have seemed more formidable of intent than the lacerating gaze of the
cheera-taghe, except that to an Irishman there is always a subtle joy
even in the abstract idea of fight. The rest of the braves, with their
alert, high-featured cast of countenance, inimical, threatening,
clustered about, intent, doubtful, listening.

Adrien L'Épine 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'Épine 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'Épine 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'Épine 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!)"