The Spaniard shook his head doubtfully, although he partook the ideas of the Canadian, and like him felt the charm of this wandering life.
“Look,” continued the old hunter, “at that troop of wild horses coming down to drink before going for the night to their distant pasturage. See how they approach in all the proud beauty that God gives to free animals—ardent eyes, open nostrils, and floating manes! Ah! I should almost like to awake Fabian in order that he might see and admire them.”
“Let him sleep, Bois-Rose; perhaps his dreams show him more graceful forms than those horses of the desert—forms such as abound in our Spanish towns, in balconies or behind barred windows.”
Bois-Rose sighed, as he added—
“Yet this is fine sight—how these noble beasts bound with joy at their liberty!”
“Yes, until they are chased by the Indians, and then they bound with terror!”
“There! now they are gone like the cloud driven by the wind!” continued the Canadian. “Now the scene changes. Look at that stag, who shows from time to time his shining eyes and black nose through the trees; he snuffs the wind, he listens. Ah! now he also approaches to drink. He has heard a noise, he raises his head; do not the drops that fall from his mouth look like liquid gold? I will wake the lad!”
“Let him sleep, I tell you; perhaps his dream now shows him black eyes and rosy lips, or some nymph sleeping on the banks of a clear stream.”
The old Canadian sighed again.
“Is not the stag the emblem of independence?” said he.