Canadian, and like him felt the charm of this wandering life.

"Look," continued the old hunter, "at that troop of wild horses coming
down to drink before going for the night to their distant pasturage.
See how they approach in all the proud beauty that God gives to free
animals--ardent eyes, open nostrils, and floating manes! Ah! I should
almost like to awake Fabian in order that he might see and admire them."

"Let him sleep, Bois-Rose; perhaps his dreams show him more graceful
forms than those horses of the desert--forms such as abound in our
Spanish towns, in balconies or behind barred windows."

Bois-Rose sighed, as he added--

"Yet this is fine sight--how these noble beasts bound with joy at their
liberty!"

"Yes, until they are chased by the Indians, and then they bound with
terror!"

"There! now they are gone like the cloud driven by the wind!" continued
the Canadian. "Now the scene changes. Look at that stag, who shows
from time to time his shining eyes and black nose through the trees; he
snuffs the wind, he listens. Ah! now he also approaches to drink. He
has heard a noise, he raises his head; do not the drops that fall from
his mouth look like liquid gold? I will wake the lad!"

"Let him sleep, I tell you; perhaps his dream now shows him black eyes
and rosy lips, or some nymph sleeping on the banks of a clear stream."

The old Canadian sighed again.

"Is not the stag the emblem of independence?" said he.

"Yes, until the time when the wolves assemble to pursue and tear him to
pieces. Perhaps he would have more chance of life in our royal parks.
Everything to its time, Bois-Rose; old age loves silence, youth noise."

Bois-Rose still fought against the truth. It was the drop of gall that
is found at the bottom of every cup of happiness; it is not permitted
that there should be perfect felicity, for it would then be too painful
to die; neither is unmixed misery allowed to mortals, or it would be
painful to live. The Canadian hung his head and looked sad as he
glanced at the sleeping youth, while Pepe put on his buffalo-skin
buskins.

"Well! what did I tell you?" said he, presently; "do you not hear from
afar those howlings--I mean those barkings, for the wolves have voices
like dogs when they hunt the stags. Poor stag! he is, as you said, the
emblem of life in the desert."

"Shall I wake Fabian now?" said Bois-Rose.

"Yes, certainly; for after a love dream a stag hunt is the thing mo