"Ouf!" Bright-eye said, as soon as he found himself in safety, "I'm well out of that; but," he added shaking his head, "there is something extraordinary about the matter, which I cannot fathom."
"Now, my friend," the Count said to him, "you are free to go whither you please."
The hunter thought for an instant. "Bah!" he replied, after a few moments had passed, "I owe you my life. Although I do not know you, you strike me as a good fellow."
"You flatter me," the Count remarked, smiling.
"My faith, no; I say what I think. If you are agreeable we will stay together, at any rate until I have acquitted the debt I owe you by saving your life in my turn."
The Count offered him his hand.
"Thanks, my friend," he said, much moved; "I accept your offer."
"That is settled, then," the hunter joyfully exclaimed, as he pressed the offered hand.
Bright-eye, at first attached to the Count by gratitude, soon felt quite a paternal affection for him. But he understood no more than the first day the young man's behaviour, for he acted under all circumstances as if he were in France, and, by his rashness, universally foiled the hunter's Indian experience. This was carried so far, that the Canadian, superstitious like all primitive natures, soon grew into the persuasion that the Count's life was protected by a charm, so many times had he seen him emerge victoriously from positions in which anyone else would have infallibly succumbed.
At length, nothing appeared to him impossible with such a companion, and the most extraordinary propositions the Count made him seemed perfectly feasible, the more so as success crowned all their enterprises by some incomprehensible charm, and in a way contrary to all foresight. The Indians, by a strict agreement, had given up all contests with them, and even avoided any contact: if they perceived them at any time, all the Redskins, whatever tribe they might belong to, treated the Count with the utmost deference, and addressed him with an expression of terror mingled with love, the explanation of which the hunter sought in vain, for none of the Indians could or would give it.
This state of things had lasted for six months up to the moment when we saw the three men breakfasting on the banks of the Mississippi. We will now take up our story again at the point where we left it, terminating our explanation, which was indispensable for the right comprehension of what follows.
CHAPTER II
A TRAIL DISCOVERED
Our friends would probably have remained for a long time plunged in their present state of beatitude had not a slight sound in the river suddenly recalled them to the exigencies of their position.
"What's that?" the Count said, flipping off the ash from his cigar.
Bright-eye glided among the shrubs, looked for a moment, and then calmly returned to his seat.
"Nothing," he said; "two alligators sporting in the mud."
"Ah!" the Count said. There was a moment's silence, during which the hunter mentally calculated the length of the shadow of the trees on the ground.
"It is past midday," he said.
"You think so," the young man remarked.
"No; I am sure of it, sir Count."
"Confound you! you are at it again," the young man said with a smile. "I have told you to call me by my Christian name; but if you do not like that, call me like the Indians."
"Nay!" the hunter objected.
"What is the name they gave me, Bright-eye? I have forgotten."
"Oh! I should not like, sir – "
"Eh?"
"Edward, I meant to say."
"Come, that is better," the young man remarked laughingly; "but I must beg of you to repeat the nickname."
"They call you 'Glass-eye.'"
"Oh, yes! that's it;" the Count continued his laugh. "Only Indians could have such an idea as that."
"Oh," Bright-eye went on, "the Indians are not what you suppose them; they are as crafty as the demon."
"Come, stop that, Bright-eye; I always suspected you of having a weakness for the Redskins."
"How can you say that, when I am their obstinate enemy, and have been fighting them for the last forty years?"
"That is the very reason that makes you defend them."
"How so?" the hunter said, astonished at this conclusion, which he was far from expecting.
"For a very simple reason. No one likes to contend with enemies unworthy of him, and it is quite natural you should try to elevate those against whom you have been fighting for forty years."
The hunter shook his head.
"Mr. Edward," he said, with a thoughtful air, "the Redskins are people whom it takes many a long year to know. They possess at once the craft of the opossum, the prudence of the serpent, and the courage of the cougar. A few years hence you will not despise them as you do now."
"My good fellow," the Count objected, "I hope I shall have left the prairies within a year. I am yearning for a civilized life. I want Paris, with its opera and balls. No, no; the desert does not suit me."
The 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