Chapter One. The Hunter.

On a beautiful summer evening, not many years ago, a man was seen to ascend the side of a little mound or hillock, on the top of which he lingered to gaze upon the wild scenery that lay stretched out before him.

The man wore the leathern coat and leggings of a North American hunter, or trapper, or backwoodsman; and well did he deserve all these titles, for Jasper Derry was known to his friends as the best hunter, the most successful trapper, and the boldest man in the backwoods.

Jasper was big and strong as well as bold, but he was not a bully. Men of true courage are in general peacefully disposed. Jasper could fight like a lion when there was occasion to do so; but he was gentle and grave, and quiet by nature. He was also extremely good-humoured; had a low soft voice, and, both in mind and body, seemed to delight in a state of repose.

We have said that his coat was made of leather; the moccasins or Indian shoes on his feet were made of the same material. When Jasper first put them on they were soft like a glove of chamois leather, and bright yellow; but hard service had turned them into a dirty brown, which looked more business like. The sun had burned his face and hands to as deep a brown as his coat. On his head he wore a little round cap, which he had made with his own hands, after having caught the black fox that supplied the fur, in one of his own traps. A coloured worsted belt bound his coat round his waist, and beneath the coat he wore a scarlet flannel shirt. A long knife and a small hatchet were stuck in the belt at his back, and in front hung a small cloth bag, which was so thickly ornamented with beads of many colours, that little of the cloth could be seen.

This last was a fire-bag—so called because it contained the flint, steel, and tinder required for making a fire. It also contained Jasper’s pipe and tobacco—for he smoked, as a matter of course. Men smoke everywhere—more’s the pity—and Jasper followed the example of those around him. Smoking was almost his only fault. He was a tremendous smoker. Often, when out of tobacco, he had smoked tea. Frequently he had tried bark and dried leaves; and once, when hard pressed, he had smoked oakum. He would rather have gone without his supper than without his pipe! A powder-horn and shot pouch were slung over his shoulders by two cross belts, and he carried a long single-barrelled gun.

I have been thus particular in describing Jasper Derry, because he is our hero, and he is worth describing, being a fine, hearty, handsome fellow, who cared as little for a wild Indian or a grizzly bear as he did for a butterfly, and who was one of the best of companions, as he was one of the best of hunters, in the wilderness.

Having gained the top of the hillock, Jasper placed the butt of his long gun on the ground, and, crossing his hands over the muzzle, stood there for some time so motionless, that he might have been mistaken for a statue. A magnificent country was spread out before him. Just in front lay a clear lake of about a mile in extent, and the evening was so still that every tree, stone, and bush on its margin, was reflected as in a mirror. Here, hundreds of wild ducks and wild geese were feeding among the sedges of the bays, or flying to and fro mingling their cries with those of thousands of plover and other kinds of water-fowl that inhabited the place. At the lower end of this lake a small rivulet was seen to issue forth and wind its way through woods and plains like a silver thread, until it was lost to view in the far distance. On the right and left and behind, the earth was covered with the dense foliage of the wild woods.

The hillock on which the western hunter stood, lay in the very heart of that great uncultivated wilderness which forms part of the British possessions in North America. This region lies to the north of the Canadas, is nearly as large as all Europe, and goes by the name of the Hudson’s Bay Territory, or Rupert’s Land.

It had taken Jasper many long weeks of hard travel by land and water, in canoes and on foot, to get there; and several weeks of toil still lay before him ere he could attain the object for which his journey had been undertaken.

Wicked people say that “woman is at the bottom of all mischief!” Did it never occur to these same wicked individuals, that woman is just as much at the bottom of all good? Whether for good or for evil, woman was at the bottom of Jasper Perry’s heart and affairs. The cause of his journey was love; the aim and end of it was marriage! Did true love ever run smooth? “No, never,” says the proverb. We shall see.

Chapter Two. The Three Friends.

When the hunter had stood for full five minutes gazing at the beautiful scenery by which he was surrounded, it suddenly occurred to him that a pipe would render him much more capable of enjoying it; so he sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, leaned his gun on it, pulled the fire-bag from his belt, and began to fill his pipe, which was one of the kind used by the savages of the country, with a stone head and a wooden stem. It was soon lighted, and Jasper was thinking how much more clear and beautiful a landscape looked through tobacco smoke, when a hand was laid lightly on his shoulder. Looking quickly round, he beheld a tall dark-faced Indian standing by his side.

Jasper betrayed neither alarm nor surprise; for the youth was his own comrade, who had merely come to tell him that the canoe in which they had been travelling together, and which had been slightly damaged, was repaired and ready for service.

“Why, Arrowhead, you steal on me with the soft tread of a fox. My ears are not dull, yet I did not hear your approach, lad.”

A smile lighted up the countenance of the young Indian for a moment, as he listened to a compliment which gratified him much; but the grave expression which was natural to him instantly returned, as he said, “Arrowhead has hunted in the Rocky Mountains where the men are treacherous; he has learned to tread lightly there.”

“No doubt, ye had need to be always on the look out where there are such varmints; but hereaway, Arrowhead, there are no foes to fear, and therefore no need to take yer friends by surprise. But ye’re proud o’ your gifts, lad, an’ I suppose it’s natural to like to show them off. Is the canoe ready?”

The Indian replied by a nod.

“That’s well, lad, it will be sun-down in another hour, an’ I would like to camp on the point of pines to-night; so come along.”

“Hist!” exclaimed the Indian, pointing to a flock of geese which came into view at that moment.

“Ah! you come of a masterful race,” said Jasper, shaking his head gravely, “you’re never content when ye’ve got enough, but must always be killing God’s creatures right and left for pure sport. Haven’t we got one grey goose already for supper, an’ that’s enough for two men surely. Of course I make no account o’ the artist, poor cratur’, for he eats next to nothin’. Hows’ever, as your appetite may be sharper set than usual, I’ve no objection to bring down another for ye.”

So saying the hunter and the Indian crouched behind a bush, and the former, while he cocked his gun and examined the priming, gave utterance to a series of cries so loud and discordant, that any one who was ignorant of a hunter’s ways must have thought he was anxious to drive all the living creatures within six miles of him away in terror. Jasper had no such wish, however. He was merely imitating the cry of the wild geese. The birds, which were at first so far-off that a rifle-ball could not have reached them, no sooner heard the cry of their friends (as they doubtless thought it) than they turned out of their course, and came gradually towards the bush where the two men lay hidden.

The hunter did not cease to cry until the birds were within gunshot. Then he fixed his eye on one of the flock that seemed plump and fat. The long barrel of the gun was quickly raised, the geese discovered their mistake, and the whole flock were thrown into wild confusion as they attempted to sheer off; but it was too late. Smoke and fire burst from the bush, and an enormous grey goose fell with a heavy crash to the ground.

“What have you shot? what have you shot?” cried a shrill and somewhat weak voice in the distance. In another moment the owner of the voice appeared, running eagerly towards the two men.

“Use your eyes, John Heywood, an’ ye won’t need to ask,” said Jasper, with a quiet smile, as he carefully reloaded his gun.

“Ah! I see—a grey swan—no, surely, it cannot be a goose?” said Heywood, turning the bird over and regarding it with astonishment; “why, this is the biggest one I ever did see.”

“What’s yon in the water? Deer, I do believe,” cried Jasper, quickly drawing the small shot from his gun and putting in a ball instead. “Come, lads, we shall have venison for supper to-night. That beast can’t reach t’other side so soon as we can.”

Jasper leaped quickly down the hill, and dashed through the bushes towards the spot where their canoe lay. He was closely followed by his companions, and in less than two minutes they were darting across the lake in their little Indian canoe, which was made of birch-bark, and was so light that one man could carry it easily.

While they are thus engaged I will introduce the reader to John Heywood. This individual was a youth of nineteen or twenty years of age, who was by profession a painter of landscapes and animals. He was tall and slender in person, with straight black hair, a pale haggard-looking face, an excitable nervous manner, and an enthusiastic temperament. Being adventurous in his disposition, he had left his father’s home in Canada, and entreated his friend, Jasper Derry, to take him along with him into the wilderness. At first Jasper was very unwilling to agree to this request; because the young artist was utterly ignorant of everything connected with a life in the woods, and he could neither use a paddle nor a gun. But Heywood’s father had done him some service at a time when he was ill and in difficulties, so, as the youth was very anxious to go, he resolved to repay this good turn of the father by doing a kindness to the son.

Heywood turned out but a poor backwoodsman, but he proved to be a pleasant, amusing companion, and as Jasper and the Indian were quite sufficient for the management of the light canoe, and the good gun of the former was more than sufficient to feed the party, it mattered nothing to Jasper that Heywood spent most of his time seated in the middle of the canoe, sketching the scenery as they went along. Still less did it matter that Heywood missed everything he fired at, whether it was close at hand or far away.

At first Jasper was disposed to look upon his young companion as a poor useless creature; and the Indian regarded him with undisguised contempt. But after they had been some time in his company, the opinions of these two men of the woods changed; for they found that the artist was wise, and well informed on many subjects of which they were extremely ignorant; and they beheld with deep admiration the beautiful and life-like drawings and paintings which he produced in rapid succession.

Such was the romantic youth who had, for the sake of seeing and painting the wilderness, joined himself to these rough sons of the forest, and who now sat in the centre of the canoe swaying his arms about and shouting with excitement as they quickly drew near to the swimming herd of deer.

“Keep yourself still,” said Jasper, looking over his shoulder, “ye’ll upset the canoe if ye go on like that.”

“Give me the axe, give me the axe, I’ll kill him!” cried Heywood.

“Take your pencil and draw him,” observed the hunter, with a quiet laugh. “Now, Arrowhead, two good strokes of the paddle will do—there—so.”

As he spoke the canoe glanced up alongside of an affrighted deer, and in the twinkling of an eye Jasper’s long knife was in its heart, and the water was dyed with blood. This happened quite near to the opposite shore of the lake, so that in little more than half an hour after it was killed the animal was cut up and packed, and the canoe was again speeding towards the upper end of the lake, where the party arrived just as night began to fling its dark mantle over the wilderness.

Chapter Three. The Encampment.

Camping out in the woods at night is truly a delightful thing, and the pleasantest part of it, perhaps, is the lighting of the fire. Light is agreeable to human eyes and cheering to the human heart. Solomon knew and felt that when he penned the words, “A pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun.” And the rising of the sun is scarcely more grateful to the feelings than the lighting of a fire on a dark night. So our friends thought and felt, when the fire blazed up, but they were too busy and too hungry at the time to think about the state of their feelings.

The Indian was hungry. A good fire had to be made before the venison could be roasted, so he gave his whole attention to the felling of dry trees and cutting them up into logs for the fire. Jasper was also hungry, and a slight shower had wetted all the moss and withered grass, so he had enough to do to strike fire with flint and steel, catch a spark on a little piece of tinder, and then blow and coax the spark into a flame.

The artist was indeed free to indulge in a little meditation; but he had stumbled in the dark on landing, and bruised his shins, so he could only sit down on a rock and rub them and feel miserable.

But the fire soon caught; branches were heaped up, great logs were piled on, forked tongues of flame began to leap up and lick the branches of the overhanging trees. The green leaves looked rich and warm; the thick stems looked red and hot; the faces and clothes of the men seemed as if about to catch fire as they moved about the encampment preparing supper. In short, the whole scene was so extremely comfortable, in reality as well as in appearance, that Heywood forgot his bruised shins and began to rub his hands with delight.

In a very short time three juicy venison-steaks were steaming before the three travellers, and in a much shorter time they had disappeared altogether and were replaced by three new ones. The mode of cooking was very simple. Each steak was fixed on a piece of stick and set up before the fire to roast. When one side was ready, the artist, who seemed to have very little patience, began to cut off pieces and eat them while the other side was cooking.

To say truth, men out in those regions have usually such good appetites that they are not particular as to the cooking of their food. Quantity, not quality, is what they desire. They generally feel very much like the Russian, of whom it is said, that he would be content to eat sawdust if only he got plenty of it! The steaks were washed down with tea. There is no other drink in Rupert’s Land. The Hudson’s Bay Company found that spirits were so hurtful to the Indians that they refused to send them into the country; and at the present day there is no strong drink to be had for love or money over the length and breadth of their territories, except at those places where other fur-traders oppose them, and oblige them, in self-defence, to sell fire-water, as the Indians call it.

Tea is the great—the only—drink in Rupert’s Land! Yes, laugh as ye will, ye lovers of gin and beer and whisky, one who has tried it, and has seen it tried by hundreds of stout stalwart men, tells you that the teetotaller is the best man for real hard work.

The three travellers drank their tea and smacked their lips, and grinned at each other with great satisfaction. They could not have done more if it had been the best of brandy and they the jolliest of topers! But the height of their enjoyment was not reached until the pipes were lighted.

