Now, here is a soup, not especially
satisfying to the taste of a gourmet like yourself, but possessing
the soothing quality that is good for one just aroused from an
unusual nap. I offer it, my son, propter stomachum tuum, et
frequentes tuas infirmitates (on account of thy stomach, and thine
often infirmities). This soup will go to the right spot."
While speaking he brought the hot bowl to Farnsworth and set it on
the bedcover before him, then fetched a big horn spoon.
The fragrance of pungent roots and herbs, blent with a savory waft
of buffalo meat, greeted the Captain's sense, and the anticipation
itself cheered his aching throat. It made him feel greedy and in a
hurry. The first spoonful, a trifle bitter, was not so pleasant at
the beginning, but a moment after he swallowed it a hot prickling
set in and seemed to dart through him from extremity to extremity.
Slowly, as he ate, the taste grew more agreeable, and all the
effects of his debauch disappeared. It was like magic; his blood
warmed and glowed, as if touched with mysterious fire.
"What is this in this soup, Father Beret, that makes it so
searching and refreshing?" he demanded, when the bowl was empty.
Father Beret shook his head and smiled drolly.
"That I cannot divulge, my son, owing to a promise I had to make
to the aged Indian who gave me the secret.
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