y rate,
they were soon teaching him their mode of using the most picturesquely
murderous of all weapons, and Black Eagle offered, through the
interpreter, to give him a mustang and a fine wolf-skin. The pony was
declined, the skin accepted, a _quid pro quo_ being bestowed on the
chief in the shape of one of Mr. Ramsay's breech-loaders, a gift that
made the snake eyes glitter. But what earthly return can be made for
some friendly offices? Could a thousand guns be considered as an
adequate payment for the delirious thrill that Mr. Ramsay felt when he
shot an arrow straight through the neck of a big buffalo, and, wheeling,
galloped madly away, like the hero of one of his favorite stories? Was
not the duke, who "knew a thing or two about shooting" and had hunted
the noble bison in Lithuania, almost as much delighted as though he had
done it himself? Is it any wonder that these intoxicating pleasures were
all-sufficient for the time to Mr. Ramsay? Perhaps Thekla would have
been forgotten by her Max, and Romeo would never have sighed and died
for love of Juliet, if those interesting lovers had ceased from wooing
and gone a-hunting of the buffalo instead. Not the most deadly and cruel
pangs of the most unfortunate attachment could have taken away all the
zest from such an occupation, provided they had had what the Mexican
journals call the "_corazon de los sportsmans_." Youth, strength,
courage, skill, exercised in a vagabondage that has all the nomadic
charm without any of its drawbacks, are apt to sponge the old figures
off the slate of life, leaving a teary smear, perhaps, to show where
they have been, and room for fresh problems. At night over the camp-fire
Mr. Ramsay gave a few pensive thoughts to the girl who regularly put two
handkerchiefs under her pillow to receive the tears that welled out
copiously when she was at last alone and unobserved after a day of
virtuous hypocrisy. Poor child! The pain was very real, and the tears
were bitter and salty enough, though they were to be dried in due time.
If he had known of them, perhaps he might have kept awake a little
longer; but when he wasn't sleepy he was hungry, and when he wasn't
hungry he was tired, and when he wasn't tired he was too actively
employed to think of anything but the business in hand. Happily, at
five-and-twenty it is perfectly possible to postpone being miserable
until a more convenient season; and, though he would have denied it
emphatically afterward, h