It was quite a sight to see them smoke! Jasper lay with his huge frame extended in front of the blaze, puffing clouds of smoke thick enough to have shamed a small cannon. Arrowhead rested his back on the stump of a tree, stretched his feet towards the fire, and allowed the smoke to roll slowly through his nostrils as well as out at his mouth, so that it kept curling quietly round his nose, and up his cheeks, and into his eyes, and through his hair in a most delightful manner; at least so it would seem, for his reddish-brown face beamed with happy contentment.

Young Heywood did not smoke, but he drew forth his sketch-book and sketched his two companions; and in the practice of his beloved art, I have no doubt, he was happier than either.

“I wonder how many trading-posts the Hudson’s Bay Company has got?” said Heywood, as he went on with his work.

“Hundreds of ’em,” said Jasper, pressing the red-hot tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with the end of his little finger, as slowly and coolly as if his flesh were fire-proof. “I don’t know, exactly, how many they’ve got. I doubt if anybody does, but they have them all over the country. You’ve seen a little of the country now, Heywood; well, what you have seen is very much like what you will see as long as you choose to travel hereaway. You come to a small clearing in the forest, with five or six log houses in it, a stockade round it, and a flagstaff in the middle of it; five, ten, or fifteen men, and a gentleman in charge. That’s a Hudson’s Bay Company’s trading-post. All round it lie the wild woods. Go through the woods for two or three hundred miles and you’ll come to another such post, or fort, as we sometimes call ’em. That’s how it is all the country over. Although there are many of them, the country is so uncommon big that they may be said to be few and far between. Some are bigger and some are less. There’s scarcely a settlement in the country worthy o’ the name of a village except Red River.”

“Ah! Red River,” exclaimed Heywood, “I’ve heard much of that settlement—hold steady—I’m drawing your nose just now—have you been there, Jasper?”

“That have I, lad, and a fine place it is, extendin’ fifty miles or more along the river, with fine fields, and handsome houses, and churches, and missionaries and schools, and what not; but the rest of Rupert’s Land is just what you have seen; no roads, no houses, no cultivated fields—nothing but lakes, and rivers, and woods, and plains without end, and a few Indians here and there, with plenty of wild beasts everywhere. These trading-posts are scattered here and there, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from Canada to the Frozen Sea, standin’ solitary-like in the midst of the wilderness, as if they had dropped down from the clouds by mistake and didn’t know exactly what to do with themselves.”

“How long have de Company lived?” inquired Arrowhead, turning suddenly to Jasper.

The stout hunter felt a little put out. “Ahem! I don’t exactly know; but it must have been a long time, no doubt.”

“Oh, I can tell you that,” cried Heywood.

“You?” said Jasper in surprise.

“Ay; the Company was started nearly two hundred years ago by Prince Rupert, who was the first Governor, and that’s the reason the country came to be called Rupert’s Land. You know its common name is ‘the Hudson’s Bay Territory,’ because it surrounds Hudson’s Bay.”

“Why, where did you learn that?” said Jasper, “I thought I knowed a-most everything about the Company; but I must confess I never knew that about Prince Rupert before.”

“I learned it from books,” said the artist.

“Books!” exclaimed Jasper, “I never learned nothin’ from books—more’s the pity. I git along well enough in the trappin’ and shootin’ way without ’em; but I’m sorry I never learned to read. Ah! I’ve a great opinion of books—so I have.”

The worthy hunter shook his head solemnly as he said this in a low voice, more to himself than to his companions, and he continued to mutter and shake his head for some minutes, while he knocked the ashes out of his pipe. Having refilled and relighted it, he drew his blanket over his shoulder, laid his head upon a tuft of grass, and continued to smoke until he fell asleep, and allowed the pipe to fall from his lips.

The Indian followed his example, with this difference, that he laid aside his pipe, and drew the blanket over his head and under his feet, and wrapped it round him in such a way that he resembled a man sewed up in a sack.

Heywood was thus compelled to shut his sketch-book; so he also wrapped himself in his blanket, and was soon sound asleep.

The camp-fire gradually sank low. Once or twice the end of a log fell, sending up a bright flame and a shower of sparks, which, for a few seconds, lighted up the scene again and revealed the three slumbering figures. But at last the fire died out altogether, and left the encampment in such thick darkness that the sharpest eye would have failed to detect the presence of man in that distant part of the lone wilderness.

Chapter Four. Mosquitoes—Camp-Fire Talk.

There is a certain fly in the American forests which is worthy of notice, because it exercises a great influence over the happiness of man in those regions. This fly is found in many other parts of the world, but it swarms in immense numbers in America, particularly in the swampy districts of that continent, and in the hot months of summer. It is called a mosquito—pronounced moskeeto—and it is, perhaps, the most tormenting, the most persevering, savage, vicious little monster on the face of the earth. Other flies go to sleep at night; the mosquito never does. Darkness puts down other flies—it seems to encourage the mosquito. Day and night it persecutes man and beast, and the only time of the twenty-four hours in which it seems to rest is about noon, when the heat puts it down for a little. But this period of rest strengthens it for a renewal of war during the remainder of the day and night. In form the mosquito very much resembles the gnat, but is somewhat larger. This instrument of torture is his nose, which is quite as long as his body, and sharper than the finest needle. Being unable to rest because of the mosquitoes, Heywood resolved to have a chat.

“Come, Jasper,” said he, looking up into his companion’s grave countenance, “although we have been many weeks on this journey now, you have not yet told me what has brought you here, or what the end of your trip is going to be.”

“I’ve come here a-hunting,” said Jasper, with the look and tone of a man who did not wish to be questioned.

“Nay, now, I know that is not the reason,” said Heywood, smiling; “you could have hunted much nearer home, if you had been so minded, and to as good purpose. Come, Jasper, you know I’m your friend, and that I wish you well. Let me hear what has brought you so far into the wilderness—mayhap I can give you some good advice if you do.”

“Well, lad, I don’t mind if I do. Though, for the matter of good advice, I don’t feel much in need of any just at this time.”

Jasper shook the ashes out of his pipe, and refilled it as he spoke; then he shook his head once or twice and smiled, as if his thoughts amused him. Having lighted the pipe, he stretched himself out in a more comfortable way before the blaze, and said—

“Well, lad, I’ll tell ye what it is—it’s the old story; the love of woman has brought me here.”

“And a very good old story it is,” returned Heywood, with a look of interest. “A poor miserable set of creatures we should be without that same love of woman. Come, Jasper, I’m glad to hear you’re such a sensible fellow. I know something about that subject myself. There’s a pretty blue-eyed girl, with golden hair, down away in Canada that—” Heywood stopped short in his speech and sighed.

“Come, it ain’t a hopeless case, is it?” said Jasper, with a look of sympathy.

“I rather fear it is; but I hope not. Ah, what should we do without hope in this world?”

“That’s true,” observed Jasper, with much gravity, “we could not get on at all without hope.”

“But come, Jasper,” said the artist, “let’s hear about your affair, and I’ll tell you about mine some other time.”

“Well, there is not much to tell, but I’ll give ye all that’s of it. You must know, then, that about two years ago I was in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company, at one o’ their outposts in the McKenzie’s River district. We had little to eat there and little to do, and I felt so lonesome, never seein’ a human bein’ except the four or five men at the fort an’ a few Indians, that I made up my mind to quit. I had no reason to complain o’ the Company, d’ye see. They always treated me handsomely, and it was no fault o’ theirs that the livin’ in that district was poor and the post lonesome.

“Well, on my way down to Lake Winnipeg, I fell in with a brigade o’ boats goin’ to the Saskatchewan district, and we camped together that night. One o’ the guides of the Saskatchewan brigade had his daughter with him. The guide was a French-Canadian, and his wife had been a Scotch half-caste, so what the daughter was is more than I can tell; but I know what she looked like. She just looked like an angel. It wasn’t so much that she was pretty, but she was so sweet, and so quiet lookin’, and so innocent! Well, to cut the matter short, I fell in love at once. D’ye know what it is, Heywood, to fall in love at first sight?”

“Oh! don’t I?” replied the artist with sudden energy.

“An’ d’ye know,” continued Jasper, “what it is to be fallen-in-love-with, at first sight?”

“Well, no, I’m not so sure about that,” replied Heywood sadly.

“I do, then,” said Jasper, “for that sweet critter fell in love with me right off—though what she saw in me to love has puzzled me much. Howsoever, she did, and for that I’m thankful. Her name is Marie Laroche. She and I opened our minds to each other that night, and I took the guide, her father, into the woods, and told him I wanted his daughter; and he was agreeable; but he would not hear of my takin’ her away then and there. He told me I must go down to Canada and get settled, and when I had a house to put his daughter in, I was to come back into the wilderness here and be married to her, and then take her home—so here I am on my way to claim my bride. But there’s one thing that puzzles me sorely.”

“What is that?” asked Heywood.

“I’ve never heard from Marie from that day to this,” said Jasper.

“That is strange,” replied the other; “but perhaps she cannot write.”

“That’s true. Now, you speak of it, I do believe she can’t write a line; but, then, she might have got some one to write for her.”

“Did you leave your address with her?”

“How could I, when I had no address to leave?”

“But did you ever send it to her?”

“No, I never thought of that,” said Jasper, opening his eyes very wide. “Come, that’s a comfort—that’s a good reason for never havin’ heard from her. Thankee, lad, for putting me up to it. And, now, as we must be up and away in another hour, I’ll finish my nap.”

So saying, Jasper put out his pipe and once more drew his blanket over him. Heywood followed his example, and while he lay there gazing up at the stars through the trees, he heard the worthy hunter muttering to himself, “That’s it; that accounts for my not hearin’ from her.”

A sigh followed the words, very soon a snore followed the sigh, and ere many minutes had passed away, the encampment was again buried in darkness and repose.

Chapter Five. Journeying in the Wilderness.

It seemed to Heywood that he had not been asleep more than five minutes, when he was aroused by Jasper laying his heavy hand on his shoulder. On rubbing his eyes and gazing round him, he found that the first streak of dawn was visible in the eastern sky, that the canoe was already in the water, and that his companions were ready to embark.

It is usually found that men are not disposed to talk at that early hour. Heywood merely remarked that it was a fine morning, to which Jasper replied by a nod of his head. Nothing more was said. The artist rolled up his blanket in a piece of oiled-cloth, collected his drawing materials and put them into their bag, got into his place in the centre of the canoe, and immediately went to sleep, while Jasper and the Indian, taking their places in the bow and stern, dipped the paddles into the water and shot away from the shore. They looked mysterious and ghostly in the dim morning light; and the whole scene around them looked mysterious and ghostly too, for the water in the lake seemed black, and the shores and islands looked like dark shadows, and a pale thin mist rolled slowly over the surface of the water and hung overhead. No sound was heard except the light plash of the paddles as the two backwoodsmen urged their little canoe swiftly along.

By degrees the light of day increased, and Jasper awakened Heywood in order that he might behold the beautiful scenery through which they passed. They were now approaching the upper end of the lake, in which there were innumerable islands of every shape and size—some of them not more than a few yards in length, while some were two or three hundred yards across, but all were clothed with the most beautiful green foliage and shrubbery. As the pale yellow of the eastern sky began to grow red, ducks and gulls bestirred themselves. Early risers among them first began to chirp, and scream, and whistle their morning song,—for there are lazy ones among the birds, just as there are among men. Sometimes, when the canoe rounded a point of rocks a flock of geese were found floating peacefully among the sedges, sound asleep, with their heads under their wings. These would leap into the air and fly off in great alarm, with much difficulty and tremendous splutter, reminding one of the proverb, “The more haste the less speed.” At other times they would come upon a flock of ducks so suddenly, that they had no time to take wing, so they dived instead, and thus got out of the way.

Then the yellow hue of sunrise came, a good while before the sun himself rose. The last of the bright stars were put out by the flood of light, and multitudes of little birds on shore began to chirp their morning song; and who can say that this was not a hymn of praise to God, when, in the Holy Bible itself, in the 150th Psalm, we find it written, “Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.”

At last the sun burst forth in all his golden glory. Water, earth, and sky glowed as if they had been set on fire. What a blessed influence the sun has upon this world! It resembles the countenance of a loving father beaming in upon his family, driving away clouds, and diffusing warmth and joy.

The birds were now all astir together, insomuch that the air seemed alive with them. There are small white gulls, with red legs and red beaks, in those large inland lakes, just as there are on the ocean. These began to utter their sweet wild cries so powerfully that they almost drowned the noise of all the rest. Yet the united chorus of the whole was not harsh. It was softened and mellowed by distance, and fell on the ears of the two hunters as pleasantly as the finest music does in the ears of men trained to sweet sounds from infancy.

Not until the sun had ascended a considerable way on its course through the sky, did Jasper think it necessary to lay down his paddle. By that time the upper end of the lake had been reached, and the hunter had run the canoe close to a ledge of flat rock and jumped ashore, saying that it was time for breakfast.

“I had almost got to believe I was in paradise,” said Heywood, as he stepped ashore.

“I often think there’s a good deal of the garden of Eden still left in this world,” replied Jasper, as he carried the kettle up to the level part of the rock and began to kindle a fire, while the Indian, as usual, hewed the wood. “If we could only make use of God’s gifts instead of abusin’ them, I do believe we might be very happy all our days.”

