The conversation was suddenly interrupted by the report of Reginald’s rifle, and a grey squirrel fell from the top of a hickory, where he was feasting in fancied security. Baptiste took up the little animal, and having examined it attentively, shook his head gravely, saying, “Master Reginald, there is not a quicker eye, nor a truer hand in the territory, but—“ As he hesitated to finish the sentence, Reginald added, laughing, “but—but—I am an obstinate fellow, because I will not exchange my favourite German rifle, with its heavy bullet, for a long Virginia barrel, with a ball like a pea; is it not so, Baptiste?” The guide’s natural good–humour struggled with prejudices which, on this subject, had been more than once wounded by his young companion, as he replied, “Why, Master Reginald, the deer, whose saddle is on my shoulder, found my pea hard enough to swallow; and look here, at this poor little vermint, whom you have just killed,—there is a hole in his neck big enough to let the life out of a grisly bear; you have hit him nearly an inch further back than I taught you to aim before you went across the great water, and learnt all kinds of British and German notions!” Reginald smiled at the hunter’s characteristic reproof, and replied, in a tone of kindness, “Well, Baptiste, all that I do know of tracking a deer, or lining a bee, or of bringing down one of these little vermint, I learnt first from you; and if I am a promising pupil, the credit is due to Baptiste, the best hunter in forest or prairie!” A glow of pleasure passed over the guide’s sunburnt countenance; and grasping in his hard and horny fingers his young master’s hand, he said, “Thank’ee, Master Reginald; and as for me, though I’m only a poor ‘Coureur des bois,’[3] I a’n’t feared to back my pupil against any man that walks, from Dan Boone, of Kentucky, to Bloody–hand, the great war–chief of the Cayugas.” As he spoke, they came in sight of the river, and the blue smoke curling up among the trees showed our travellers that they had not missed their path to Michael’s log–house and ferry. “What have we here?” exclaimed Baptiste, catching his companion by the arm; “’tis even as I told you; the old rogue is smoking his pipe over a glass of brandy in his kitchen corner; and there is a wild–looking Indian pulling himself across with three horses in that crazy batteau, almost as old and useless as its owner!” “He will scarcely reach the opposite bank,” said Reginald; “the river is muddy and swollen with melted snow, and his horses seem disposed to be unquiet passengers.” They had now approached near enough to enable them to distinguish the features of the Indian in the boat: the guide scanned them with evident surprise and interest; the result of which was, a noise which broke from him, something between a grunt and a whistle, as he muttered, “What can have brought _him_ here?” “Do you know that fine–looking fellow, then?” inquired Reginald.