They were out on the mountain, hunting. Tezcot often went on short excursions of the kind to please Mitla, and it gave him genuine pleasure to do so. Being very kindly disposed, as he was, it afforded him much gratification to make others happy, especially his children. "He's a fine specimen of his kind," he continued, holding the bird up before him, "and will increase your stock of plumage, and, as well, add another feather to your archer's cap." The prize was a most beautiful pheasant; and for a moment Mitla's eyes were bright with excitement, but as she gazed upon the lovely bird, lying dead and bleeding at her feet, where her father had carelessly thrown it, the woman's heart within her was touched with feelings of compunction, and she said: "Father, is it well to kill such beautiful birds? My heart is sad because I have done this." "It's all the same, child, whether the bird is beautiful or ugly; the one suffers equally with the other, when it comes to that," philosophized he. "Hello, Menke! Is that you?" he continued, addressing a hunter, who just then came up to where they were. "Wull, yes, it's me, ef I know myself; an' think I should, for some folks do say that Menke an' me are right sociable," jestingly replied the newcomer, a well known mountaineer hunter, who was much addicted to talking to himself, to which addiction his remark referred. "That ye are, Menke, we all know," answered Tezcot, appreciating the hunter's reference to his peculiar habit, "but it doesn't make ye any less friendly toward the rest of us." "Wull, no; Menke's about the same all over," returned he, and, suddenly changing the subject, continued: "Goin' far up the mountain, Tez?" "Not far. We're only out for a short hunt this morning. Mit, there, enjoys a trip to the mountains occasionally." "Good mornin', Princess," he said to Mitla. "Had any luck, eh?" "Yes, I have one beautiful bird, a pheasant. See! Is it not a pretty one?" she replied, showing him the prize. "Nice bird, Princess. Shot it yerself, eh?" "Certainly, but wish I had not; it is such a lovely bird," she returned, looking sorrowfully at it. "That's the woman of ye, Princess. Women don't make good hunters; they're too squeamish," he observed, rather contemptuously. "You, no doubt, speak truly, Menke; but it is our nature, and we can not help it," she replied, her eyes fixed on the bird with an expression of sadness. Menke turned to Tezcot, and said: "Say, Tez, wish ye'd jine me in a trip across the mountain to-day. Can't do it, eh?" "Not to-day, Menke; it would spoil Mit's sport. Some other day I'll go with you." "All right, Tez; ye know yer own business. The mornin's goin' right fast, an' I'll have to be goin' with it, ef I'd get roun' 'fore night. Good mornin', Princess." "Good morning, and success attend you, Menke," she returned. With a parting word to his friend Tezcot the hunter left them, moving rapidly up the mountain, and was soon lost to view among the timber.