“See there, Jasper, is one of the birds I want so much to get hold of. I want to make a drawing of him. Would you object to spend a shot on such game.”

Heywood pointed as he spoke to a grey bird, about the size of a blackbird, which sat on a branch close above his head. This creature is called by the fur-traders a whisky-John, and it is one of the most impudent little birds in the world! Wherever you go throughout the country, there you find whisky-Johns ready to receive and welcome you, as if they were the owners of the soil. They are perfectly fearless; they will come and sit on a branch within a yard of your hand, when you are eating, and look at you in the most inquisitive manner. If they could speak, they could not say more plainly, “What have you got there?—give me some!” If you leave the mouth of your provision sack open they are sure to jump into it. When you are done eating they will scarcely let you six yards away before they make a dash at the crumbs; and if you throw sticks or stones at them, they will hop out of the way, but they will not take to flight!

“It would be a pity to waste powder on them critters,” said Jasper, “but I’ll catch one for you.”

As he said this he took a few crumbs of broken meat from the bottom of the provision sack and spread them on his right hand; then he lay down under a bush, covered his face with a few leaves, and thrust out his hand. Heywood and the Indian retired a few paces and stood still to await the result.

In a few seconds a whisky-John came flying towards the open hand, and alighted on a branch within a yard of it. Here he shook his feathers and looked very bold, but suspicious, for a few minutes, turning first one eye towards the hand, and then the other. After a little he hopped on a branch still nearer, and, seeing no motion in the hand, he at last hopped upon the palm and began to peck the crumbs. Instantly the fingers closed, and Jasper caught him by the toes, whereupon the whisky-John began to scream furiously with rage and terror. But I am bound to say there was more of rage than of terror in his cry.

Jasper handed the passionate bird over to the artist, who tried to make a portrait of him, but he screamed and pecked so fiercely that Heywood was obliged to let him go after making a rough sketch.

Breakfast was a repetition of the supper of the night before; it was soon disposed of, and the three travellers again set forth. This time Jasper sang one of the beautiful canoe songs peculiar to that country, and Heywood and Arrowhead, both of whom had good voices, joined in the chorus.

They soon passed from the lake into the river by which it was fed. At first the current of this river was sluggish; but as they ascended, it became stronger, and was broken here and there by rapids.

The severe toil of travelling in the backwoods now began. To paddle on a level lake all day is easy enough, for, when you get tired, you can lay down the paddle and rest. But in the river this is impossible, because of the current. The only way to get a rest is to push the bow of the canoe ashore. It was a fine sight to see the movements of Jasper and the Indian when they came to the first rapid. Heywood knew that he could be of no use, so, like a wise man, he sat still and looked on.

The rapid was a very strong one, but there were no falls in it; only a furious gush of water over the broken bed of the river, where many large rocks rose up and caught the current, hurling the water back in white foam. Any one who knew not what these hunters could do, would have laughed if you had told him they were about to ascend that rapid in such an egg-shell of a canoe!

They began by creeping up, in-shore, as far as they could. Then they dashed boldly out into the stream, and the current whirled them down with lightning speed, but suddenly the canoe came to a halt in the very middle of the stream! Every rock in a rapid has a long tail of still water below it; the canoe had got into one of these tails or eddies, and there it rested securely. A few yards higher up there was another rock, nearer to the opposite bank, and the eddy which tailed off from it came down a little lower than the rock behind which the canoe now lay. There was a furious gush of water between them and this eddy, but the men knew what the canoe could bear, and their nerves were strong and steady. Across they went like a shot. They were swept down to the extreme point of the eddy, but a few powerful strokes of the paddle sent them into it, and next moment they were floating behind the second rock, a few yards higher up the stream.

Thus they darted from rock to rock, gaining a few yards at each dart, until at last they swept into the smooth water at the head of the rapid.

Many a time was this repeated that day, for rapids were numerous; their progress was therefore slow. Sometimes they came to parts of the river where the stream was very strong and deep, but not broken by rocks, so that they had no eddies to dart into. In such places Arrowhead and Heywood walked along the bank, and hauled the canoe up by means of a line, while Jasper remained in it to steer. This was hard work, for the banks in places were very steep, in some parts composed of soft mud, into which the men sank nearly up to their knees, and in other places covered so thickly with bushes that it was almost impossible to force a path through them. Jasper and the Indian took the steering-paddle by turns, and when Heywood required a rest he got into his place in the middle of the canoe; but they never halted for more than a few minutes at a time. All day they paddled and dragged the canoe slowly up against the strong current, and when night closed in they found they had advanced only three miles on their journey.

The last obstacle they came to that day was a roaring waterfall about thirty feet high. Here, it might have been thought, was an effectual check to them at last. Nothing without wings could have gone up that waterfall, which filled the woods with the thunder of its roar; but the canoe had no wings, so what was to be done?

To one ignorant of the customs of that country, going on would have seemed impossible, but nothing can stop the advance of a backwoods voyager. If his canoe won’t carry him, he carries his canoe! Jasper and his friends did so on the present occasion. They had reached what is called a portage or carrying-place, and there are hundreds of such places all over Rupert’s Land.

On arriving at the foot of the fall, Heywood set off at once to a spot from which he could obtain a good view of it, and sat down to sketch, while his companions unloaded the canoe and lifted it out of the water. Then Jasper collected together as much of the baggage as he could carry, and clambered up the bank with it, until he reached the still water at the top of the fall. Here he laid it down and returned for another load. Meanwhile Arrowhead lifted the canoe with great ease, placed it on his shoulders, and bore it to the same place. When all had been carried up, the canoe was launched into the quiet water a few hundred yards above the fall, the baggage was replaced in it, and the travellers were ready to continue their voyage. This whole operation is called making a portage. It took about an hour to make this portage.

Portages vary in length and in numbers. In some rivers they are few and far between; in others they are so numerous that eight or twelve may have to be made in a day. Many of the portages are not more than an eighth of a mile in length, and are crossed for the purpose of avoiding a waterfall. Some are four or five miles in extent, for many long reaches in the rivers are so broken by falls and rapids, that the voyagers find it their best plan to take canoes and baggage on their backs and cut across country for several miles; thus they avoid rough places altogether.

Jasper delayed starting for half an hour, in order to give Heywood time to finish his sketch of the fall. It began to grow dark when they again embarked, so, after paddling up stream until a convenient place was found, they put ashore and encamped within sight of another waterfall, the roar of which, softened by distance, fell upon their ears all that night like the sound of pleasant music.

Chapter Six. The Outpost.

On the morning of the second day after the events which I have described in the last chapter, our three travellers arrived at one of the solitary outposts belonging to the fur-traders. It stood on the banks of the river, and consisted of four small houses made of logs. It covered about an acre of ground, and its only defence was a wall of wooden posts, about two inches apart, which completely surrounded the buildings.

“This fort is a namesake of mine,” said Jasper, when they first sighted it; “they call it Jasper’s House. I spent a day at it when I was hereaway two years ago.”

“Who is in charge of it?” asked Heywood.

“A gentleman named Grant, I believe,” replied Jasper. “That white painted house in the middle of the square is his. The other house on the right, painted yellow, is where the men live. Mr Grant has only got six men, poor fellow, to keep him company; he seldom sees a new face here from one end of the year to the other. But he makes a trip once a year to the head post of the district with his furs, and that’s a sort of break to him.”

“Are there no women at the place?” inquired the artist.

“Only two,” replied Jasper. “At least there were two when I was here last; they were the wives of two of the men, Indian women they were, with few brains, and little or nothin’ to say; but they were useful critters for all that, for they could make coats, and trousers, and moccasins, and mittens, and they were first-rate cooks, besides bein’ handy at almost every kind o’ work. They could even use the gun. I’ve heard o’ them bringin’ down a wild goose on the wing, when none o’ the men were at hand to let drive at the passing flock. I do believe that’s Mr Grant himself standin’ at the gate o’ the fort.”

Jasper was right. The master of Jasper’s House, a big, hearty-looking man of about five-and-forty, was standing at the gate of his lonely residence, leaning against one of the door-posts, with his hands in his breeches pockets and a short pipe in his mouth. His summer employments had come to an end,—no Indians had been near the place for many weeks, and he happened to have nothing at that time to do but eat, smoke, and sleep; which three occupations he usually attended to with much earnestness. Mr Grant did not observe the canoe approaching from below, for at that time his attention was attracted to something up the river. Suddenly he started, took his pipe from his lips, and, bending forward, listened with deep, earnest attention. A faint murmur came floating down on the breeze, sending a thrill of pleasure to the heart of the solitary man, as well it might, for a new face was a rare sight at Jasper’s House.

At last a loud shout rang through the forest, and five Indian canoes swept round a point of rocks, and came suddenly into view, the men tossing their paddles in the air and sending rainbows of spray over their heads as they made for the landing-place. These were three or four families of Indians, who had come from a long hunting expedition laden with rich furs.

Their canoes, though small and light, could hold a wonderful quantity. In the foremost sat a young savage, with a dark-brown face, glittering black eyes, and stiff black hair hanging straight down all round his head, except in front, where it was cut short off just above the eyes in order to let his face appear. That fellow’s canoe, besides himself, carried his three wives—he was a good hunter, and could afford to have three. Had he been a bad hunter, he would have had to content himself, poor fellow, with one! The canoe also contained six or seven heavy packs of furs; a haunch of venison; six pairs of rabbits; several ducks and geese; a lump of bear’s meat; two little boys and a girl; a large tent made of deer-skins; four or five tin kettles; two or three dirty-looking dogs and a gun; several hatchets and a few blankets; two babies and a dead beaver.

In short, there was almost no end to what that bark canoe could hold; yet that Indian, with the stiff black hair, could lift it off the ground, when empty, lay it on his shoulders, and carry it for miles through the forest. The other canoes were much the same as this one.

In a few minutes they were at the bank, close under the fort, and about the same time Jasper and his friends leaped ashore, and were heartily welcomed by Mr Grant, who was glad enough to see Indians, but was overjoyed to meet with white men.

“Glad to see you, Jasper,” cried Mr Grant, shaking the hunter by the hand; “right glad to see you. It does good to a man to see an old friend like you turn up so unexpectedly. Happy, also, to meet with you, Mr Heywood. It’s a pleasure I don’t often have, to meet with a white stranger in this wilderness. Pray, come with me to the house.”

The fur-trader turned to the Indians, and, saying a few words to them in their own language, led the way to his residence.

Meanwhile, the Indians had tossed everything out of the canoes upon the bank, and the spot which had been so quiet and solitary half an hour before, became a scene of the utmost animation and confusion. While the women were employed in erecting the tents, the men strode up to the hall of reception, where Mr Grant supplied them with tobacco and food to their hearts’ content.

These natives, who, owing to the reddish copper-colour of their skins, are called red-men,—were dressed chiefly in clothes made of deer-skin; cut much in the same fashion as the garments worn by Jasper Derry. The women wore short gowns, also made of leather, and leggings of the same material; but it was noticeable that the women had leggings more ornamented with gay beads than those of the men, and they wore gaudy kerchiefs round their necks.

These women were poor looking creatures, however. They had a subdued, humble look, like dogs that are used to being kicked; very different from the bold free bearing of the men. The reason of this was, that they were treated by the men more as beasts of burden than companions. Women among the North American Indians have a hard time of it, poor creatures. While their lords and masters are out at the chase, or idly smoking round the fire, the Indian women are employed in cutting firewood and drawing water. Of course, they do all the cooking, and, as the eating always continues, so the cooking never stops. When these more severe labours are over, they employ their time in making and ornamenting coats, leggings, and moccasins—and very beautiful work they can turn out of their hands. On the voyage, the women use the paddle as well as the men, and, in journeying through the woods, they always carry or drag the heaviest loads. For all this they get few thanks, and often when the husbands become jealous, they get severely beaten and kicked.

It is always thus among savages; and it would seem that, just in proportion as men rise from the savage to the civilised state, they treat their women better. It is certain that when man embraces the blessed gospel of Christ and learns to follow the law of love, he places woman not only on a level with himself, but even above himself, and seeks her comfort and happiness before he seeks his own.

Few of the Red-men of North America are yet Christians, therefore they have no gallantry about them—no generous and chivalrous feelings towards the weaker sex. Most of their women are downtrodden and degraded.

The first night at Jasper’s House was spent in smoking and talking. Here our friend Jasper Derry got news of Marie. To his immense delight he learned that she was well, and living with her father at Fort Erie, near the plains, or prairies as they are called, on the Saskatchewan River. A long journey still lay before our bold hunter, but that was nothing to him. He felt quite satisfied to hear that the girl of his heart was well, and still unmarried.

Next day the serious business of trading commenced at the outpost.

“I should like to get that powder and ball before you begin to trade with the Indians, Mr Grant,” said Jasper, after breakfast was concluded, “I’m anxious to be off as soon as possible.”

