were a long three
weeks to the old Colonel,--who was troubled with apprehensions that
Hugot would not succeed in his errand. He had written in reply to the
letter of Prince Bonaparte. He had written promising to procure--_if
possible_--a white buffalo-skin--for this was what the Prince's letter
was about;--and not for half what he was worth would the Colonel have
failed to accomplish this object. No wonder, then, he was impatient and
uneasy during Hugot's absence.

Hugot returned at length, after night. The Colonel did not wait until
he entered the house, but met him at the door, candle in hand. He need
not have put any question, as Hugot's face answered that question before
it was asked. The moment the light fell upon it, any one could have
told that Hugot had come back _without the skin_. He looked quite
crest-fallen; and his great moustachios appeared bleached and drooping.

"You have not got it?" interrogated the Colonel, in a faltering voice.

"No, Colonel," muttered Hugot, in reply.

"You tried everywhere?"

"Everywhere."

"You advertised in the papers?"

"In all the papers, monsieur."

"You offered a high price?"

"I did. It was to no purpose. I could not have procured a white
buffalo's skin if I had offered ten times as much. I could not have got
it for a thousand dollars."

"I would give five thousand!"

"It would have been all the same, monsieur. It is not to be had in
Saint Louis."

"What says Monsieur Choteau?"

"That there is but little chance of finding what you want. A man, he
says, may travel all over the prairies without meeting with a _white_
buffalo. The Indians prize them beyond anything, and never let one
escape when they chance to fall in with it. I found two or three among
the fur packs of the traders; but they were not what you desire,
monsieur. They were robes; and even for them a large sum was asked."

"They would be of no use. It is wanted for a different purpose--for a
_great museum_. Ah! I fear I cannot obtain it. If not to be had in
Saint Louis, where else?"

"Where else, papa?" interrupted Francois, who, with his brothers, had
stood listening to the above dialogue. "Where else, but _on the
prairies_?"

"On the prairies!" mechanically echoed his father.

"Yes, papa. Send Basil, and Lucien, and myself. We'll find you a white
buffalo, I warrant you."

"Hurrah, Francois!" cried Basil; "you're right, brother. I was going to
propose the same myself