“I met these American gentlemen,” now put in Martin, “and when they heard that you had lost your way, and were out of provisions, they were so good as to come and seek you.”

“You be’n’t much used to the prairie, I reckon?” observed the American who had spoken before.

“No, indeed, my friend,” said I.

“I told you a’ready,” replied the man with some degree of pride, “we ain’t your friends; but if you choose to accept American hospitality, you’re welcome.”

We glanced at the Acadians, who were still firing, and dragging the beasts they slaughtered into their boat and to the shore.  They appeared perfect savages, and there was little temptation to seek guidance or assistance at their hands.

“If it is agreeable to you, we will accompany you,” said I to the American, making a step towards the boat.  We were eager to be off, for the heat and smoke were unbearable.  The Yankee answered neither yes nor no.  His attention seemed taken up by the proceedings of the Acadians.

“They’re worse than Injuns,” said he to a young man standing by him.  “They shoot more in an hour than they could eat in a year in their tarnation French wastefulness.”

“I’ve a notion o’ makin’ ’em leave off,” replied the young man.

“The country’s theirs, or their masters’ at least,” rejoined the other.  “I reckon it’s no business of ours.”

This dialogue was carried on with the greatest possible degree of drawling deliberation, and under circumstances in which, certainly, none but a Yankee would have thought of wasting time in words.  A prairie twenty miles long and ten broad, and a couple of miles of palmetto ground, all in a blaze—­the flames drawing nearer every minute, and having, in some places, already reached up to the shores of the creek.  On the other side a couple of dozen wild Acadians firing right and left, without paying the least attention where or whom their bullets struck.  Carelton and myself, up to our waists in water, and the Americans, chatting together as unconcernedly as if they had been sitting under the roofs of their own blockhouses.

“Do you live far from here?” said I at last to the Yankee, rather impatiently.

“Not so far as I sometimes wish,” answered he, with a contemptuous glance at the Acadians, “but far enough to get you an appetite for your supper, if you ain’t got one already.”  And taking a thin roll of tobacco out of his pocket, he bit off a piece of it, laid his hands upon the muzzle of his rifle, leant his chin upon his hands, and seemed to have forgotten all about us.

This apathy became intolerable to men in our situation.

“My good man,” said I, “will you put your hospitable offer into execution, and take——­”

I could not continue, for I was literally suffocated with the heat and smoke.  The very water of the creek was getting warm.

“I’ve a notion,” said the yankee, with his usual drawl, and apparently only just perceiving our distress, “I’ve a notion we had better be movin’ out o’ the way o’ the fire.  Now, strangers, in with you.”  And he helped Carleton and myself into the boat, where we lay down, and became insensible from heat and exhaustion.