“No, no, Jasper, I’ll not give you a single charge of powder or an ounce of lead this day. You must spend another night with me, my man; I have not had half my talk out with you. You have no need to hurry, for Marie does not know you are coming, so of course she can’t be impatient.”

Mr Grant said this with a laugh, for he knew the state of Jasper’s heart, and understood why he was so anxious to hasten away.

“Besides,” continued the fur-trader, “Mr Heywood has not half finished the drawing of my fort, which he began yesterday, and I want him to make me a copy of it.”

“I shall be delighted to do so,” said the artist, who was busily engaged in arranging his brushes and colours.

“Well, well,” cried Jasper. “I suppose I must submit. I fancy you have no objection to stop here another day, Arrowhead?”

The Indian nodded gravely, as he squatted down on the floor and began to fill his pipe.

“That’s settled, then,” said Jasper, “so I’ll go with you to the store, if you’ll allow me.”

“With all my heart,” replied the fur-trader, who forthwith led the way to the store, followed by the Indians with their packs of furs.

Now, the store or shop at a Hudson’s Bay trading-post is a most interesting and curious place. To the Indian, especially, it is a sort of enchanted chamber, out of which can be obtained everything known under the sun. As there can be only one shop or store at a trading-post, it follows that that shop must contain a few articles out of almost every other style of shop in the world. Accordingly, you will find collected within the four walls of that little room, knives and guns from Sheffield, cotton webs from Manchester, grindstones from Newcastle, tobacco from Virginia, and every sort of thing from I know not where all! You can buy a blanket or a file, an axe or a pair of trousers, a pound of sugar or a barrel of nails, a roll of tobacco or a tin kettle,—everything, in short, that a man can think of or desire. And you can buy it, too, without money! Indeed, you must buy it without money, for there is not such a thing as money in the land.

The trade is carried on entirely by barter, or exchange. The Indian gives the trader his furs, and the trader gives him his goods. In order to make the exchange fair and equitable, however, everything is rated by a certain standard of value, which is called a made-beaver in one part of the country, a castore in another.

The first man that stepped forward to the counter was a chief. A big, coarse-looking, disagreeable man, but a first-rate hunter. He had two wives in consequence of his abilities, and the favourite wife now stood at his elbow to prompt, perhaps to caution, him. He threw down a huge pack of furs, which the trader opened, and examined with care, fixing the price of each skin, and marking it down with a piece of chalk on the counter as he went along.

There were two splendid black bear-skins, two or three dozen martens, or sables, five or six black foxes, and a great many silver foxes, besides cross and red ones. In addition to these, he had a number of minks and beaver-skins, a few otters, and sundry other furs, besides a few buffalo and deer-skins, dressed, and with the hair scraped off. These last skins are used for making winter coats, and also moccasins for the feet.

After all had been examined and valued, the whole was summed up, and a number of pieces of stick were handed to the chief—each stick representing a castore; so that he knew exactly how much he was worth, and proceeded to choose accordingly.

First he gazed earnestly at a huge thick blanket, then he counted his sticks, and considered. Perhaps the memory of the cold blasts of winter crossed his mind, for he quickly asked how many castores it was worth. The trader told him. The proper number of pieces of stick were laid down, and the blanket was handed over. Next a gun attracted his eye. The guns sent out for the Indian trade are very cheap ones, with blue barrels and red stocks. They shoot pretty well, but are rather apt to burst. Indeed this fate had befallen the chief’s last gun, so he resolved to have another, and bought it. Then he looked earnestly for some time at a tin kettle. Boiled meat was evidently in his mind; but at this point his squaw plucked him by the sleeve. She whispered in his ear. A touch of generosity seemed to come over him, for he pointed to a web of bright scarlet cloth. A yard of this was measured off, and handed to his spouse, whose happiness for the moment was complete—for squaws in Rupert’s Land, like the fair sex in England, are uncommonly fond of finery.

As the chief proceeded, he became more cautious and slow in his choice. Finery tempted him on the one hand, necessaries pressed him on the other, and at this point the trader stepped in to help him to decide; he recommended, warned, and advised. Twine was to be got for nets and fishing-lines, powder and shot, axes for cutting his winter firewood, cloth for his own and his wife’s leggings, knives, tobacco, needles, and an endless variety of things, which gradually lessened his little pile of sticks, until at last he reached the sticking point, when all his sticks were gone.

“Now, Darkeye,” (that was the chief’s name), “you’ve come to the end at last, and a good thing you have made of it this year,” said Mr Grant, in the Indian language. “Have you got all you want?”

“Darkeye wants bullets,” said the chief.

“Ah, to be sure. You shall have a lot of these for nothing, and some tobacco too,” said the trader, handing the gifts to the Indian.

A look of satisfaction lighted up the chief’s countenance as he received the gifts, and made way for another Indian to open and display his pack of furs. But Jasper was struck by a peculiar expression in the face of Darkeye. Observing that he took up one of the bullets and showed it to another savage, our hunter edged near him to overhear the conversation.

“Do you see that ball?” said the chief, in a low tone.

The Indian to whom he spoke nodded.

“Look here!”

Darkeye put the bullet into his mouth as he spoke, and bit it until his strong sharp teeth sank deep into the lead; then, holding it up, he said, in the same low voice, “You will know it again?”

Once more the savage nodded, and a malicious smile played on his face for a moment.

Just then Mr Grant called out, “Come here, Jasper, tell me what you think this otter-skin is worth.”

Jasper’s curiosity had been aroused by the mysterious conduct of Darkeye, and he would have given a good deal to have heard a little more of his conversation; but, being thus called away, he was obliged to leave his place, and soon forgot the incident.

During the whole of that day the trading of furs was carried on much as I have now described it. Some of the Indians had large packs, and some had small, but all of them had sufficient to purchase such things as were necessary for themselves and their families during the approaching winter; and as each man received from Mr Grant a present of tobacco, besides a few trinkets of small value, they returned to the Hall that night in high good humour.

Next day, Jasper and his friends bade the hospitable trader farewell, and a few days after that the Indians left him. They smoked a farewell pipe, then struck their tents, and placed them and their packs of goods in the canoes, with their wives, children, and dogs. Pushing out into the stream, they commenced the return journey to their distant hunting-grounds. Once more their shouts rang through the forest, and rolled over the water, and once more the paddles sent the sparkling drops into the air as they dashed ahead, round the point of rocks above the fort, and disappeared; leaving the fur-trader, as they found him, smoking his pipe, with his hands in his pockets, and leaning against the door-post of his once-again silent and solitary home.

Chapter Seven. A Savage Family, and a Fight with a Bear.

About a week after our travellers left the outpost, Arrowhead had an adventure with a bear, which had well-nigh cut short his journey through this world, as well as his journey in the wilderness of Rupert’s Land.

It was in the evening of a beautiful day when it happened. The canoe had got among some bad rapids, and, as it advanced very slowly, young Heywood asked to be put on shore, that he might walk up the banks of the river, which were very beautiful, and sketch.

In half an hour he was far ahead of the canoe. Suddenly, on turning round a rocky point, he found himself face to face with a small Indian boy. It is probable that the little fellow had never seen a white man before, and it is certain that Heywood had never seen such a specimen of a brown boy. He was clothed in skin, it is true, but it was the skin in which he had been born, for he had not a stitch of clothing on his fat little body.

As the man and the boy stood staring at each other, it would have been difficult to say which opened his eyes widest with amazement. At first Heywood fancied the urchin was a wild beast of some sort on two legs, but a second glance convinced him that he was a real boy. The next thought that occurred to the artist was, that he would try to sketch him, so he clapped his hand to his pocket, pulled out his book and pencil, and forthwith began to draw.

This terrified the little fellow so much, that he turned about and fled howling into the woods. Heywood thought of giving chase, but a noise attracted his attention at that moment, and, looking across the river, he beheld the boy’s father in the same cool dress as his son. The man had been fishing, but when he saw that strangers were passing, he threw his blanket round him, jumped into his canoe, and crossed over to meet them.

This turned out to be a miserably poor family of Indians, consisting of the father, mother, three girls, and a boy, and a few ill-looking dogs. They all lived together in a little tent or wigwam, made partly of skins and partly of birch-bark. This tent was shaped like a cone. The fire was kindled inside, in the middle of the floor. A hole in the side served for a door, and a hole in the top did duty for window and chimney. The family kettle hung above the fire, and the family circle sat around it. A dirtier family and filthier tent one could not wish to see. The father was a poor weakly man and a bad hunter; the squaw was thin, wrinkled, and very dirty, and the children were all sickly-looking, except the boy before mentioned, who seemed to enjoy more than his fair share of health and rotundity.

“Have ye got anything to eat?” inquired Jasper, when the canoe reached the place.

They had not got much, only a few fish and an owl.

“Poor miserable critters,” said Jasper, throwing them a goose and a lump of venison; “see there—that’ll keep the wolf out o’ yer insides for some time. Have ye got anything to smoke?”

No, they had nothing to smoke but a few dried leaves.

“Worse and worse,” cried Jasper, pulling a large plug of tobacco from the breast of his coat; “here, that’ll keep you puffin’ for a short bit, anyhow.”

Heywood, although no smoker himself, carried a small supply of tobacco just to give away to Indians, so he added two or three plugs to Jasper’s gift, and Arrowhead gave the father a few charges of powder and shot. They then stepped into their canoe, and pushed off with that feeling of light hearted happiness which always follows the doing of a kind action.

“There’s bears up the river,” said the Indian, as they were leaving.

“Have ye seen them?” inquired Jasper.

“Ay, but could not shoot—no powder, no ball. Look out for them!”

“That will I,” replied the hunter, and in another moment the canoe was out among the rapids again, advancing slowly up the river.

In about an hour afterwards they came to a part of the river where the banks were high and steep. Here Jasper landed to look for the tracks of the bears. He soon found these, and as they appeared to be fresh, he prepared to follow them up.

“We may as well encamp here,” said he to Arrowhead; “you can go and look for the bears. I will land the baggage, and haul up the canoe, and then take my gun and follow you. I see that our friend Heywood is at work with his pencil already.”

This was true. The keen artist was so delighted with the scene before him, that the moment the canoe touched the land he had jumped out, and, seating himself on the trunk of a fallen tree, with book and pencil, soon forgot everything that was going on around him.

Arrowhead shouldered his gun and went away up the river. Jasper soon finished what he had to do, and followed him, leaving Heywood seated on the fallen tree.

Now the position which Heywood occupied was rather dangerous. The tree lay on the edge of an overhanging bank of clay, about ten feet above the water, which was deep and rapid at that place. At first the young man sat down on the tree-trunk near its root, but after a time, finding the position not quite to his mind, he changed it, and went close to the edge of the bank. He was so much occupied with his drawing, that he did not observe that the ground on which his feet rested actually overhung the stream. As his weight rested on the fallen tree, however, he remained there safe enough and busy for half an hour.

At the end of that time he was disturbed by a noise in the bushes. Looking up, he beheld a large brown bear coming straight towards him. Evidently the bear did not see him, for it was coming slowly and lazily along, with a quiet meditative expression on its face. The appearance of the animal was so sudden and unexpected, that poor Heywood’s heart almost leaped into his mouth. His face grew deadly pale, his long hair almost rose on his head with terror, and he was utterly unable to move hand or foot.

In another moment the bear was within three yards of him, and, being taken by surprise, it immediately rose on its hind legs, which is the custom of bears when about to make or receive an attack. It stared for a moment at the horrified artist.

Let not my reader think that Heywood’s feelings were due to cowardice. The bravest of men have been panic-stricken when taken by surprise. The young man had never seen a bear before, except in a cage, and the difference between a caged and a free bear is very great. Besides, when a rough-looking monster of this kind comes unexpectedly on a man who is unarmed, and has no chance of escape, and rises on its hind legs, as if to let him have a full view of its enormous size, its great strength, and its ugly appearance, he may well be excused for feeling a little uncomfortable, and looking somewhat uneasy.

When the bear rose, as I have said, Heywood’s courage returned. His first act was to fling his sketch-book in Bruin’s face, and then, uttering a loud yell, he sprang to his feet, intending to run away. But the violence of his action broke off the earth under his feet. He dropt into the river like a lump of lead, and was whirled away in a moment!

What that bear thought when it saw the man vanish from the spot like a ghost, of course I cannot tell. It certainly looked surprised, and, if it was a bear of ordinary sensibility, it must undoubtedly have felt astonished. At any rate, after standing there, gazing for nearly a minute in mute amazement at the spot where Heywood had disappeared, it let itself down on its forelegs, and, turning round, walked slowly back into the bushes.

Poor Heywood could not swim, so the river did what it pleased with him. After sweeping him out into the middle of the stream, and rolling him over five or six times, and whirling him round in an eddy close to the land, and dragging him out again into the main current, and sending him struggling down a rapid, it threw him at last, like a bundle of old clothes, on a shallow, where he managed to get on his feet, and staggered to the shore in a most melancholy plight. Thereafter he returned to the encampment, like a drowned rat, with his long hair plastered to his thin face, and his soaked garments clinging tightly to his slender body. Had he been able to see himself at that moment, he would have laughed, but, not being able to see himself, and feeling very miserable, he sighed and shuddered with cold, and then set to work to kindle a fire and dry himself.

