"This kind," I whispered, bending in terrified joy over her shoulder; and I plucked a blossom straight from her lips and another and yet another, till there came into the deep, gray eyes what I cannot transcribe, but what sent me away the king of all men—for had I not found my Queen?
And that was the way I carried out my grand resolution and kept myself in hand.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BUFFALO HUNT
I question if Norse heroes of the sea could boast more thrilling adventure than the wild buffalo hunts of American plain-rangers. A cavalcade of six hundred men mounted on mettlesome horses eager for the furious dash through a forest of tossing buffalo-horns was quite as imposing as any clash between warring Vikings. Squaws, children and a horde of ragged camp-followers straggled in long lines far to the hunters' rear. Altogether, the host behind the flag numbered not less than two thousand souls. Like any martial column, our squad had captain, color-bearer and chaplain. Luckily, all three were known to me, as I discovered when I reached Pembina. The truce, patched up between Hudson's Bay and Nor'-Westers after Governor McDonell's surrender, left Cuthbert Grant free to join the buffalo hunt. Pursuing big game across the prairie was more to his taste than leading the half-breeds during peace. The warden of the plains came hot-foot after us, and was promptly elected captain of the chase. Father Holland was with us too. Our course lay directly on his way to the Missouri and a jolly chaplain he made. In Grant's company came Pierre, the rhymster, bubbling over with jingling minstrelsy, that was the delight of every half-breed camp on the plains. Bareheaded, with a red handkerchief banding back his lank hair, and clad in fringed buckskin from the bright neck-cloth to the beaded moccasins, he was as wild a figure as any one of the savage rabble. Yet this was the poet of the plain-rangers, who caught the song of bird, the burr of cataract through the rocks, the throb of stampeding buffalo, the moan of the wind across the prairie, and tuned his rude minstrelsy to wild nature's fugitive music. Viking heroes, I know, chanted their deeds in songs that have come down to us; but with the exception of the Eskimo, descendants of North American races have never been credited with a taste for harmony. Once I asked Pierre how he acquired his art of verse-making. With a laugh of scorn, he demanded if the wind and the waterfalls and the birds learned music from beardless boys and draggle-coated dominies with armfuls of books. However, it may have been with his Pegasus, his mount for the hunt was no laggard. He rode a knob-jointed, muscular brute, that carried him like poetic inspiration wherever it pleased. Though Pierre's right hand was busied upholding the hunters' flag, and he had but one arm to bow-string the broncho's arching neck, the half-breed poet kept his seat with the easy grace of the plainsman born and bred in the saddle.
"Faith, man, 'tis the fate of genius to ride a fractious steed," said Father Holland, when the bronchos of priest and poet had come into violent collision with angry squeals for the third time in ten minutes.
"And what are the capers of this, my beast, compared to the antics of fate, Sir Priest?" asked Pierre with grave dignity.
The wind caught his long hair and blew it about his face till he became an equestrian personification of the frenzied muse. I had become acquainted with his trick of setting words to the music of quaint rhymes; but Father Holland was taken aback.