He wore a three-cornered French military hat with a great, drooping plume of green, an immense cloak of fine green cloth, lined with fur, but beneath it he was clothed in buckskin.
The man himself was as picturesque as his attire.

He was young, his face was lean and bold, his nose hooked and fierce like that of a Roman leader, his skin, originally fair, now tanned almost to a mahogany color by exposure, his figure of medium height, but obviously very powerful.

Robert saw at once that he was a Frenchman and he felt instinctively that it was Langlade.

But his head was aching from the blow of the tomahawk, and he waited in a sort of apathy.
"So you've come back to earth," said the Frenchman, who had seen his eyes open--he spoke in good French, which Robert understood perfectly.
"I never had any intention of staying away," replied young Lennox.
The Frenchman laughed.
"At least you show a proper spirit," he said.

"I commend you also for managing to fire your rifle, although the bullet hit none of us.