218 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 
power of man; the heavy head plunged awkwardly to 
the ground; a tremulous motion passed through the 
frame—and the wild monarch was dead. 
The momentary seriousness of my own feelings, oc- 
casioned by the incidents above related, was broken in 
upon by a loud exulting whoop, prolonged into a quaver- 
ing sound, such as will sometimes follow a loud blast of 
a trumpet at the mouth of an expert player. 
It was a joyous whoop, and vibrated through our 
hearts—we looked up, and saw just before us a young 
Indian warrior, mounted upon a splendid charger, and 
rushing across the plain, evidently in pursuit of the re- 
treating buffalo. 
As he swept by, he threw himself forward in his sad- 
dle, and placed his right hand over his eyes, as if to 
shade them from the sun, making a picture of the most 
graceful and eager interest. 
His horse carried his head low down, running like a 
rabbit, while the long flowing mane waved in the wind like 
silk. Horse and rider were almost equally undressed ; 
both wiry; and every muscle, as it came into action, 
gave evidence of youth and power. Over the horse’s 
head, and inwrought in the hair of the tail, streamed 
plumes plucked from the gay flamingo. Every thing 
was life—moving, dashing life—gay as the sunshine that 
glistens on the rippling wave where the falcon wets his 
wing. 
This soul-stirring exhibition warmed us into action, 
