Don't you see it
burning?"
"It ain't half done," growled Sorel, in the amiable tone of a whipped
bull-dog.
"It is. Turn it over, I tell you!"
Sorel, a strong, sullen-looking Canadian, who from having spent his
life among the wildest and most remote of the Indian tribes, had
imbibed much of their dark, vindictive spirit, looked ferociously up,
as if he longed to leap upon his bourgeois and throttle him; but he
obeyed the order, coming from so experienced an artist.
"It was a good idea of yours," said I, seating myself on the tongue
of a wagon, "to bring Indian meal with you."
"Yes, yes" said R. "It's good bread for the prairie - good bread for
the prairie. I tell you that's burning again."
Here he stooped down, and unsheathing the silver-mounted hunting-
knife in his belt, began to perform the part of cook himself; at the
same time requesting me to hold for a moment the book under his arm,
which interfered with the exercise of these important functions. I
opened it; it was "Macaulay's Lays"; and I made some remark,
expressing my admiration of the work.
"Yes, yes; a pretty good thing. Macaulay can do better than that
though. I know him very well. I have traveled with him. Where was
it we first met - at Damascus? No, no; it was in Italy."
"So," said I, "you have been over the same ground with your
countryman, the author of 'Eothen'?
