"In God's name, what means all this, Master Pothier?" exclaimed
Philibert, as they hastily dismounted and, tying their horses to a
tree, entered the broad walk that led to the terrace.
"That concert going on, your Honor?"--Master Pothier shook his head
to express disapproval, and smiled to express his inborn sympathy
with feasting and good-fellowship--"that, your Honor, is the heel of
the hunt, the hanging up of the antlers of the stag by the gay
chasseurs who are visiting the Intendant!"
"A hunting party, you mean? To think that men could stand such
brutishness, even to please the Intendant!"
"Stand! your Honor. I wager my gown that most of the chasseurs are
lying under the table by this time, although by the noise they make
it must be allowed there are some burly fellows upon their legs yet,
who keep the wine flowing like the cow of Montmorency."
"'Tis horrible! 'tis damnable!" Philibert grew pale with passion
and struck his thigh with his palm, as was his wont when very angry.
"Rioting in drunkenness when the Colony demands the cool head, the
strong arm, and the true heart of every man among us! Oh, my
country! my dear country! what fate is thine to expect when men
like these are thy rulers?"
"Your Honor must be a stranger in New France or you would not
express such hasty, honest sentiments upon the Intendant's
hospitality.
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