"I ask nothing better than to be agreeable to you. Chief, if it lies in my power; but you must explain: clearly what I have to do, in order that I may make no mistake."
"Good; the Sachem will explain everything to his father."
"In that way, nothing will be easier."
"Does my father believe so?"
"Well, I do not see what can prevent it."
"Then my father will listen. Among all the Pale hunters, whose moccasins trample the prairie grass in all directions, there is one who is braver and more terrible than the rest; the tigers and jaguars fly at his approach, and the Indian warriors themselves are afraid to cope with him. This hunter is no effeminate Yori; the blood of the Gachupinos does not flow in his veins; he is the son of a colder land, and his ancestors fought for a lengthened period with the Long Knives of the East."
"Good," the monk said; "from what the Chief tells me, I see that this man is a Canadian."
"That is the name given, I think, to the nation of my friend."
"But among all the hunters I am acquainted with, there is only one who is a Canadian."
"Wah!" said the Chief, "Only one?"