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bag and crawled over to the entrance. Was he at last safe? Or was some final judgement to be pronounced? He hated to leave the comparative safety of this home, this cozy wigwam. Imagine, a rough birchbark enclosure being now thought of as cozy! He rejected the thought and with a last searching glance at her, which told him that she might even sympathize with his anxiety, he crawled though the opening into sunlight. A delegation of village women and children stood around, watching. The Chief had been talking to two older men, and he now approached Thomas. Thomas tried to read their faces. Inscrutable as ever.
    The Chief spoke in Micmac to the translator, as Thomas stood meekly.
    The translator turned to Thomas. “Trading-post man.
    Maw winjit. Metúqamigsit! Very bad.” “Oh?” said Tom, “a bad man, is he?”
    The translator nodded. “English. Bad English. Mauvais comme un carcajou. ”
    That didn’t sound like Micmac. He frowned. Spanish? French? But he gathered that the translator was trying to explain the events of the previous evening.
    “Bad like wolverine,” the translator said. He pointed to the fierce Indian who stood at one side with a woman Thomas took to be his wife. “They have son, Little Otter. Last year trading-post man send son away on sea. Far away.”
    “Sent his son away? Kidnapped him? To England?”
    “Chief say, we keep you. We give you back when Little Otter come back.” Heavens! Thomas thought, I could be a prisoner for years. “Chief say, send your finger to trading post. Cut and send.”
    Oh no! Which finger would they cut off? Oh God, he prayed, let it be the little one.
    The translator went on: “But you no from trading post. You from ship.”
    “Yes,” said Thomas. “Ship.”
    “Finger no good.”
    Inwardly, Thomas heaved a big sigh. “No sir. No good sending my finger! Trading-post man would not care one bit.” Then he wondered how could he help this poor man get his son back. As a Midshipman on the run, or a lowly second footman from a distant castle, he would wield no influence, none whatsoever. He put the thought out of his mind and gestured to the angry man. “I am sorry, very sorry.”
    This was translated, and then they all lapsed into silence.
    Thomas noticed that Magwés had come out of her wig-wam. He could not help but cast sidelong glances at her, as she stood watching. She too was studying him, although this time with a different look, which seemed to betoken friendship. When she caught his look, she shrunk back, with what could be interpreted as an attractive shyness.
    “Now...” The translator turned to him, “before night, you go.” Thomas brightened. They were letting him go. Then he frowned: and what should he do now, alone in this giant forest, with nothing to eat? Then the translator went on, “We help. But you go,” and he lifted an arm and pointed.
    “Of course, of course I will go. But... why?” The translator showed no emotion. Then Thomas saw him glance at the angry Indian who stood nearby, four others now gathered about him.
    Trouble? Thomas wondered. How far could he get if they set out after him on their own, planning some sort of revenge? Was it actually a trap? He glanced over at Magwés, who was studying the proceedings. She looked worried. Was he about to take the bait and thus be lured off to some grisly end?
    He looked at his feet, and nodded. “Yes. I will go away before tonight. And thank you very much for your help. Now, here he was, once more on his own, on the run, in this untamed strip of the Gaspé Coast.

Chapter Seven
    Observing the band during the morning and at their simple midday meal, Thomas began to wonder how they managed to survive in this harsh wilderness — overflowing with the “milk and honey” of the Bible, perhaps — but the question was, how to make it all work? All so very alien to him, their way of life, disorderly, even dirty, accord ing to the standards of cleanliness imposed at the castle. No wonder