Meanwhile the bear continued its walk up the river. Arrowhead, after a time, lost the track of the bear he was in search of, and, believing that it was too late to follow it up farther that night, he turned about, and began to retrace his steps. Not long after that, he and the bear met face to face. Of course, the Indian’s gun was levelled in an instant, but the meeting was so sudden, that the aim was not so true as usual, and, although the ball mortally wounded the animal, it did not kill him outright.

There was no time to re-load, so Arrowhead dropped his gun and ran. He doubled as he ran, and made for the encampment; but the bear ran faster. It was soon at the Indian’s heels. Knowing that farther flight was useless, Arrowhead drew the hatchet that hung at his belt, and, turning round, faced the infuriated animal, which instantly rose on its hind legs and closed with him.

The Indian met it with a tremendous blow of his axe, seized it by the throat with his left hand, and endeavoured to repeat the blow. (See frontispiece.) But brave and powerful though he was, the Indian was like a mere child in the paw of the bear. The axe descended with a crash on the monster’s head, and sank into its skull. But bears are notoriously hard to kill. This one scarcely seemed to feel the blow. Next instant Arrowhead was down, and, with its claws fixed in the man’s back, the bear held him down, while it began to gnaw the fleshy part of his left shoulder.

No cry escaped from the prostrate hunter. He determined to lie perfectly still, as if he were dead, that being his only chance of escape; but the animal was furious, and there is little doubt that the Indian’s brave spirit would soon have fled, had not God mercifully sent Jasper Derry to his relief.

That stout hunter had been near at hand when the shot was fired. He at once ran in the direction whence the sound came, and arrived on the scene of the struggle just as Arrowhead fell. Without a moment’s hesitation he dropt on one knee, took a quick but careful aim and fired. The ball entered the bear’s head just behind the ear and rolled it over dead!

Arrowhead’s first act on rising was to seize the hand of his deliverer, and in a tone of deep feeling exclaimed, “My brother!”

“Ay,” said Jasper with a quiet smile, as he reloaded his gun; “this is not the first time that you and I have helped one another in the nick of time, Arrowhead; we shall be brothers, and good friends to boot, I hope, as long as we live.”

“Good,” said the Indian, a smile lighting up for one moment his usually grave features.

“But my brother is wounded, let me see,” said Jasper.

“It will soon be well,” said the Indian carelessly, as he took off his coat and sat down on the bank, while the white hunter examined his wounds.

This was all that was said on the subject by these two men. They were used to danger in every form, and had often saved each other from sudden death. The Indian’s wounds, though painful, were trifling. Jasper dressed them in silence, and then, drawing his long hunting knife, he skinned and cut up the bear, while his companion lay down on the bank, smoked his pipe, and looked on. Having cut off the best parts of the carcass for supper, the hunters returned to the canoe, carrying the skin along with them.

Chapter Eight. Running the Falls—Wild Scenes and Men.

Next day the travellers reached one of those magnificent lakes of which there are so many in the wild woods of North America, and which are so like to the great ocean itself, that it is scarcely possible to believe them to be bodies of fresh water until they are tasted.

The largest of these inland seas is the famous Lake Superior, which is so enormous in size that ships can sail on its broad bosom for several days out of sight of land. It is upwards of three hundred miles long, and about one hundred and fifty broad. A good idea of its size may be formed from the fact, that it is large enough to contain the whole of Scotland, and deep enough to cover her highest hills!

The lake on which the canoe was now launched, although not so large as Superior, was, nevertheless, a respectable body of water, on which the sun was shining as if on a shield of bright silver. There were numbers of small islets scattered over its surface; some thickly wooded to the water’s edge, others little better than bare rocks. Crossing this lake they came to the mouth of a pretty large stream and began to ascend it. The first thing they saw on rounding a bend in the stream was an Indian tent, and in front of this tent was an Indian baby, hanging from the branch of a tree.

Let not the reader be horrified. The child was not hanging by the neck, but by the handle of its cradle, which its mother had placed there, to keep her little one out of the way of the dogs. The Indian cradle is a very simple contrivance. A young mother came out of the tent with her child just as the canoe arrived, and began to pack it in its cradle. Jasper stopped for a few minutes to converse with one of the Indians, so that the artist had a good opportunity of witnessing the whole operation.

The cradle was simply a piece of flat board, with a bit of scarlet cloth fastened down each side of it. First of all, the mother laid the poor infant, which was quite naked, sprawling on the ground. A dirty-looking dog took advantage of this to sneak forward and smell at it, whereupon the mother seized a heavy piece of wood, and hit the dog such a rap over the nose as sent it away howling. Then she spread a thick layer of soft moss on the wooden board. Above this she laid a very neat, small blanket, about two feet in length. Upon this she placed the baby, which objected at first to go to bed, squalled a good deal, and kicked a little. The mother therefore took it up, turned it over, gave it one or two hearty slaps, and laid it down again.

This seemed to quiet it, for it afterwards lay straight out, and perfectly still, with its coal-black eyes staring out of its fat brown face, as if it were astonished at receiving such rough treatment. The mother next spread a little moss over the child, and above that she placed another small blanket, which she folded and tucked in very comfortably, keeping the little one’s arms close to its sides, and packing it all up, from neck to heels, so tightly that it looked more like the making up of a parcel than the wrapping up of a child. This done, she drew the scarlet cloth over it from each side of the cradle, and laced it down the front. When all was done, the infant looked like an Egyptian mummy, nothing but the head being visible.

The mother then leaned the cradle against the stem of a tree, and immediately one of the dogs ran against it, and knocked it over. Luckily, there was a wooden bar attached to the cradle, in front of the child’s face, which bar is placed there on purpose to guard against injury from such accidents, so that the bar came first to the ground, and thus prevented the flattening of the child’s nose, which, to say truth, was flat enough already!

Instead of scolding herself for her own carelessness, the Indian mother scolded the dog, and then hung the child on the branch of a tree, to keep it from further mischief.

The next turn in the river revealed a large waterfall, up which it was impossible to paddle, so they prepared to make a portage. Before arriving at the foot of it, however, Jasper landed Heywood, to enable him to make a sketch, and then the two men shoved off, and proceeded to the foot of the fall.

They were lying there in an eddy, considering where was the best spot to land, when a loud shout drew their attention towards the rushing water. Immediately after, a boat was seen to hover for a moment on the brink of the waterfall. This fall, although about ten or fifteen feet high, had such a large body of water rushing over it, that the river, instead of falling straight down, gushed over in a steep incline. Down this incline the boat now darted with the speed of lightning. It was full of men, two of whom stood erect, the one in the bow, the other in the stern, to control the movements of the boat.

For a few seconds there was deep silence. The men held their breath as the boat leaped along with the boiling flood. There was a curling white wave at the foot of the fall. The boat cut through this like a knife, drenching her crew with spray. Next moment she swept round into the eddy where the canoe was floating, and the men gave vent to a loud cheer of satisfaction at having run the fall in safety.

But this was not the end of that exciting scene. Scarcely had they gained the land, when another boat appeared on the crest of the fall. Again a shout was given and a dash made. For one moment there was a struggle with the raging flood, and then a loud cheer as the second boat swept into the eddy in safety. Then a third and a fourth boat went through the same operation, and before the end of a quarter of an hour, six boats ran the fall. The bay at the foot of it, which had been so quiet and solitary when Jasper and his friends arrived, became the scene of the wildest confusion and noise, as the men ran about with tremendous activity, making preparations to spend the night there.

Some hauled might and main at the boats; some carried up the provisions, frying-pans, and kettles; others cut down dry trees with their axes, and cut them up into logs from five to six feet long, and as thick as a man’s thigh. These were intended for six great fires, each boat’s crew requiring a fire to themselves.

While this was going on, the principal guides and steersmen crowded round our three travellers, and plied them with questions; for it was so unusual to meet with strangers in that far-off wilderness, that a chance meeting of this kind was regarded as quite an important event.

“You’re bound for York Fort, no doubt,” said Jasper, addressing a tall handsome man of between forty and fifty, who was the principal guide.

“Ay, that’s the end of our journey. You see we’re taking our furs down to the coast. Have you come from York Fort, friend!”

“No, I’ve come all the way from Canada,” said Jasper, who thereupon gave them a short account of his voyage.

“Well, Jasper, you’ll spend the night with us, won’t you?” said the guide.

“That will I, right gladly.”

“Come, then, I see the fires are beginning to burn. We may as well have a pipe and a chat while supper is getting ready.”

The night was now closing in, and the scene in the forest, when the camp-fires began to blaze, was one of the most stirring and romantic sights that could be witnessed in that land. The men of the brigade were some of them French-Canadians, some natives of the Orkney Islands, who had been hired and sent out there by the Hudson’s Bay Company, others were half-breeds, and a few were pure Indians. They were all dressed in what is called voyageur costume-coats or capotes of blue or grey cloth, with hoods to come over their heads at night, and fastened round their waists with scarlet worsted belts; corduroy or grey trousers, gartered outside at the knees, moccasins, and caps. But most of them threw off their coats, and appeared in blue and red striped cotton shirts, which were open at the throat, exposing their broad, sun-burned, hairy chests. There was variety, too, in the caps—some had Scotch bonnets, others red nightcaps, a few had tall hats, ornamented with gold and silver cords and tassels, and a good many wore no covering at all except their own thickly-matted hair. Their faces were burned to every shade of red, brown, and black, from constant exposure, and they were strong as lions, wild as zebras, and frolicksome as kittens.

It was no wonder, then, that Heywood got into an extraordinary state of excitement and delight as he beheld these wild, fine-looking men smoking their pipes and cooking their suppers, sitting, lying, and standing, talking and singing, and laughing, with teeth glistening and eyes glittering in the red blaze of the fires—each of which fires was big enough to have roasted a whole ox!

The young artist certainly made good use of his opportunity. He went about from fire to fire, sketch-book in hand, sketching all the best-looking men in every possible attitude, sometimes singly, and sometimes in groups of five or six. He then went to the farthest end of the encampment, and, in the light of the last fire, made a picture of all the rest.

The kettles were soon steaming. These hung from tripods erected over the fires. Their contents were flour and pemmican, made into a thick soup called Rubbiboo.

As pemmican is a kind of food but little known in this country, I may as well describe how it is made. In the first place, it consists of buffalo meat. The great plains, or prairies, of America, which are like huge downs or commons hundreds of miles in extent, afford grass sufficient to support countless herds of deer, wild horses, and bisons. The bisons are called by the people there buffaloes. The buffalo is somewhat like an enormous ox, but its hind-quarters are smaller and its fore-quarters much larger than those of the ox. Its hair is long and shaggy, particularly about the neck and shoulders, where it becomes almost a mane. Its horns are thick and short, and its look is very ferocious, but it is in reality a timid creature, and will only turn to attack a man when it is hard pressed and cannot escape. Its flesh is first-rate for food, even better than beef, and there is a large hump on its shoulder, which is considered the best part of the animal.

Such is the bison, or buffalo, from which pemmican is made.

When a man wishes to make a bag of pemmican, he first of all kills the buffalo—not an easy thing to do by any means, for the buffalo runs well. Having killed him, he skins him and cuts up the meat—also a difficult thing to do, especially if one is not used to that sort of work. Then he cuts the meat into thin layers, and hangs it up to dry. Dried meat will keep for a long time. It is packed up in bales and sent about that country to be used as food. The next thing to be done is to make a bag of the raw hide of the buffalo. This is done with a glover’s needle, the raw sinews of the animal being used instead of thread. The bag is usually about three feet long, and eighteen inches broad, and the hair is left on the outside of it. A huge pot is now put on the fire, and the fat of the buffalo is melted down. Then the dried meat is pounded between two stones, until it is torn and broken up into shreds, after which it is put into the bag, the melted fat is poured over it, and the whole is well mixed. The last operation is to sew up the mouth of the bag and leave it to cool, after which the pemmican is ready for use.

In this state a bag of pemmican will keep fresh and good for years. When the search was going on in the polar regions for the lost ships of Sir John Franklin, one of the parties hid some pemmican in the ground, intending to return and take it up. They returned home, however, another way. Five years later some travellers discovered this pemmican, and it was found, at that time, to be fit for food. Pemmican is extensively used throughout Rupert’s Land, especially during summer, for at that season the brigades of boats start from hundreds of inland trading-posts to take the furs to the coast for shipment to England, and pemmican is found to be not only the best of food for these hard-working men, but exceedingly convenient to carry.

Supper finished, the wild-looking fellows of this brigade took to their pipes, and threw fresh logs on the fires, which roared, and crackled, and shot up their forked tongues of flame, as if they wished to devour the forest. Then the song and the story went round, and men told of terrible fights with the red-men of the prairies, and desperate encounters with grizzly bears in the Rocky Mountains, and narrow escapes among the rapids and falls, until the night was half spent. Then, one by one, each man wrapped himself in his blanket, stretched himself on the ground with his feet towards the fire and his head pillowed on a coat or a heap of brush-wood, and went to sleep.

