Then the accordion sounded a dismal chord suggestive of an attack of asthma, the half-breed reattacked the "ne-vaire, ne-vaire, ne-vaire" in a manner that made up in energy what it lacked in music, and the collie raised his head to add a long-drawn wail to the concert. "That's a wee bit better," was the player's verdict at the finish.
And even as he spoke the wail was repeated, though this time could be distinctly heard the voice of some person struggling to articulate to some musical accompaniment the words "Rool Britanny! Britanny rool waves! Britons ne-vaire ne-vaire ne-vaire Shall be sla-aves!" During the march through the woods the Indians were not communicative.
"It doesn't sound quite like a white man. That 'ne-vaire' is more French accent than English probably a half-breed." "What do you think we ought to do?" "Investigate. We've got no choice. We're lost; that's certain enough. What's more, there seems to be very little chance of finding our own trail back to the camp." "That's true enough," Alf assented.