“Presently, I look behind—_ah, miséricorde!_ de grass was carry by de win’ en avant, all in de blaze, and w’ere it fall, it was one new fire _immédiatement_! Den I say to myself, Ah, Jean Moreau, _mon brave_, you will be roast alive, and dere is no help for it—and de beautiful skins will be lost in dis dam fire! _mais_, at de word, something say, not loud out, but softly—‘Quelle sottise! why you not pray, eh? better dan curse!’ Eh bien, good, I say—I will pray! _Mais, I have not any prayers!_ Enfin, je remembre—je dis in de voice haute, ‘Malbrouc s’en va’t’en querre;’ and—what do I see? Oh, quelle joie—de grass not so high, and in de front a short hill! I gallop up—I am on de pieds—I am strike a light—I blow vere softly, den more hard—de grass is in one blaze—de win’ take de fire—de black spot is dere w’ere I stan, and—I am save! Den I feel de heart vere light, I smile at myself—I smile at de horse, I rub my hand, and walk about—eh bien, _I was vere comfortàble_! Presently I look; oh, misericorde! voila—voila de diable—misericorde! and I run to hide, for I was vere much scare; but dere was no place to hide. Den I look agen, and it was not de diable, mais one Ingen vere burn, and on de face in de grass. I make haste, I pull him out ob de fire—dere was one leetle drop in de canteen—ah, ha! dat bring back de life. “Mais w’en de life was com’, he would have lose it _immèdiatement_, if I had not hold on to de horse. ‘Hola!’ I say, ‘you burn your own self, but you not roast _mon cheval—non, non_!’ “Den he look at me hard, and strike his breast, and talk in Ingen. “‘Hist! de chief and his squaw and little one saw de fire yonder. Look! de prairie lies black, and de chief is here, but de squaw and little one are in de belly of de chief’s horse!’ “‘What is dat?’ I cry, bien surpris. ‘Dans son ventre! oh sacre! malheur—quel diable of a horse! Mais, what for you let him eat up your squaw, eh?’ “‘_Non, non!_’ he cry; ‘w’en de fire was vere close, he kills son cheval, and in de skin roll up de squaw, voyez?’ “Ah, dat was better—bien good! j’étais satisfait, moi!” This was the most stirring part of Jean’s narrative, and therefore to save time and patience, I will relate the remainder, not in his but my words. The night was so dark, from the smoke obscuring the sky, that none but an Indian could have found his way back to where Jean had sat composedly, after watching the chief disappear toward the south on the former’s horse. Back he came, however, after the lapse of some hours, with a cheerful whoop, bearing in his arms his wife and child, the green skin having protected them while the fierce element swept over their heads.