“Not much hurt, I hope?” said Ian, kneeling beside him. “No bones broken?”
“No, I think not; mine leks are fery vell, but I fear mine lunks are gone,” answered the German, untying his belt.
It was found, however, on examination, that the lungs were all right, the bull’s horn having merely grazed the poor man’s ribs. In a few minutes his horse was caught, and he was able to remount, but the trio were now far behind the tide of war, which had swept away by that time to the horizon. They therefore determined to rest content with what they had accomplished and return to camp.
“What a glorious chase!” exclaimed Victor as they rode slowly back; “I almost wish that white men might have the redskin’s heaven and hunt the buffalo for ever.”
“You’d soon grow tired of your heaven,” said Ian, laughing. “I suspect that the soul requires occupation of a higher kind than the pursuing and slaying of wild animals.”
“No doubt you are right, you learned philosopher; but you can’t deny that this has been a most enjoyable burst.”
“I don’t deny anything. I merely controvert your idea that it would be pleasant to go on with this sort of thing for ever.”
“Hah! de more so, ven your back is almost broke and your lunks are goréd.”
“But your ‘lunks’ are not ‘goréd,’” said Victor. “Come, Winklemann, be thankful that you are alive.—By the way, Ian, where are the animals you killed?”
“We are just coming to one. Here it is. I threw my cap down to mark it, and there is another one, a quarter of a mile behind it. We have plenty of meat, you see, and shall be able to quit the camp to-morrow.”