The boy made a respectful obeisance.
“Yes, master,” he replied, in tones that were singularly clear and bell-like, and then he hastened to obey.
Cute smacked his lips.
“Venison-steaks, a-la-mode de Indian!” he exclaimed. “I think I can put myself outside of some without any difficulty.”
“I must confess to being rather sharp set myself,” replied Percy. “That tramp through the thicket, and the lively fight afterward, have freshened up my appetite to a degree.”
“The food will be quickly served,” said the Prophet. “See, Nature spreads her table for us. Come.”
He led the way to a square bowlder that reared its form from the turf beside a little streamlet that went purling by on its way to the river, its clear, crystal water looking cool and refreshing. The Prophet cast himself down beside the rock, and the boys followed his example. As they glanced through the arches of the forest they saw several fires blazing in different directions, and groups of Indians clustered around them. General preparations for a meal were in progress.
The boys were impressed by the romance of the scene, and Cute conveyed his idea of it by exclaiming, rather unpoetically:
“Say, Percy, ain’t this high? You said you would like to see Smoholler, the Prophet, and here we are, invited to take an al fresco dinner with him.”
The Prophet raised himself upon his elbow, and regarded Percy Vere earnestly.