rupted Gibault, "dat be mine comerades--Good
mans an' true every von. Dey come to land here, I see."

A low growl in the bushes a little distance ahead of them put an abrupt
termination to the conversation. Gibault threw forward the muzzle of
his gun, and glanced at his comrade. The glance did not tend to comfort
him. The artist was pale as death. This, and an occasional twitch of
the lip, were clear and unmistakable signs to the backwoodsman that fear
had taken possession of his friend, and that he was not to be counted on
in the moment of danger. Yet there was a stern knitting of the
eyebrows, and a firm pressure of the lips, that seemed to indicate
better qualities, and perplexed him not a little.

"P'r'aps, monsieur," suggested Gibault hesitatingly, "you had better
vait for de canoe."

"Lead on!" said the artist, cocking both pistols, and pointing with one
of them to the place whence the growl had issued.

Gibault elevated his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders
characteristically, and, uttering the single word "bien!" walked quickly
forward.

A few steps brought him to an open space, in the midst of which the
grisly bear was discovered. It was seated on its haunches, looking
sulkily about, as if it had a suspicion that enemies were tracking it.
Creeping with the utmost caution on his hands and knees, Gibault got to
within forty yards of the monster, whose aspect at that moment was
enough to try the courage of most men. There was a wicked glare in his
little eye, as he swayed his huge body from side to side, that indicated
but too clearly the savage nature of his disposition. Even Gibault felt
a little uneasy, and began to think himself a fool for having ventured
on such an expedition alone. His state of mind was not improved by the
sound of the artist's teeth chattering in his head like castanets.

Taking a very long and deliberate aim at the bear's heart, he pulled the
trigger, but the faithless lock of his old flint-gun missed fire.
Without a sign of annoyance or agitation, the trapper recocked the gun,
again pulled the trigger, and with the same result. Three times this
occurred, and at each click of the lock the bear cocked his ears
inquiringly. The third time, he rose and sauntered slowly towards the
spot where the men lay concealed.

"Stay," whispered the artist, as Gibault was once more about to try his
piece, after rubbing the edge of his flint with his thumb-nail; "stay, I
will fire."

S