“This is no occasion for your malapert wit, sir,” the captain retorted acridly.
Ordinarily Captain Howard was accessible to a pleasantry and himself encouraged a jovial insouciance as far as it might promote the general cheerfulness, but this incident threatened a renewal of a long strain of perplexity and dubious diplomacy and doubtful menace. It was impossible to weigh events. A trifle of causeless discontent among the Indians might herald downright murder. A real and aggravated grievance often dragged itself out and died of inanition in long correspondence with the colonial authorities, or the despatch of large and expensive delegations to Charlestown for those diplomatic conferences with the governor of South Carolina which the Indians loved and which flattered the importance of the head-men.
He strove visibly for his wonted self-balanced poise, and noticing that the young officer flushed, albeit silent, as needs must, he felt that he had taken unchivalrous advantage of the military etiquette which prevented a retort. He went on with a grim smile:—
“Where is this missionary now, who won’t give the devil his due.”
“The emissaries don’t tell, sir. Somewhere on the Tugaloo River, they give me to understand.”
“And what the fiend does he there?”
“Converts the Indians to Christianity, sir, if he can.”
“And they resist conversion?”
“They say he plagues them with many words.”
Captain Howard nodded feelingly.