“Yes,” replied Bois-Rose, “it was a grand idea, Pepé; in the trouble of my mind I should not have thought of it, and yet it was such a simple thing.”
“Simple ideas are always the last to present themselves,” rejoined Pepé. “But do you know, Bois-Rose,” added he, in a low voice, “it proves that in the desert it is imprudent to venture with one whom you love more than life, since fear for him takes away a man’s senses. I tell you frankly, Bois-Rose, you have not been like yourself.”
“It is true; I scarcely recognise myself,” replied the Canadian, simply; “and yet—”
He did not finish, but fell into a profound reverie, during which, like a man whose body only is present, and his soul absent, he appeared no longer to watch the movements of the island. For the hunter who, during twenty years has lived the free life of the desert, to renounce this life seemed like death; but to renounce the society of Fabian, and the consolation of having his eyes closed by his adopted son, was still worse than death. Fabian and the desert were the two dominant affections of his life, and to abandon either seemed impossible.
His reverie, however, was soon interrupted by Pepé, who had for some minutes been casting uneasy glances towards one of the banks. Through the fog he fancied he could perceive the fantastic forms which trees appear to take in a mist. They looked like indistinct phantoms, covered with long draperies, hanging over the river.
“We are going wrong, Bois-Rose,” said he, “are not those the tops of the willows on the bank?”
“It is true,” cried Bois-Rose, rousing himself; “and by the fires being still visible it is evident how little progress we have made in the last half hour.”
At that moment the island began to move more rapidly, and the trees became more distinct. The hunters looked anxiously at each other. One of the fires was more clearly seen, and they could even distinguish an Indian sentinel in his frightful battle-costume. The long mane of a bison covered his head, and above that waved a plume of feathers. Bois-Rose pointed him out to Pepé, but luckily the fog was so thick that the Indian, rendered himself visible by the fire, near which he stood, could not yet see the island. However, as if an instinct had warned him to be watchful, he raised his head and shook back the flowing hair which ornamented it.
“Can he have any suspicion?” said Bois-Rose.
“Ah! if a rifle made no more noise than an arrow, with what pleasure I should send that human buffalo to mount guard in another world,” replied Pepé.