"It was royal!" said the overseer.
The second was not that official.

When Bras-Coupe said--as, at stated intervals, he did say--"_Mo courri c'ez Agricole Fusilier pou' 'oir 'namourouse_ (I go to Agricola Fusilier to see my betrothed,)" the overseer would sooner have intercepted a score of painted Chickasaws than that one lover.

He would look after him and shake a prophetic head.
"Trouble coming; better not deceive that fellow;" yet that was the very thing Palmyre dared do.

Her admiration for Bras-Coupe was almost boundless.

She rejoiced in his stature; she revelled in the contemplation of his untamable spirit; he seemed to her the gigantic embodiment of her own dark, fierce will, the expanded realization of her lifetime longing for terrible strength.