"Bien. I got the story from two heads. If you hear a thing like that from
Indians, you call it 'legend'; if from the Company's papers, you call it
'history.' Well, in this there is not much difference. The papers tell
precise the facts; the legend gives the feeling, is more true. How can
you judge the facts if you don't know the feeling? No! what is bad turns
good sometimes, when you know the how, the feeling, the place. Well, this
story of the Great Slave--eh? . . . There is a race of Indians in the far
north who have hair so brown like yours, m'sieu', and eyes no darker. It
is said they are of those that lived at the Pole, before the sea swamped
the Isthmus, and swallowed up so many islands. So. In those days the fair
race came to the south for the first time, that is, far below the Circle.
They had their women with them. I have seen those of to-day: fine and
tall, with breasts like apples, and a cheek to tempt a man like you,
m'sieu'; no grease in the hair--no, M'sieu' Tybalt."

Tybalt sat moveless under the obvious irony, but his eyes were fixed
intently on Pierre, his mind ever travelling far ahead of the tale.

"Alors: the 'good cousin' of Charles Rex, he made a journey with two men
to the Far-off Metal River, and one day this tribe from the north come on
his camp. It was summer, and they were camping in the Valley of the Young
Moon, more sweet, they say, than any in the north. The Indians cornered
them. There was a fight, and one of the Company's men was killed, and
five of the other. But when the king of the people of the Pole saw that
the great man was fair of face, he called for the fight to stop.

"There was a big talk all by signs, and the king said for the great man
to come and be one with them, for they liked his fair face--their
forefathers were fair like him. He should have the noblest of their women