Adrien L’Epine had his secret doubts as to the efficacy of the bold, blunt, humorous impudence which Terence O’Kimmon fancied such masterful policy,—­taking now special joy in the fact that its meaning was partially veiled because of the presumable limitations of the Indian’s comprehension of the English language.  The more delicate nurture that L’Epine obviously had known revolted at times from this unkempt brusquerie, although he had a strong pulse of sympathy with the wild, lawless disregard of conventional standards which characterized much of the frontier life.  He feared, too, that O’Kimmon underrated the extent of the Cherokee’s comprehension of the language of which, however, the Indians generally spoke only a few disconnected phrases.  So practiced were the savages in all the arts of pantomime, in the interpretation of facial expression and the intonation of the voice, that L’Epine had known in his varied wanderings of instances of tribes in conference, each ignorant of the other’s language, who nevertheless reached a definite and intricate mutual understanding without the services of an interpreter.  L’Epine felt entrapped, regretful, and wished to recede.  He winced palpably as O’Kimmon’s rich Irish voice, full of words, struck once more upon the air.

“Me godson, the Governor o’ South Carolina,” Terence O’Kimmon resumed, lying quite recklessly, “sint his humble respects,—­an’ he’s that swate upon yez that he licks his fingers ter even sphake yer name! (Pity I furgits ut, bein’ I never knew ut!)”

Although possessing an assurance that he could get the better of the devil, “could he but identify him,” as O’Kimmon frequently said, he felt for one moment as if he were now in the presence.  Despite his nerve the silence terrified him.  He was beginning to cringe before the steady glare of those searching eyes.  It was even as a refreshment of spirit to note a sudden bovine snort of rage from the lightsome Dragon-fly, as if he could ill bridle his inimical excitement.

The adventurers had not anticipated a reception of this sort, for the hospitality of the Indians was proverbial.  Credentials surely were not necessary in the social circles of the Cherokees, and two men to six thousand offered no foundation for fear.  O’Kimmon had such confidence in his own propitiating wiles and crafty policy that he did not realize how his genial deceit was emblazoned upon his face, how blatant it was in his voice.  But for its challenging duplicity there would hardly have arisen a suggestion of suspicion.  Many men on various errands easily found their way into the Indian tribes when at peace with the British, and suffered no injury.  Nevertheless as the wise Oo-koo-koo looked at O’Kimmon thus steadily, with so discerning a gaze, the Irishman felt each red hair of his scalp rise obtrusively into notice, as if to suggest the instant taking of it.  He instinctively put on his coonskin cap again to hold his scalp down, as he said afterward.