"Pardieu! 'twas rather a pretty trick of the lady," he exclaimed laughingly, as I ended the tale. "She would do honor to a more pretentious court with her wit as well as beauty. What did you call the title she bore?"
"'Daughter of the Sun' was the name given in the altar-house yonder; later she made use of the word Naladi."
"Ay! that was it. 'T is a name fitting her well to my taste, and I boast of some experience with the sex. Sacre! I trust not to have seen the last of so fair a vision as this Queen Naladi."
He was twirling his moustache, such a look of complacency upon his features I could only stare at him in bewildered surprise.
"You appear reconciled to our situation with marvellous good grace," I managed to say at last, in a tone which made no attempt to conceal my disgust at his coxcombry. "For myself I can see very little to hope for."
"Tut, tut, man," stretching himself negligently into a posture of greater ease, "an old soldier learns to take things as they come, without complaint; to extract sweets from every flower. Surely here is a rare rose we have uncovered blooming in the wilderness; nor am I blind to its beauty, or unmindful of my privileges. Besides, lad, what is there greatly to worry about? We are preserved, you tell me, from torture; food will undoubtedly be supplied in plenty, while the lady is surely fair enough to promise pleasant companionship in exile—provided I ever learn to have private speech with her. What was the tongue?"
"We conversed in Spanish."
"I thought as much; there were certain familiar words. But, as I said, why complain of fate, with all these blessings showered upon us. Pardieu! it would prove us ungrateful wretches. Surely 'tis better than the tender mercy of O'Reilly, ay, or the hardship and starvation of the trail."
"You have forgotten your wife."
"Forgotten? Sacre! I should say not, Master Benteen; nor is that likely to occur. Yet what cause have I to worry regarding her present comfort. Did you not say that the Queen pledged her safety and good care? What more could I accomplish for her than that, even were we back in New Orleans, beneath French protection? Saint Denis! you are of a complaining breed, inclined to act as conscience for your betters. True, there are some few things I greatly miss, that would minister to comfort. I was ever careful in my toilet, and choice as to my wines in town; still, if these savages have not lost my soaps and brushes, I will strive to exist even here, and be content until a way opens toward that which is better."