An Indian of lofty stature, to whom his grey hair and the numerous wrinkles on his face imparted a certain character of gentleness, cleverness, and majesty, advanced with measured steps, and looked attentively at him.
"My brother is welcome at Garakouaïti," he said to Leon. "What does my brother desire?"
"Yourana," answered Leon, who, thanks to the life he had led in the Pampas, talked Indian with as much facility as his mother tongue—"is my father a chief?"
"I am a chief," the Indian answered.
"My father can question me," Leon said.
"My brother seems to have come a long distance?" the other went on, looking at the smuggler's worn boots.
"I left my tribe four moons back."
"Which is my brother's tribe?"
"I am a son of the Huiliches."
"Matai. My brother is not a warrior. I can see."