hunter shook his head a second time. Then he continued, with a mournful accent, which struck the young man, and, as if rather speaking to himself, than replying to the Count's remarks —
"Yes, yes; that is the way with Europeans: when they arrive on the prairies, they regret civilized life, and the desert is only gradually appreciated; but when a man has breathed the odours of the savannah, when during long nights he has listened to the rustling of the wind in the trees, and the howling of the wild beasts in the virgin forests – when he has admired that proud landscape which owes nothing to art, where the hand of God is imprinted at each step in ineffaceable characters: when he has gazed on the glorious scenes that rise in succession before him – then he begins by degrees to love this unknown world, so full of mysteries and strange incidents; his eyes are opened to the truth, and he repudiates the falsehoods of civilization. At such a a moment he experiences emotions full of secret charms, and recognizing no other master save that God, in whose presence he feels himself so small, he forgets everything to lead a nomadic life, and remains in the desert, because there alone he feels free, happy – a man, in a word! Ah, sir, whatever you may say, whatever you may do, the desert now holds you: you have tasted its joys and its griefs; it will not allow you to depart so easily – you will not see France again so speedily – the desert will retain you in spite of yourself."
The young man had listened with an emotion for which he could not account, to this long harangue. In his heart he recognized, through the hunter's exaggeration, the justice of his reasoning, and felt startled at being compelled to allow him to be in the right. Not knowing what to reply, or feeling that he was beaten, the Count suddenly turned the conversation.
"Hum!" he began, "I think you said it was past twelve?"
"About a quarter past," the hunter answered.
The Count consulted, his watch.
"Quite right," he said.
"Oh!" the hunter continued, pointing to the sun, "that is the only true clock; it never goes too fast or too slow, for Heaven regulates it."
The young man bowed his head affirmatively.
"We will start," he said.
"For what good at this moment?" the Canadian asked. "We have nothing pressing before us."
"That is true; but are you sure we have not lost our way?"
"Lost our way!" the hunter exclaimed, with a start of surprise, almost of anger; "no, no, it is impossible. I guarantee that within a week we shall be on Lake Itasca."
"The Mississippi really runs from that lake?"
"Yes; for, in spite of what is asserted, the Missouri is only the principal branch of that river: the savants would have done better to assure themselves of the fact, ere they declared that the Mississippi and Missouri are two separate rivers."
"What would you have, Bright-eye?" the Count said, laughingly. "Savants are the same in all countries; being naturally indolent, they rely on one another, and hence the infinity of absurdities they put in circulation with the most astounding coolness."
"The Indians are never mistaken."
"That is true; but then the Indians are not savants."
"No; they see for themselves, and only assert what they are sure of."
"That is what I meant," the Count replied.
"If you will listen to me, Mr. Edward, we will remain here a few hours longer to let the great heat pass off, and when the sun is going down we will start again."
"Very good; let us rest then. Ivon appears to be thoroughly of our opinion, for he has not stirred."
The Count had risen; before sitting down, he mechanically cast a glance on the immense plain which lay so calmly and majestically at his feet.
"Eh!" he suddenly exclaimed, "what is that down there? – look, Bright-eye."
The hunter rose and looked in the direction indicated by the Count.
"Well – do you see nothing?" the young man remarked.
Bright-eye, with his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun, looked attentively without replying.
"Well?" the Count said, at the expiration of a moment.
"We are no longer alone," the hunter answered; "there are men down there."
"How men? We have seen no Indian trail."
"I did not say they were Indians."
"Hum! I suppose at this distance it would be rather difficult to decide who they are."
Bright-eye smiled.
"You always judge from your knowledge obtained in the civilized world, Mr. Edward," he answered.
"Which means – ?" the young man said, intensely piqued at the observation.
"That you are always wrong."
"Hang it, my friend! You will allow me to observe, all individuality apart, that it is impossible at this distance to recognize anybody. Especially when nothing can be distinguished, save a little white smoke."
"Is not that enough? Do you believe that all smoke is alike?"
"That is rather a subtle distinction; and I confess that to me all smoke is alike."
"That's where the error is," the Canadian continued, with great coolness, "and when you have spent a few years in the prairie you will not be deceived."
The Count looked at him attentively, convinced that he was laughing at him; but the other continued, with the utmost calmness —
"What we notice down there is neither the fire of Indians nor of hunters, but is kindled by white men, not yet accustomed to a desert life."
"Perhaps you will have the goodness to explain."
"I will do so, and you will soon allow that I am correct. Listen, Mr. Edward, for this is important to know."
"I am listening, my good fellow."
"You are not ignorant," the hunter continued imperturbably, "that what is conventionally called the desert is largely populated."
"Quite true," the young man said, smiling.
"Good; but the enemies most to be feared in the prairies are not wild beasts so much as men; the Indians and hunters are so well aware of this fact that they try as much as possible to destroy all traces of their passage and hide their presence."
"I admit that."
"Very good; when the Redskins or the hunters are obliged to light a fire, either to prepare their food or ward off the cold, they select most carefully the wood they intend to burn, and never employ any but dry wood."
"Hum! I do not see the use of that."
"You will soon understand me," the hunter continued; "dry wood only produces a bluish smoke, which is difficult to detect from the sky, and this renders it invisible at a short distance; while on the other hand, green wood, through its dampness, produces a white dense smoke, which reveals for a long distance the presence
