodded. “Yes. I think he sorry. Not very long, maybe. I think, maybe, he like aunt very much.”

“Where’s Ellen now?”

“Locked up,” he said. “My aunt say Ellen sick here.” He tapped his forehead.

I fumbled helplessly for words. “Sick! Sick! Damn that hellcat to a million hells!”

“Yes,” Joseph said. “Hellcat. Ellen locked up same convent St. John’s. That Montgolfier, he keep her quiet there! I see her, though. Brother, they can’t keep out; so she ask me if I can find you. I say Yes. I say I give somebody black squirrel robe. Then somebody send me to Langlade with message. Then if you with Indian, I see you. She say I must do that, so I come. I’m here—stay with you now to help. You get away? We can’t tell!”

From the council house on the far side of the dance-enclosure there came a cheerful murmur like the murmur of a west wind in the rigging on a summer morning. We heard Doc’s quavering laugh; heard him set out across the dance-enclosure, shuffling clumsily. “Cap’n Peter!” he shouted. “Cap’n Peter!”

Joseph Phipps left me, slipping away into the night.

“Here!” I called. “Here!”

Doc drew near, smelling disgustingly of asafoetida, to stand swaying before us. With him came Verrieul and Sponge-belly. In spite of himself, Doc gave utterance to a squealing yell of triumph. “Hi-yi! I’m going back to that war I belong in! I guess it’s still running! Or else Gautier wouldn’t be fixin’ up for all us red warriors to take part in it. Hi-yi! Come on, now!”

“Where?” I asked him. “Come on where?”

“To the distribution party,” he said, “I got to give them shamans of the Medical Society all my scientific equipment to hold for me and wreak damage with till I get back to the east where I ain’t coming back from—only they think I certainly am.

“Come on! I got to distribute my own personal asafoetidy among ’em, and teach them poor souls how to use Old Sir Kenelm Digby’s Sympathetic Powder in connection with wounds—–”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted him. “What’s in that powder? We don’t want to poison ’em.”