Ere long they were all down, except one or two long-winded story tellers, who went on muttering to their pipes after their comrades were asleep. Even these became tired at last of the sound of their own voices, and gradually every noise in the camp was hushed, except the crackling of the fires as they sank by degrees and went out, leaving the place in dead silence and total darkness.

With the first peep of dawn the guide arose. In ten minutes after his first shout the whole camp was astir. The men yawned a good deal at first and grumbled a little, and stretched themselves violently, and yawned again. But soon they shook off laziness and sprang to their work. Pots, pans, kettles, and pemmican bags were tossed into the boats, and in the course of half-an-hour they were ready to continue the voyage.

Jasper stood beside the guide looking on at the busy scene.

“Heard you any news from the Saskatchewan of late,” said he.

“Not much,” replied the guide; “there’s little stirring there just now, except among the Indians, who have been killing and scalping each other as usual. But, by the way, that reminds me there has been a sort of row between the Indians and the Company’s people at Fort Erie.”

“Fort Erie,” said Jasper with a start.

“Ay, that’s the name o’ the fort, if I remember right,” returned the guide. “It seems that one o’ the men there, I think they call him Laroche—but what makes you start, friend Jasper? Do you know anything of this man.”

“Yes, he’s a friend of mine. Go on, let me hear about it.”

“Well, there’s not much to tell,” resumed the guide. “This Laroche, it would appear, has got into hot water. He has a daughter, a good lookin’ wench I’m told, and, better than that, a well-behaved one. One o’ the Indians had been impertinent to the girl, so old Laroche, who seems to be a fiery fellow, up fist, hit him on the nose, and knocked the savage flat on his back. A tremendous howl was set up, and knives and hatchets were flourished; but Mr Pemberton, who is in charge of Fort Erie, ran in and pacified them. The Indian that was floored vows he’ll have the hair of old Laroche’s head.”

This taking the hair off people’s heads, or scalping, as it is called, is a common practice among the North American Indians. When a savage kills his enemy he runs his scalping knife round the dead man’s head, seizes the hair with his left hand and tears the scalp off. Indeed this dreadful cruelty is sometimes practised before death has occurred. The scalp with its lock of hair is taken home by the victor, and hung up in his tent as a trophy of war. The man who can show the greatest number of scalps is considered the greatest warrior. The dresses of Indian warriors are usually fringed with human scalp-locks.

“That’s a bad business,” said Jasper, who was concerned to hear such news of his intended father-in-law. “Do ye know the name o’ this red-skinned rascal?”

“I heard it mentioned,” said the guide, “but I can’t remember it at this moment.”

“The boats are ready to start,” said one of the steersmen, coming up just then.

“Very good, let the men embark. Now, Jasper, we must part. Give us a shake o’ your hand. A pleasant trip to you.”

“The same to you, friend,” said Jasper, returning the guide’s squeeze.

In another minute the boats were away.

“Now, friends, we shall start,” said Jasper, breaking the deep silence which followed the departure of the brigade.

“Good,” said Arrowhead.

“I’m ready,” said Heywood.

The canoe was soon in the water, and the men in their places; but they started that morning without a song. Arrowhead was never inclined to be noisy, Heywood was sleepy, and Jasper was rendered anxious by what he had heard of his friends at Fort Erie, so they paddled away in silence.

Chapter Nine. The Fort, and an Unexpected Meeting.

We turn now to a very different scene. It is a small fort or trading-post on the banks of a stream which flows through the prairie. The fort is very much like the one which has been already described, but somewhat stronger; and there are four block-houses or bastions, one at each corner, from which the muzzles of a few heavy guns may be seen protruding.

The trees and bushes have been cleared away from around this fort, and the strips of forest-land which run along both sides of the river are not so thickly wooded as the country through which the reader has hitherto been travelling. In front of the fort rolls the river. Immediately behind it lies the boundless prairie, which extends like a sea of grass, with scarcely a tree or bush upon it, as far as the eye can reach. This is Fort Erie.

You might ride for many days over that prairie without seeing anything of the forest, except a clump of trees and bushes here and there, and now and then a little pond. The whole region is extremely beautiful. One that ought to fill the hearts of men with admiration and love of the bountiful God who formed it. But men in those regions, at the time I write of, thought of little beauties of nature, and cared nothing for the goodness of God. At least this may be truly said of the red-skinned owners of the soil. It was otherwise with some of the white people who dwelt there.

Three weeks had passed away since the night spent by our friends with the brigade. It was now a beautiful evening, a little after sunset. The day’s work at the fort had been finished, and the men were amusing themselves by racing their horses, of which fine animals there were great numbers at Fort Erie.

Just a little after the sun had gone down, three horsemen appeared on the distant prairie and came bounding at full gallop towards the fort. They were our friends Jasper, Heywood, and Arrowhead. These adventurous travellers had reached a fort farther down the river two days before, and, having been supplied with horses, had pushed forward by way of the plains.

On entering the belt of woods close to the fort, the horsemen reined in, and rode among the trees more cautiously.

“Here’s the end of our journey at last,” cried Jasper, on whose bronzed countenance there was a deep flush of excitement and a look of anxiety.

Just as he said this, Jasper’s heart appeared to leap into his throat and almost choked him. Pulling up suddenly, he swallowed his heart, with some difficulty, and said—

“Hold on, lads. I’ll ride round to the fort by way of the river, for reasons of my own. Push on, Heywood, with the Indian, and let Mr Pemberton know I’m coming. See, I will give you the packet of letters we were asked to carry from the fort below. Now, make haste.”

Heywood, though a little surprised at this speech, and at the manner of his friend, took the packet in silence and rode swiftly away, followed by the Indian. When they were gone, Jasper dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and walked quickly into the woods in another direction.

Now this mysterious proceeding is not difficult to explain. Jasper had caught sight of a female figure walking under the trees at a considerable distance from the spot where he had pulled up. He knew that there were none but Indian women at Fort Erie at that time, and that, therefore, the only respectably dressed female at the place must needs be his own Marie Laroche. Overjoyed at the opportunity thus unexpectedly afforded him of meeting her alone, he hastened forward with a beating heart.

Marie was seated on the stump of a fallen tree when the hunter came up. She was a fair, beautiful woman of about five-and-twenty, with an air of modesty about her which attracted love, yet repelled familiarity. Many a good-looking and well-doing young fellow had attempted to gain the heart of Marie during the last two years, but without success—for this good reason, that her heart had been gained already.

She was somewhat startled when a man appeared thus suddenly before her. Jasper stood in silence for a few moments, with his arms crossed upon his breast, and gazed earnestly into her face.

As he did not speak, she said—

“You appear to be a stranger here. Have you arrived lately?”

Jasper was for a moment astonished that she did not at once recognise him, and yet he had no reason to be surprised. Besides the alteration that two years sometimes makes in a man, Jasper had made a considerable alteration on himself. When Marie last saw him, he had been in the habit of practising the foolish and unnatural custom of shaving; and he had carried it to such an extreme that he shaved off everything—whiskers, beard, and moustache. But within a year he had been induced by a wise friend to change his opinion on this subject. That friend had suggested, that as Providence had caused hair to grow on his cheeks, lips, and chin, it was intended to be worn, and that he had no more right to shave his face than a Chinaman had to shave his head. Jasper had been so far convinced, that he had suffered his whiskers to grow. These were now large and bushy, and had encroached so much on his chin as to have become almost a beard.

Besides this, not having shaved any part of his face during the last three weeks, there was little of it visible except his eyes, forehead, and cheek-bones. All the rest was more or less covered with black hair.

No wonder, then, that Marie, who believed him to be two thousand miles away at that moment, did not recognise him in the increasing darkness of evening. The lover at once understood this, and he resolved to play the part of a stranger. He happened to have the power of changing his voice—a power possessed by many people—and, trusting to the increasing gloom to conceal him, and to the fact that he was the last person in the world whom Marie might expect to see there, he addressed her as follows:—

“I am indeed a stranger here; at least I have not been at the post for a very long time. I have just reached the end of a long voyage.”

“Indeed,” said the girl, interested by the stranger’s grave manner. “May I ask where you have come from?”

“I have come all the way from Canada, young woman, and I count myself lucky in meeting with such a pleasant face at the end of my journey.”

“From Canada!” exclaimed Marie, becoming still more interested in the stranger, and blushing deeply as she asked— “You have friends there, no doubt?”

“Ay, a few,” said Jasper.

“And what has brought you such a long way into this wild wilderness?” asked Marie, sighing as she thought of the hundreds of miles that lay between Fort Erie and Canada.

“I have come here to get me a wife,” replied Jasper.

“That is strange,” said the girl, smiling, “for there are few but Indian women here. A stout hunter like you might find one nearer home, I should think.”

Here Marie paused, for she felt that on such a subject she ought not to converse with a stranger. Yet she could not help adding, “But perhaps, as you say, you have been in this part of the world before, you may have some one in your mind?”

“I am engaged,” said Jasper abruptly.

On hearing this Marie felt more at her ease, and, being of a very sympathetic nature, she at once courted the confidence of the stranger.

“May I venture to ask her name?” said Marie, with an arch smile.

“I may not tell,” replied Jasper; “I have a comrade who is entitled to know this secret before any one else. Perhaps you may have heard of him, for he was up in these parts two years agone. His name is Jasper Derry.”

The blood rushed to Marie’s temples on hearing the name, and she turned her face away to conceal her agitation, while, in a low voice, she said—

“Is Jasper Derry, then, your intimate friend?”

“That is he—a very intimate friend indeed. But you appear to know him.”

“Yes, I—I know him—I have seen him. I hope he is well,” said Marie; and she listened with a beating heart for the answer, though she still turned her face away.

“Oh! he’s well enough,” said Jasper; “sickness don’t often trouble him. He’s going to be married.”

Had a bullet struck the girl’s heart she could not have turned more deadly pale than she did on hearing this. She half rose from the tree stump, and would have fallen to the ground insensible, had not Jasper caught her in his arms.

“My own Marie,” said he fervently, “forgive me, dearest; forgive my folly, my wickedness, in deceiving you in this fashion. Oh, what a fool I am!” he added, as the poor girl still hung heavily in his grasp—“speak to me Marie, my own darling.”

Whether it was the earnestness of his voice, or the kiss which he printed on her forehead, or the coolness of the evening air, I know not, but certain it is that Marie recovered in the course of a few minutes, and, on being convinced that Jasper really was her old lover, she resigned herself, wisely, to her fate, and held such an uncommonly long conversation with the bold hunter, that the moon was up and the stars were out before they turned their steps towards the Fort.

“Why, Jasper Derry,” cried Mr Pemberton, as the hunter entered the hall of Fort Erie, “where have you been. I’ve been expecting you every moment for the last two hours.”

“Well, you see, Mr Pemberton, I just went down the river a short bit to see an old friend and I was kep’ longer than I expected,” said Jasper, with a cool, grave face, as he grasped and shook the hand which was held out to him.

“Ah! I see, you hunters are more like brothers than friends. No doubt you went to smoke a pipe with Hawkeye, or to have a chat with the Muskrat about old times,” said the fur-trader, mentioning the names of two Indians who were celebrated as being the best hunters in the neighbourhood, and who had been bosom friends of Jasper when he resided there two years before.

“No, I’ve not yet smoked a pipe with Hawkeye, neither have I seen Muskrat, but I certainly have had a pretty long chat with one o’ my old friends,” answered Jasper, while a quiet smile played on his face.

“Well, come along and have a pipe and a chat with me. I hope you count me one of your friends too,” said Mr Pemberton, conducting Jasper into an inner room, where he found Heywood and Arrowhead seated at a table, doing justice to a splendid supper of buffalo-tongues, venison-steaks, and marrow-bones.

“Here are your comrades, you see, hard at work. It’s lucky you came to-night, Jasper, for I intend to be off to-morrow morning, by break of day, on a buffalo-hunt. If you had been a few hours later of arriving, I should have missed you. Come, will you eat or smoke?”

“I’ll eat first, if you have no objection,” said Jasper, “and smoke afterwards.”

“Very good. Sit down, then, and get to work. Meanwhile I’ll go and look after the horses that we intend to take with us to-morrow. Of course you’ll accompany us, Jasper?”

“I’ll be very glad, and so will Arrowhead, there. There’s nothing he likes so much as a chase after a buffalo, unless, it may be, the eating of him. But as for my friend and comrade Mr Heywood, he must speak for himself.”

“I will be delighted to go,” answered the artist, “nothing will give me more pleasure; but I fear my steed is too much exhausted to—”

“Oh! make your mind easy on that score,” said the fur-trader, interrupting him. “I have plenty of capital horses, and can mount the whole of you, so that’s settled. And now, friends, do justice to your supper, I shall be back before you have done.”

So saying, Mr Pemberton left the room, and our three friends, being unusually hungry, fell vigorously to work on the good cheer of Fort Erie.

