“Your carriage, monsieur!  He can be sent—­”

“I said take him to my carriage.”

“It shall be done.  His eyes have opened since he came in.  But they sometimes look as if they would speak!  Their faces change constantly.  This other man who is grinning to-night may be quite serious to-morrow.”

“And by the end of the month sorry enough, eh?”

The servant of the Hotel Dieu tittered amiably, and I knew he was going for help to lift me off the slab, when he uttered a cry of surprise.  The old marquis wheeled sharply, and said: 

“Eh, bien!  Is this another of them, promenading himself?”

I felt the Oneida coming before his silent moccasins strode near me.  He did not wait an instant, but dragged me from the wet and death cold marble to the stone floor, where he knelt upon one knee and supported me.  O Skenedonk! how delicious was the warmth of your healthy body—­how comforting the grip of your hunter arms!  Yet there are people who say an Indian is like a snake!  I could have given thanks before the altar at the side of the crypt, which my fixed eyes encountered as he held me.  The marble dripped into its gutter as if complaining of my escape.

“Oh, my dear friend!” cried the servant.

Skenedonk answered nothing at all.

“Who is this gentleman,” the marquis inquired, “that seems to have the skin of a red German sausage drawn tight over his head?”

“This is an American Indian, monsieur the marquis.”

“An Indian?”

“Yes, monsieur; but he understands French.”

“Thank you for the hint.  It may save me from having a German sausage drawn tight over my head.  I have heard that American Indians practice giving their friends that appearance.  How do you know he understands French?”

“I think it is the man who used to come to the Hotel Dieu years ago, when I was new in its service.  He was instructed in religion by churchmen in Paris, and learned the language.  Oh, my dear monsieur—­I think it is Iroquois that he is called—­I am aware the Americans have different manners, but here we do not go into the mortuary chapel of the Hotel Dieu and disarrange the bodies without permission!”

Skenedonk’s eyes probably had less of the fawn in them than usual.  I felt the guttural sound under his breast.

“I have found him, and now I will take him.”

“But that is the marquis’ servant!”

“The marquis is his servant!”

“Oh, my dear monsieur the Indian!  You speak of a noble of France, the Marquis du Plessy!  Be satisfied,” pleaded the servitor of the Hotel Dieu, “with this other body, whom no one is likely to claim!  I may be permitted to offer you that, if you are determined—­though it may cost me my place!—­and after fourteen years’ service!  It you would appease him, monsieur the marquis—­though I do not know whether they ever take money.”

“I will appease him,” said the old noble.  “Go about your errand and be quick.”