Our American conquerors and fellow-citizens" (here he gently patted Thurstane on the shoulder-strap), "our Romans of the nineteenth century, they tranquillize the Apaches.

A child might walk from here to Fort Yuma without risking its little scalp." All this was said in the most light-hearted and airy manner conceivable.
Coronado waved and floated on zephyrs of fancy and fluency.

A butterfly or a humming-bird could not have talked more cheerily about flying over a parterre of flowers than he about traversing the North American desert.
And, with all this frivolous, imponderable grace, what an accent of verity he had! He spoke of the teamsters as if he had actually conversed with them, and of the overland route as if he had been studiously gathering information concerning it.
"I believe that what you say about the Apaches is true," observed Thurstane, a bit awkwardly.
Coronado smiled, tossed him a little bow, and murmured in the most cordial, genial way, "And the rest ?" "I beg pardon," said the Lieutenant, reddening.

"I didn't mean to cast doubt upon any of your statements, sir." Thurstane had the army tone; he meant to be punctiliously polite; perhaps he was a little stiff in his politeness.

But he was young, had had small practice in society, was somewhat hampered by modesty, and so sometimes made a blunder.