"I speak for my people who are in
camp upon the island. We have been upon strange rivers, and over
mountains where the very name of Frenchman is unknown. Yet we have
returned, and we come to you at once, as the partridge to her young.
We are glad to see a Frenchman's face again. We confirm what we have
said by giving these beavers."
I smoked for a moment, then leaned over and kicked the skins into the
corner. "Why these words?" I asked, with a slow shrug. "Does the leg
thank the arm for its service? Does the mouth give flatteries and
presents to the tongue? We of Michillimackinac are all of one body.
My brother must be drunk with the bad rum of the English traders, that
he should come to me in this way. No, if my brother has anything to
say, let him think it aloud without ceremony, as if speaking to his own
heart. Let him save his beavers till he goes to treat with strangers."
There was a long silence. The Huron wrapped his blanket closer, and
looked at me, while I stared back as unwinkingly. His face was a mask,
but I thought--as I have thought before and since when at the council
fire--that there was amusement in the very blankness of his gaze, and
that my effort to outdo him at his own mummery somewhat taxed his
gravity.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25