Chapter Ten. Buffalo-Hunting on the Prairies.

Next day most of the men of Fort Erie, headed by Mr Pemberton, rode away into the prairies on a buffalo-hunt. Jasper would willingly have remained with Marie at the fort, but, having promised to go, he would not now draw back.

The band of horsemen rode for three hours, at a quick pace, over the grassy plains, without seeing anything. Jasper kept close beside his friend, old Laroche, while Heywood rode and conversed chiefly with Mr Pemberton. There were about twenty men altogether, armed with guns, and mounted on their best buffalo-runners, as they styled the horses which were trained to hunt the buffalo. Many of these steeds had been wild horses, caught by the Indians, broken-in, and sold by them to the fur-traders.

“I have seldom ridden so long without meeting buffaloes,” observed Mr Pemberton, as the party galloped to the top of a ridge of land, from which they could see the plains far and wide around them.

“There they are at last,” said Heywood eagerly, pointing to a certain spot on the far-off horizon where living creatures of some sort were seen moving.

“That must be a band o’ red-skins,” said Jasper, who trotted up at this moment with the rest of the party.

“They are Sauteaux,” (This word is pronounced Sotoes in the plural; Sotoe in the singular) observed Arrowhead quietly.

“You must have good eyes, friend,” said Pemberton, applying a small pocket-telescope to his eye; “they are indeed Sauteaux, I see by their dress, and they have observed us, for they are coming straight this way, like the wind.”

“Will they come as enemies or friends?” inquired Heywood.

“As friends, I have no doubt,” replied the fur-trader. “Come, lads, we will ride forward to meet them.”

In a short time the two parties of horsemen met. They approached almost at full speed, as if each meant to ride the other down, and did not rein up until they were so close that it seemed impossible to avoid a shock.

“Have you seen the buffaloes lately?” inquired Pemberton, after the first salutation had passed.

“Yes, there are large bands not an hour’s ride from this. Some of our young warriors have remained to hunt. We are going to the fort to trade.”

“Good; you will find tobacco enough there to keep you smoking till I return with fresh meat,” said Pemberton, in the native tongue, which he could speak like an Indian. “I’ll not be long away. Farewell.”

No more words were wasted. The traders galloped away over the prairie, and the Indians, of whom there were about fifteen, dashed off in the direction of the fort.

These Indians were a very different set of men from those whom I have already introduced to the reader in a former chapter. There are many tribes of Indians in the wilderness of Rupert’s Land, and some of the tribes are at constant war with each other. But in order to avoid confusing the reader, it may be as well to divide the Indian race into two great classes—namely, those who inhabit the woods, and those who roam over the plains or prairies. As a general rule, the thick wood Indians are a more peaceful set of men than the prairie Indians. They are few in number, and live in a land full of game, where there is far more than enough of room for all of them. Their mode of travelling in canoes, and on foot, is slow, so that the different tribes do not often meet, and they have no occasion to quarrel. They are, for the most part, a quiet and harmless race of savages, and being very dependent on the fur-traders for the necessaries of life, they are on their good behaviour, and seldom do much mischief.

It is very different with the plain Indians. These savages have numbers of fine horses, and live in a splendid open country, which is well-stocked with deer and buffaloes, besides other game. They are bold riders, and scour over the country in all directions, consequently the different tribes often come across each other when out hunting. Quarrels and fights are the results, so that these savages are naturally a fierce and warlike race. They are independent too; for although they get their guns and ammunition and other necessaries from the traders, they can manage to live without these things if need be. They can clothe themselves in the skins of wild animals, and when they lose their guns, or wet their powder, they can kill game easily with their own bows and arrows.

It was a band of these fellows that now went galloping towards Fort Erie, with the long manes and tails of the half-wild horses and the scalp-locks on their dresses and their own long black hair streaming in the wind.

Pemberton and his party soon came up with the young Indians who had remained to chase the buffaloes. He found them sheltered behind a little mound, making preparations for an immediate attack on the animals, which, however, were not yet visible to the men from the fort.

“I do believe they’ve seen buffaloes on the other side of that mound,” said Pemberton, as he rode forward.

He was right. The Indians, of whom there were six, well mounted and armed with strong short bows, pointed to the mound, and said that on the other side of it there were hundreds of buffaloes.

As the animals were so numerous, no objection was made to the fur-traders joining in the hunt, so in another moment the united party leaped from their horses and prepared for action. Some wiped out and carefully loaded their guns, others examined the priming of their pieces, and chipped the edges off the flints to make sure of their not missing fire. All looked to the girths of their saddles, and a few threw off their coats and rolled their shirt-sleeves up to their shoulders, as if they were going to undertake hard and bloody work.

Mr Pemberton took in hand to look after our friend Heywood; the rest were well qualified to look after themselves. In five minutes they were all remounted and rode quietly to the brow of the mound.

Here an interesting sight presented itself. The whole plain was covered with the huge unwieldy forms of the buffaloes. They were scattered about, singly and in groups, grazing or playing or lying down, and in one or two places some of the bulls were engaged in single combat, pawing the earth, goring each other, and bellowing furiously.

After one look, the hunters dashed down the hill and were in the midst of the astonished animals almost before they could raise their heads to look at them. Now commenced a scene which it is not easy to describe correctly. Each man had selected his own group of animals, so that the whole party was scattered in a moment.

“Follow me,” cried Pemberton to Heywood, “observe what I do, and then go try it yourself.”

The fur-trader galloped at full speed towards a group of buffaloes which stood right before him, about two hundred yards off. He carried a single-barrelled gun with a flint lock in his right hand and a bullet in his mouth, ready to re-load. The buffaloes gazed at him for one moment in stupid surprise, and then, with a toss of their heads and a whisk of their tails, they turned and fled. At first they ran with a slow awkward gait, like pigs; and to one who did not know their powers, it would seem that the fast-running horses of the two men would quickly overtake them. But as they warmed to the work their speed increased, and it required the horses to get up their best paces to overtake them.

After a furious gallop, Pemberton’s horse ran close up alongside of a fine-looking buffalo cow—so close that he could almost touch the side of the animal with the point of his gun. Dropping the rein, he pointed the gun without putting it to his shoulder and fired. The ball passed through the animal’s heart, and it dropt like a stone. At the same moment Pemberton flung his cap on the ground beside it, so that he might afterwards claim it as his own.

The well-trained horse did not shy at the shot, neither did it check its pace for a moment, but ran straight on and soon placed its master alongside of another buffalo cow. In the meantime, Pemberton loaded like lightning. He let the reins hang loose, knowing that the horse understood his work, and, seizing the powder-horn at his side with his right hand, drew the wooden stopper with his teeth, and poured a charge of powder into his left—guessing the quantity, of course. Pouring this into the gun he put the muzzle to his mouth, and spat the ball into it, struck the butt on the pommel of the saddle to send it down, as well as to drive the powder into the pan, and taking his chance of the gun priming itself, he aimed as before, and pulled the trigger. The explosion followed, and a second buffalo lay dead upon the plain, with a glove beside it to show to whom it belonged.

Scenes similar to this were being enacted all over the plain, with this difference, that the bad or impatient men sometimes fired too soon and missed their mark, or by only wounding the animals, infuriated them and caused them to run faster. One or two ill-trained horses shied when the guns were fired, and left their riders sprawling on the ground. Others stumbled into badger-holes and rolled over. The Indians did their work well. They were used to it, and did not bend their bows until their horses almost brushed the reeking sides of the huge brutes. Then they drew to the arrow heads, and, leaning forward, buried the shafts up to the feathers. The arrow is said to be even more deadly than the bullet.

Already the plain was strewn with dead or dying buffaloes, and the ground seemed to tremble with the thunder of the tread of the affrighted animals. Jasper had ‘dropt’ three, and Arrowhead had slain two, yet the pace did not slacken—still the work of death went on.

Having seen Pemberton shoot another animal, Heywood became fired with a desire to try his own hand, so he edged away from his companion. Seeing a very large monstrous-looking buffalo flying away by itself at no great distance, he turned his horse towards it, grasped his gun, shook the reins, and gave chase.

Now poor Heywood did not know that the animal he had made up his mind to kill was a tough old bull; neither did he know that a bull is bad to eat, and dangerous to follow; and, worse than all, he did not know that when a bull holds his tail stiff and straight up in the air, it is a sign that he is in a tremendous rage, and that the wisest thing a man can do is to let him alone. Heywood, in fact, knew nothing, so he rushed blindly on his fate. At first the bull did not raise his tail, but, as the rider drew near, he turned his enormous shaggy head a little to one side, and looked at him out of the corner of his wicked little eye. When Heywood came within a few yards and, in attempting to take aim, fired off his gun by accident straight into the face of the sun, the tail went up and the bull began to growl. The ferocious aspect of the creature alarmed the artist, but he had made up his mind to kill it, so he attempted to re-load, as Pemberton had done. He succeeded, and, as he was about to turn his attention again to the bull, he observed one of the men belonging to the fort making towards him. This man saw and knew the artist’s danger, and meant to warn him, but his horse unfortunately put one of its feet into a hole, and sent him flying head over heels through the air. Heywood was now so close to the bull that he had to prepare for another shot.

The horse he rode was a thoroughly good buffalo-runner. It knew the dangerous character of the bull, if its rider did not, and kept its eye watchfully upon it. At last the bull lost patience, and, suddenly wheeling round, dashed at the horse, but the trained animal sprang nimbly to one side, and got out of the way. Heywood was all but thrown. He clutched the mane, however, and held on. The bull then continued its flight.

Determined not to be caught in this way again, the artist seized the reins, and ran the horse close alongside of the buffalo, whose tail was now as stiff as a poker. Once more the bull turned suddenly round. Heywood pulled the reins violently, thus confusing his steed which ran straight against the buffalo’s big hairy forehead. It was stopped as violently as if it had run against the side of a house. But poor Heywood was not stopped. He left the saddle like a rocket, flew right over the bull’s back, came down on his face, ploughed up the land with his nose—and learned a lesson from experience!

Fortunately the spot on which he fell happened to be one of those soft muddy places in which the buffaloes are fond of rolling their huge bodies in the heat of summer, so that, with the exception of a bruised and dirty face, and badly soiled clothes, the bold artist was none the worse for his adventure.

Chapter Eleven. Winter—Sleeping in the Snow—A Night Alarm.

Summer passed away, autumn passed away, and winter came. So did Christmas, and so did Jasper’s marriage-day.

Now the reader must understand that there is a wonderful difference between the winter in that part of the North American wilderness called Rupert’s land, and winter in our own happy island.

Winter out there is from six to eight months long. The snow varies from three to four feet deep, and in many places it drifts to fifteen or twenty feet deep. The ice on the lakes and rivers is sometimes above six feet thick; and the salt sea itself, in Hudson’s Bay, is frozen over to a great extent. Nothing like a thaw takes place for many months at a time, and the frost is so intense that it is a matter of difficulty to prevent one’s-self from being frost-bitten. The whole country, during these long winter months, appears white, desolate, and silent.

Yet a good many of the birds and animals keep moving about, though most of them do so at night, and do not often meet the eye of man. The bear goes to sleep all winter in a hole, but the wolf and the fox prowl about the woods at night. Ducks, geese, and plover no longer enliven the marshes with their wild cries; but white grouse, or ptarmigan, fly about in immense flocks, and arctic hares make many tracks in the deep snow. Still, these are quiet creatures, and they scarcely break the deep dead silence of the forests in winter.

At this period the Indian and the fur-trader wrap themselves in warm dresses of deer-skin, lined with the thickest flannel, and spend their short days in trapping and shooting. At night the Indian piles logs on his fire to keep out the frost, and adds to the warmth of his skin-tent by heaping snow up the outside of it all round. The fur-trader puts double window-frames and double panes of glass in his windows, puts on double doors, and heats his rooms with cast-iron stoves.

But do what he will, the fur-trader cannot keep out the cold altogether. He may heat the stove red-hot if he will, yet the water in the basins and jugs in the corner of his room will be frozen, and his breath settles on the window-panes, and freezes there so thickly that it actually dims the light of the sun. This crust on the windows inside is sometimes an inch thick!

Thermometers in England are usually filled with quicksilver. In Rupert’s Land quicksilver would be frozen half the winter, so spirit of wine is used instead, because that liquid will not freeze with any ordinary degree of cold. Here, the thermometer sometimes falls as low as zero. Out there it does not rise so high as zero during the greater part of the winter, and it is often as low as twenty, thirty, and even fifty degrees below zero.

If the wind should blow when the cold is intense, no man dare face it—he would be certain to be frost-bitten. The parts of the body that are most easily frozen are the ears, the chin, the cheek-bones, the nose, the heels, fingers, and toes. The freezing of any part begins with a pricking sensation. When this occurs at the point of your nose, it is time to give earnest attention to that feature, else you run the risk of having it shortened. The best way to recover it is to rub it well, and to keep carefully away from the fire.

