As the first canoe rounded the point it came full
upon half a hundred canoes blocking the river, filled by Indians with
bended bows. They were a northern tribe that had never before seen the
white man. Tall and stern, they were stout enemies, but they had no
firearms, and, as could be seen, they were astonished at the look of the
little band, which, at the command of De Troyes, who with Iberville was
in the first boat, came steadily on. Suddenly brought face to face there
was a pause, in which Iberville, who knew several Indian languages,
called to them to make way.
He was not understood, but he had pointed to the white standard of France
flaring with the golden lilies; and perhaps the drawn swords and the
martial manner of the little band--who had donned gay trappings, it being
Iberville's birthday--conveyed in some way his meaning. The bows of the
strangers stayed drawn, awaiting word from the leader. Near the chief
stood a man seven feet in height, a kind of bodyguard, who presently said
something in his ear. He frowned, then seemed to debate, and his face
cleared at last. Raising a spear, he saluted the French leaders, and
then pointed towards the shore, where there was a space clear of trees,
a kind of plateau.
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