While Reginald and his two companions were feasting with Tamenund, a similar repast was laid before the rest of the party, in the lodge of a brave named Maque–o–nah, or the “Bear–asleep,” at which Mike Smith occupied the centre or principal seat, and next to him sat Monsieur Perrot,—the latter personage being very curious to see the culinary arrangements made for this, his first Indian banquet. He was horrified at observing the carelessness with which they thrust half the side of a buffalo to the edge of a huge fire of undried wood, leaving a portion of the meat to be singed and burnt, while other parts were scarcely exposed to the heat: he could not refrain from expressing to one of the Canadian coureurs des bois, in his own language, his contempt and pity for the ignorant savages who thus presumed to desecrate a noble science, which ranked higher, in his estimation, than poetry, painting, or sculpture: but he was warned that he must be very careful neither to reject nor show any distaste for the food set before him, as by so doing he would give mortal offence to his entertainers. It was ludicrous in the extreme to watch the poor Frenchman’s attempts at imparting to his features a smile of satisfaction, when a wooden bowl was placed before him, filled with half–boiled maize, and beside it one of the buffalo–ribs, evidently less favoured by the fire, as it was scarcely warmed through, and was tough and stringy as shoe–leather. After bestowing upon sundry portions of it many fruitless attempts at mastication, he contrived, unperceived, to slip what remained of the meat into the pocket of his jacket, and then laughed with great self–satisfaction at the trick he had played his uncivilised hosts.