His uniform was of the battalion Royal Roussillon, white faced with
blue, and his hat was black and three-cornered, but face and manner were
so unmistakably French that Robert did not think of his uniform, which
was neat and trim to a degree not to be expected in the forest. He bore
himself in the carelessly defiant manner peculiar to the French cadets
and younger sons of noble families in North America at the time, an
accentuation of the French at home, and to some extent a survival of the
spirit which Richelieu partially checked. Even in the forest he wore a
slender rapier at his belt, and his hand rested now upon its golden
hilt.
He was about thirty years old, tall, slender, and with the light hair
and blue eyes seen so often in Northern France, telling, perhaps, of
Norman blood. His glance was apparently light, but Robert felt when it
rested upon him that it was sharp, penetrating and hard to endure.
Nevertheless he met it without lowering his own gaze. The man behind the
leader was swart, short, heavy and of middle years, a Canadian dressed
in deerskin and armed with rifle, hatchet and knife.
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