"My brother is young." Trangoil-Lanec observed: "he is an enthusiast."
"I do not know whether I am an enthusiast or not," replied the young man, warmly; "I only know this—that nature is magnificent."
"Yes," said the chief, solemnly, "Pillian is great; it is he who made all things."
"God, you mean, chief; but that is all one; our thought is the same, and we won't quarrel about a name."
"In my brother's island," the Indian asked curiously, "are there no mountains and trees?"
"I have already told you, chief, more than once that my country is not an island, but a land as large as this; there is no want of trees, thank God! There are even a great many, and as to mountains, we have some lofty ones, Montmartre among the rest."
"Hum," said the Indian, not understanding.
"Yes!" Valentine resumed, "we have mountains, but compared to these they are but little hills."
"My land is the most beautiful in the world," the Indian replied proudly. "Why do the palefaces wish to dispossess us of it."
"There is a great deal of truth in what you say, chief."