"Let my father speak: what he wishes we wish. Are we not his children?"
"Hence," the Count continued, "I wish to speak with you, chief, alone."
Natah Otann had listened to the Count's discourse with the deepest attention: at times, an observer might have noticed a flash of joy cross his features, immediately followed, however, by a feeling of pleasure, which lit up his intelligent eyes: he applauded, like his warriors, perhaps more warmly than they, when the young man ceased speaking; on hearing him say that he would speak with the sachem alone, a smile played on his lips: he made the Indians a sign to retire, and walked towards the Count with an ease and grace which the other could not refrain from noticing. There was a native nobility in this young chief, which pleased at the first glance, and attracted sympathy.
After bowing respectfully, the Blackfeet warriors went down the hill, and collected about one hundred yards from the camping place.
There were two men whom the Count's eloquence had surprised quite as much as the Indian warriors. These were Bright-eye and Ivon; neither of them understood a syllable, and the young man's Indian science completely threw them out; they awaited in the utmost anxiety the denouement of this scene, whose meaning they could not decipher.
When left alone (for the hunter and Ivon soon also withdrew), the Frenchman and the Indian examined each other with extreme attention. But whatever efforts the white man made to read the sentiments of the man he had before him, he was obliged to allow that he had to deal with one of those superior natives, on whose faces it is impossible to read anything, and who, under all circumstances, are ever masters of their impressions; furthermore, the fixity and metallic lustre of the Indian's eye caused him to feel a secret uneasiness, which he hastened to remove by speaking, as if that would break the charm.
"Chief," he said, "now that your warriors have retired—"
Natah Otann interrupted him by a sign, and bowed courteously.
"Pardon me, Monsieur le Comte," he said, with an accent which a native of the banks of the Seine would have envied: "I think the slight practice you have had in speaking our language is wearisome to you; if you would please to express yourself in French, I fancy I understand that language well enough to follow you."
"Eh?" the Count exclaimed, with a start of surprise, "what is that you say?"