"To Choté, old town," she averred at haphazard, naming the famous "beloved town, 2city of refuge," of the Cherokee nation.
He nodded gravely. "I go Choté,—travel with white man," he remarked, still watchful-eyed.
The shadows were deepening; the flames had revealed other dark figures, eight braves at the heels of the spokesman, all painted, all armed, all visibly mollified by the aspect that the dialogue had taken on,—that of an interpreting female for a French husband.
"What do—Choté—old town?" demanded the chief.
"Buy furs," said Odalie at a venture, pointing at her husband.
The Cherokee listened intently, his blanket drawn up close around his ears, as if thus shrouded he took counsel of his own identity. The garment was one of those so curiously woven of the lustrous feathers of wild-fowl that the texture had a rich tufted aspect. This lost manufacture of the Cherokee Indians has been described by a traveler in that region in 1730 as resembling a "fine flowered silk shag."
"Ugh!" muttered the chief. "Ugh!" he said again.
But the tone was one of satisfaction. The buy-
