The artist’s dark eye sparkled with animation as he hastily shut up his sketch-book and thrust it, with his drawing materials, into a small pocket inside the breast of his coat.
“A grisly bear!” he repeated. “Ha! lead on, good fellow, I will follow.”
Thus urged, Gibault, without further loss of time, led the way to the banks of the river, followed closely by his new friend, who stalked behind him with long ostrich-like strides. The semi-theatrical air of the artist made a deep impression on the trapper. Had Gibault known what a theatrical air was, he might
have been immensely tickled; but, being what he was—an unsophisticated son of the wilderness—he knew nothing about such airs, and therefore regarded his companion in the light of a superior order of being, or a madman; he was not quite sure which.
In a few minutes they emerged from the bushes and came out upon the bank of the river, which at that part was high and precipitous, with few trees, but a considerable quantity of underwood on the slopes.
“Are you sure, friend, that a bear has been seen by you?” inquired the artist.
“Oui; most positavly sure, sair. Ha! an’ here be him’s fut encore. I have lose him in de vood. Now, monsieur, have your pistol ready.”
“Lead on,” returned the artist. “I have longed much for this day. To shoot an individual of this ferocious class has been my ambition— Ho! friend, look here. Yonder object seems like a canoe. Whence comes it, think you? This region, I know, is not very safe. There are Indians who do not love the whites in—”
“No fear, monsieur,” interrupted Gibault, “dat be mine comerades—Good mans an’ true every von. Dey come to land here, I see.”