“And do you so much crave to outdo me, an old and tried friend?—and that, as it might be, in my own way? Shooting is my gift, boy, and no common hand can equal mine.”
“I know it—I know it, Pathfinder; but yet—”
“But what, Jasper, boy?—speak freely; you talk to a friend.”
The young man compressed his lips, dashed a hand across his eye, and flushed and paled alternately, like a girl confessing her love. Then, squeezing the other's hand, he said calmly, like one whose manhood has overcome all other sensations, “I would lose an arm, Pathfinder, to be able to make an offering of that calash to Mabel Dunham.”
The hunter dropped his eyes to the ground, and as he walked slowly back towards the stand, he seemed to ponder deeply on what he had just heard.
“You never could succeed in the double trial, Jasper!” he suddenly remarked.
“Of that I am certain, and it troubles me.”
“What a creature is mortal man! He pines for things which are not of his gift and treats the bounties of Providence lightly. No matter, no matter. Take your station, Jasper, for the Major is waiting; and harken, lad,—I must touch the skin, for I could not show my face in the garrison with less than that.”
“I suppose I must submit to my fate,” returned Jasper, flushing and losing his color as before; “but I will make the effort, if I die.”
“What a thing is mortal man!” repeated Pathfinder, falling back to allow his friend room to take his arm; “he overlooks his own gifts, and craves those of another!”