This was perfectly correct. The monk did not understand a syllable of what it pleased the Chief to tell him—the more so, as this obscure narrative interested him but very slightly; and while the Apache was speaking, he was cudgelling his brains to discover the motives for this confidence. The consequence was that most of the words uttered by the Chief struck his ear, but only produced an empty sound, whose meaning did not reach his mind; but the peremptory accent with which Blue-fox uttered the last sentence, aroused him, and while recalling him to a feeling of his present position, made him comprehend the danger of not seeming to take an interest in the conversation.
"Pardon me, Chief," he eagerly answered; "on the contrary, I perfectly understand; but I am subject to a certain absence of mind completely independent of my will, which I hope you will not feel offended at, for I assure you it is no fault of mine."
"Good, my father is like all the Chiefs of Prayer of the Palefaces, his thoughts are constantly directed to the Wacondah."
"So it is, Chief," the monk exclaimed, delighted at the way in which his apology was accepted; "continue your narrative, I beg, for I am now most anxious to listen to it."
"Wah! My father constantly traverses the prairies of the Palefaces."
"Yes, for the duties of my office oblige me to—"
Blue-fox quickly interrupted him.
"My father knows the pale hunters of these prairies?"
"Nearly all."
"Very good; one of these hunters is the friend so deeply regretted by Blue-fox."