Gaston was not to talk of England, but of the North, of Canada, of Mexico, the Lotos Isles.

He did so picturesquely, yet simply too, in imperfect but sufficient French.
But as he told of one striking incident in the Rockies, he heard Jacques make a quick expression of dissent.

He smiled.

He had made some mistake in detail.

Now, Jacques had been in his young days in Quebec the village story-teller; one who, by inheritance or competency, becomes semi-officially a raconteur for the parish; filling in winter evenings, nourishing summer afternoons, with tales, weird, childlike, daring.
Now Gaston turned and said to Jacques: "Well, Brillon, I've forgotten, as you see; tell them how it was." Two hours later when Jacques retired on some errand, amid ripe applause, Ian said: "You've got an artist there, Cadet: that description of the fight with the loop garoo was as good as a thing from Victor Hugo.