“Nay,” interposed the lovely Antoinette, “rude courtiers, Sire, they may be; but the world boasts not of more accomplished gentlemen.  I have seen no grandee of Versailles that has the noble bearing of this American envoy and his suite.  They have the refinement of the Old World, with all the simple elegance of the New.  Though they have perfect dignity of manner, they have an engaging modesty which I have never seen equalled by the best of the proud English nobles with whom they wage war.  I am told they speak their very language with a grace which the haughty Islanders who oppress them never attained.  They are independent, yet never insolent; elegant, yet always respectful; and brave, but not in the least boastful.”

“What! savages and all, Marie?” exclaimed Louis, laughing, and chucking the lovely Queen playfully under the royal chin.  “But here comes Doctor Franklin, and your friend the Cacique with him.”  In fact, as the monarch spoke, the Minister of the United States made his appearance, followed by a gigantic warrior in the garb of his native woods.

Knowing his place as Minister of a sovereign state, (yielding even then in dignity to none, as it surpasses all now in dignity, in valor, in honesty, in strength, and civilization,) the Doctor nodded to the Queen of France, but kept his hat on as he faced the French monarch, and did not cease whittling the cane he carried in his hand.

“I was waiting for you, sir,” the King said, peevishly, in spite of the alarmed pressure which the Queen gave his royal arm.

“The business of the Republic, sire, must take precedence even of your Majesty’s wishes,” replied Dr. Franklin.  “When I was a poor printer’s boy and ran errands, no lad could be more punctual than poor Ben Franklin; but all other things must yield to the service of the United States of North America.  I have done.  What would you, Sire?” and the intrepid republican eyed the monarch with a serene and easy dignity, which made the descendant of St. Louis feel ill at ease.

“I wished to—­to say farewell to Tatua before his departure,” said Louis XVI., looking rather awkward.  “Approach, Tatua.”  And the gigantic Indian strode up, and stood undaunted before the first magistrate of the French nation:  again the feeble monarch quailed before the terrible simplicity of the glance of the denizen of the primaeval forests.

The redoubted chief of the Nose-ring Indians was decorated in his war-paint, and in his top-knot was a peacock’s feather, which had been given him out of the head-dress of the beautiful Princess of Lamballe.  His nose, from which hung the ornament from which his ferocious tribe took its designation, was painted a light-blue, a circle of green and orange was drawn round each eye, while serpentine stripes of black, white, and vermilion alternately were smeared on his forehead, and descended over his cheek-bones to his chin.  His manly chest was similarly tattooed and painted,