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.
"I will give it to one of my squaws," he said.

"The papooses in my lodge will play with it.

Come, Medecine, Tatua will go and drink fire-water;" and, shouldering his carabine, he turned his broad back without ceremony upon the monarch and his train, and disappeared down one of the walks of the garden.