“They speak a strange language. It is not the same as that of the Ottawas, who once worked for my father.”
“Did you know their tongue?”
“A few words, and some of the signs. This,”––raising her hand, with the first finger extended, and slowly moving her arm in a half circle from horizon to horizon,––“this meant a sun,––one day.”
Menard looked at her for a moment in silence. He enjoyed her enthusiasm.
“Why don’t you learn Iroquois? You would enjoy it. It is a beautiful tongue,––the language of metaphor and poetry.” 71
“I should like to,” she replied, looking with a faint smile at Danton and the priest, who were sitting under a beech tree, mumbling in low tones.
“You shall join the class, Mademoiselle. You shall begin to-morrow. It was thoughtless of Danton to take the Father’s instruction to himself alone.”
“And then, M’sieu, I will know what the Indians say when they sit up stiffly in their blankets, and talk down in their throats. They have such dignity. It is hard not to believe them when they look straight at one.”
“Don’t you believe them?”
“The three this morning,––they did not tell the truth.”