96 CANADIAN NIGHTS 



sheep. I don't think I care for hunting big game 

 with hounds. I'd rather pit my inteUigence and 

 cunning and senses against those of my quarry 

 in a solitary stalk. But the mere mention of 

 mountain sheep opens the flood-gates of memories, 

 and I will tell you more about them some other 

 night if you so please. In the meantime, don't 

 you think it is about time for bed ? I only hope 

 my wapiti-running has not sunk me in your 

 estimation to the level of an inhuman hunter 

 thirsting for blood. Such slaughter, the prairie 

 looking like a battlefield ! I hate it. The hunting 

 instinct is dead in me and I have no lust for 

 blood." 



" But I can understand the wild excitement," 

 I rejoined, " and how the fierce instincts of God 

 knows how many ancestral generations of men 

 living by the chase may under such excitement 

 be evoked ; and you wasted nothing. Had those 

 noble beasts been left to wolves and foxes I could 

 not have forgiven it. But the meat was wanted and 

 was used. That saves your face. Sleep in peace." 



The morning broke clear, hard and cold. Not 

 a shred of cloud, not a breath of soft air from the 

 south gave promise of a change, and we spent a 

 quiet uneventful day. 



