gard, as if from
much recent suffering. His eye was black and piercing, his nose
aquiline, and his forehead broad, but his mouth was effeminate, his chin
small and beardless, his neck long, his shoulders narrow and sloping,
and his black hair hung in long straight locks over his shoulders. A
short sword, somewhat resembling that of the ancient Roman, lay on the
sward beside him, and near to it a huge cavalry pistol of the olden
time, with a brass barrel and a bell mouth--a species of miniature
blunderbuss. Its fellow was stuck in his belt, beneath the chief's
coat, as could be observed from the appearance of the butt protruding
from the opening in the breast thereof.

This personage was seated on a grassy knoll so absorbed in some curious
kind of occupation that he was totally unobservant of the presence of
Gibault until he had approached to within thirty yards of him. Although
his occupation was a mystery to the trapper, to one a little more
conversant with the usages of civilised life, the open book on the knee,
the easy flow of the pencil, and the occasional use of a piece of
indiarubber, would have been sufficient evidence that the young man was
sketching the view before him.

"Ahem!" coughed Gibault.

The stranger scattered book, pencil, and indiarubber to the winds (or to
the atmosphere, for there happened to be no wind at the time), and
started up. In doing so, he showed that he was at least a tall, if not
a stout fellow. Seizing a pistol with one hand and his sword with the
other, he presented both at Gibault, and yelled, rather than shouted,
"Stay! halt! stop now, my man; drop the butt of your gun, else I'll--
I'll blow out your brains."

Although somewhat startled by this unusual mode of salutation, the
trapper had sense and quickness enough to perceive that the artist was
in anything but a warlike state of mind, and that his violent
demonstration was the result of having been startled; so, pulling off
his cap with that native politeness which is one of the characteristics
of the French Canadian, he advanced, and said--

"Bon jour, monsieur. I ver' moch sorray dat I be give you von fright.
Pardon, sair; how you do?"

"Thank you--thank you, good fellow," replied the artist, laying down his
weapons and grasping Gibault's proffered hand with a sigh of evident
relief, "I am well, excellently well. You did, indeed, startle me by
your sudden appearance; but no harm is done, and where none was intended