"Oh, my dear friend!" cried the servant.
Skenedonk answered nothing at all.
"Who is this gentleman," the marquis inquired, "that seems to have the skin of a red German sausage drawn tight over his head?"
"This is an American Indian, monsieur the marquis."
"An Indian?"
"Yes, monsieur; but he understands French."
"Thank you for the hint. It may save me from having a German sausage drawn tight over my head. I have heard that American Indians practice giving their friends that appearance. How do you know he understands French?"
"I think it is the man who used to come to the Hôtel Dieu years ago, when I was new in its service. He was instructed in religion by churchmen in Paris, and learned the language. Oh, my dear monsieur—I think it is Iroquois that he is called—I am aware the Americans have different manners, but here we do not go into the mortuary chapel of the Hôtel Dieu and disarrange the bodies without permission!"
Skenedonk's eyes probably had less of the fawn in them than usual. I felt the guttural sound under his breast.
"I have found him, and now I will take him."