and round his brawny neck and arms hung innumerable bracelets and necklaces of human teeth, extracted (one only from each skull) from the jaws of those who had fallen by the terrible tomahawk at his girdle.  His moccasins, and his blanket, which was draped on his arm and fell in picturesque folds to his feet, were fringed with tufts of hair—­the black, the gray, the auburn, the golden ringlet of beauty, the red lock from the forehead of the Scottish or the Northern soldier, the snowy tress of extreme old age, the flaxen down of infancy—­all were there, dreadful reminiscences of the chief’s triumphs in war.  The warrior leaned on his enormous rifle, and faced the King.

“And it was with that carabine that you shot Wolfe in ’57?” said Louis, eying the warrior and his weapon. “’Tis a clumsy lock, and methinks I could mend it,” he added mentally.

“The chief of the French pale-faces speaks truth,” Tatua said.  “Tatua was a boy when he went first on the war-path with Montcalm.”

“And shot a Wolfe at the first fire!” said the King.

“The English are braves, though their faces are white,” replied the Indian.  “Tatua shot the raging Wolfe of the English; but the other wolves caused the foxes to go to earth.”  A smile played round Dr. Franklin’s lips, as he whittled his cane with more vigor than ever.

“I believe, your Excellency, Tatua has done good service elsewhere than at Quebec,” the King said, appealing to the American Envoy:  “at Bunker’s Hill, at Brandywine, at York Island?  Now that Lafayette and my brave Frenchmen are among you, your Excellency need have no fear but that the war will finish quickly—­yes, yes, it will finish quickly.  They will teach you discipline, and the way to conquer.”

“King Louis of France,” said the Envoy, clapping his hat down over his head, and putting his arms a-kimbo, “we have learned that from the British, to whom we are superior in everything:  and I’d have your Majesty to know that in the art of whipping the world we have no need of any French lessons.  If your reglars jine General Washington, ’tis to larn from him how Britishers are licked; for I’m blest if Yu know the way yet.”

Tatua said, “Ugh,” and gave a rattle with the butt of his carabine, which made the timid monarch start; the eyes of the lovely Antoinette flashed fire, but it played round the head of the dauntless American Envoy harmless as the lightning which he knew how to conjure away.

The King fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out a Cross of the Order of the Bath.  “Your Excellency wears no honor,” the monarch said; “but Tatua, who is not a subject, only an ally, of the United States, may.  Noble Tatua, I appoint you Knight Companion of my noble Order of the Bath.  Wear this cross upon your breast in memory of Louis of France;” and the King held out the decoration to the Chief.

Up to that moment the Chief’s countenance had been impassible.  No look either of admiration or dislike had appeared upon that grim and war-painted visage.  But now, as Louis spoke, Tatua’s face assumed a glance of ineffable scorn, as, bending his head, he took the bauble.