The likest thing to a frost-bite is a burn. In fact, the two things are almost the same. In both cases the skin or flesh is destroyed, and becomes a sore. In the one case it is destroyed by fire, in the other by frost; but in both it is painful and dangerous, according to the depth of the frost-bite or the burn. Many a poor fellow loses joints of his toes and fingers—some have even lost their hands and feet by frost. Many have lost their lives. But the most common loss is the loss of the skin of the point of the nose, cheek-bones, and chin—a loss which is indeed painful, but can be replaced by nature in the course of time.

Of course curious appearances are produced by such intense cold. On going out into the open air, the breath settles on the breast, whiskers, and eyebrows in the shape of hoar-frost; and men who go out in the morning for a ramble with black or brown locks, return at night with what appears to be grey hair—sometimes with icicles hanging about their faces. Horses and cattle there are seldom without icicles hanging from their lips and noses in winter.

Poor Mr Pemberton was much troubled in this way. He was a fat and heavy man, and apt to perspire freely. When he went out to shoot in winter, the moisture trickled down his face and turned his whiskers into two little blocks of ice; and he used to be often seen, after a hard day’s walk, sitting for a long time beside the stove, holding his cheeks to the fire, and gently coaxing the icy blocks to let go their hold!

But for all this, the long winter of those regions is a bright enjoyable season. The cold is not felt so much as one would expect, because it is not damp, and the weather is usually bright and sunny.

From what I have said, the reader will understand that summer in those regions is short and very hot; the winter long and very cold. Both seasons have their own peculiar enjoyments, and, to healthy men, both are extremely agreeable.

I have said that Jasper’s marriage-day had arrived. New Year’s Day was fixed for his union with the fair and gentle Marie. As is usual at this festive season of the year, it was arranged that a ball should be given at the fort in the large hall to all the people that chanced to be there at the time.

Old Laroche had been sent to a small hut a long day’s march from the fort, where he was wont to spend his time in trapping foxes. He was there alone, so, three days before New Year’s Day, Jasper set out with Arrowhead to visit the old man, and bear him company on his march back to the fort.

There are no roads in that country. Travellers have to plod through the wilderness as they best can. It may not have occurred to my reader that it would be a difficult thing to walk for a day through snow so deep, that, at every step, the traveller would sink the whole length of his leg. The truth is, that travelling in Rupert’s Land in winter would be impossible but for a machine which enables men to walk on the surface of the snow without sinking more than a few inches. This machine is the snowshoe. Snow-shoes vary in size and form in different parts of the country, but they are all used for the same purpose. Some are long and narrow; others are nearly round. They vary in size from three to six feet in length, and from eight to twenty inches in breadth. They are extremely light—made of a frame-work of hard wood, and covered with a network of deer-skin, which, while it prevents the wearer from sinking more than a few inches, allows any snow that may chance to fall on the top of the shoe to pass through the netting.

The value of this clumsy looking machine may be imagined, when I say that men with them will easily walk twenty, thirty, and even forty miles across a country over which they could not walk three miles without such helps.

It was a bright, calm, frosty morning when Jasper and his friend set out on their short journey. The sun shone brilliantly, and the hoar-frost sparkled on the trees and bushes, causing them to appear as if they had been covered with millions of diamonds. The breath of the two men came from their mouths like clouds of steam. Arrowhead wore the round snow-shoes which go by the name of bear’s paws—he preferred these to any others. Jasper wore the snow-shoes peculiar to the Chipewyan Indians. They were nearly as long as himself, and turned up at the point. Both men were dressed alike, in the yellow leathern costume of winter. The only difference being that Jasper wore a fur cap, while Arrowhead sported a cloth head-piece that covered his neck and shoulders, and was ornamented with a pair of horns.

All day the two men plodded steadily over the country. Sometimes they were toiling through deep snow in wooded places, sinking six or eight inches in spite of their snow-shoes. At other times they were passing swiftly over the surface of the open plains, where the snow was beaten so hard by exposure to the sun and wind that the shoes only just broke the crust and left their outlines behind.

Then they reached a bend of the river, where they had again to plod heavily through the woods on its banks, until they came out upon its frozen surface. Here the snow was so hard, that they took off their snow-shoes and ran briskly along without them for a long space.

Thus they travelled all day, without one halt, and made such good use of their time, that they arrived at the log-hut of old Laroche early in the evening.

“Well met, son-in-law, that is to be,” cried the stout old man heartily, as the two hunters made their appearance before the low door-way of his hut, which was surrounded by trees and almost buried in snow. “If you had been half an hour later, I would have met you in the woods.”

“How so, father-in-law, that is to be,” said Jasper, “were ye goin’ out to your traps so late as this?”

“Nay, man, but I was startin’ for the fort. It’s a long way, as you know, and my old limbs are not just so supple as yours. I thought I would travel to-night, and sleep in the woods, so as to be there in good time to-morrow. But come in, come in, and rest you. I warrant me you’ll not feel inclined for more walkin’ to-night.”

“Now my name is not Jasper Derry if I enter your hut this night,” said the hunter stoutly. “If I could not turn round and walk straight back to the fort this night, I would not be worthy of your daughter, old man. So come along with you. What say you, Arrowhead; shall we go straight back?”

“Good,” answered the Indian.

“Well, well,” cried Laroche, laughing, “lead the way, and I will follow in your footsteps. It becomes young men to beat the track, and old ones to take it easy.”

The three men turned their faces towards Fort Erie, and were soon far away from the log-hut. They walked steadily and silently along, without once halting, until the night became so dark that it was difficult to avoid stumps and bushes. Then they prepared to encamp in the snow.

Now it may seem to many people a very disagreeable idea, that of sleeping out in snow, but one who has tried it can assure them that it is not so bad as it seems. No doubt, when Jasper halted in the cold dark woods, and said, “I think this will be a pretty good place to sleep,” any one unacquainted with the customs of that country would have thought the man was jesting or mad; for, besides being very dismal, in consequence of its being pitch dark, it was excessively cold, and snow was falling steadily and softly on the ground. But Jasper knew what he was about, and so did the others. Without saying a word, the three men flung down their bundles of provisions, and each set to work to make the encampment. Of course they had to work in darkness so thick that even the white snow could scarcely be seen.

First of all they selected a tree, the branches of which were so thick and spreading as to form a good shelter from the falling snow. Here Jasper and Laroche used their snow-shoes as shovels, while Arrowhead plied his axe and soon cut enough of firewood for the night. He also cut a large bundle of small branches for bedding. A space of about twelve feet long, by six broad, was cleared at the foot of the tree in half an hour. But the snow was so deep that they had to dig down four feet before they reached the turf. As the snow taken out of the hole was thrown up all round it, the walls rose to nearly seven feet.

Arrowhead next lighted a roaring fire at one end of this cleared space, the others strewed the branches over the space in front of it, and spread their blankets on the top, after which the kettle was put on to boil, buffalo steaks were stuck up before the fire to roast, and the men then lay down to rest and smoke, while supper was preparing. The intense cold prevented the fire from melting the snowy walls of this encampment, which shone and sparkled in the red blaze like pink marble studded all over with diamonds, while the spreading branches formed a ruddy-looking ceiling. When they had finished supper, the heat of the fire and the heat of their food made the travellers feel quite warm and comfortable, in spite of John Frost; and when they at last wrapped their blankets round them and laid their heads together on the branches, they fell into a sleep more sound and refreshing than they would have enjoyed had they gone to rest in a warm house upon the best bed in England.

But when the fire went out, about the middle of the night, the cold became so intense that they were awakened by it, so Jasper rose and blew up the fire, and the other two sat up and filled their pipes, while their teeth chattered in their heads. Soon the blaze and the smoke warmed them, and again they lay down to sleep comfortably till morning.

Before daybreak, however, Arrowhead—who never slept so soundly but that he could be wakened by the slightest unusual noise—slowly raised his head and touched Jasper on the shoulder. The hunter was too well-trained to the dangers of the wilderness to start up or speak. He uttered no word but took up his gun softly and looked in the direction in which the Indian’s eyes gazed. A small red spot in the ashes served to reveal a pair of glaring eye-balls among the bushes.

“A wolf,” whispered Jasper, cocking his gun. “No; a man,” said Arrowhead.

At the sound of the click of the lock the object in the bushes moved. Jasper leaped up in an instant, pointed his gun, and shouted sternly—

“Stand fast and speak, or I fire!”

At the same moment Arrowhead kicked the logs of the fire, and a bright flame leapt up, showing that the owner of the pair of eyes was an Indian. Seeing that he was discovered, and that if he turned to run he would certainly be shot, the savage came forward sulkily and sat down beside the fire. Jasper asked him why he came there in that stealthy manner like a sly fox. The Indian said he was merely travelling by night, and had come on the camp unexpectedly. Not knowing who was there, he had come forward with caution.

Jasper was not satisfied with this reply. He did not like the look of the man, and he felt sure that he had seen him somewhere before, but his face was disfigured with war paint, and he could not feel certain on that point until he remembered the scene in the trading store at Jasper’s House.

“What—Darkeye!” cried he, “can it be you?”

“Darkeye!” shouted Laroche, suddenly rising from his reclining position and staring the Indian in the face with a dark scowl. “Why, Jasper, this is the villain who insulted my daughter, and to whom I taught the lesson that an old man could knock him down.”

The surprise and indignation of Jasper on hearing this was great, but remembering that the savage had already been punished for his offence, and that it would be mean to take advantage of him when there were three to one, he merely said—

“Well, well, I won’t bear a grudge against a man who is coward enough to insult a woman. I would kick you out o’ the camp, Darkeye, but as you might use your gun when you got into the bushes, I won’t give you that chance. At the same time, we can’t afford to lose the rest of our nap for you, so Arrowhead will keep you safe here and watch you, while Laroche and I sleep. We will let you go at daybreak.”

Saying this Jasper lay down beside his father-in-law, and they were both asleep in a few minutes, leaving the two Indians to sit and scowl at each other beside the fire.

Chapter Twelve. The Wedding, an Arrival, a Feast, and a Ball.

New Year’s Day came at last, and on the morning of that day Jasper Derry and Marie Laroche were made man and wife. They were married by the Reverend Mr Wilson, a Wesleyan missionary, who had come to Fort Erie, a few days before, on a visit to the tribes of Indians in that neighbourhood.

The North American Indian has no religion worthy of the name; but he has a conscience, like other men, which tells him that it is wrong to murder and to steal. Yet, although he knows this, he seldom hesitates to do both when he is tempted thereto. Mr Wilson was one of those earnest missionaries who go to that wilderness and face its dangers, as well as its hardships and sufferings, for the sake of teaching the savage that the mere knowledge of right and wrong is not enough—that the love of God, wrought in the heart of man by the Holy Spirit, alone can enable him to resist evil and do good—that belief in the Lord Jesus Christ alone can save the soul.

There are several missionaries of this stamp—men who love the name of Jesus—in that region, and there are a number of stations where the good seed of God’s Word is being planted in the wilderness. But I have not space, and this is not the place, to enlarge on the great and interesting subject of missionary work in Rupert’s Land. I must return to my narrative.

It was, as I have said, New Year’s day when Jasper and Marie were married. And a remarkably bright, beautiful morning it was. The snow appeared whiter than usual, and the countless gems of hoar-frost that hung on shrub and tree seemed to sparkle more than usual; even the sun appeared to shine more brightly than ever it did before—at least it seemed so in the eyes of Jasper and Marie.

“Everything seems to smile on us to-day, Marie,” said Jasper, as they stood with some of their friends at the gate of the fort, just after the ceremony was concluded.

“I trust that God may smile on you, and bless your union, my friends,” said Mr Wilson, coming forward with a small Bible in his hand. “Here is a copy of God’s Word, Jasper, which I wish you to accept of and keep as a remembrance of me and of this day.”

“I’ll keep it, sir, and I thank you heartily,” said Jasper, taking the book and returning the grasp of the missionary’s hand.

“And my chief object in giving it to you, Jasper, is, that you and Marie may read it often, and find joy and peace to your souls.”

As the missionary said this a faint sound, like the tinkling of distant bells, was heard in the frosty air.

Looks of surprise and excitement showed that this was an unwonted sound. And so it was; for only once or twice during the long winter did a visitor gladden Fort Erie with his presence. These sweet sounds were the tinkling of sleigh-bells, and they told that a stranger was approaching—that letters, perhaps, and news from far-distant homes, might be near at band.

Only twice in the year did the Europeans at that lonely outpost receive letters from home. Little wonder that they longed for them, and that they went almost wild with joy when they came.

Soon the sleigh appeared in sight, coming up the river at full speed, and a loud “hurrah!” from the men at the gate, told the visitor that he was a welcome guest. It was a dog-sleigh—a sort of conveyance much used by the fur-traders in winter travelling. In form, it was as like as possible to a tin slipper bath. It might also be compared to a shoe. If the reader will try to conceive of a shoe large enough to hold a man, sitting with his legs out before him, that will give him a good idea of the shape of a dog cariole. There is sometimes an ornamental curve in front. It is made of two thin hardwood planks curled up in front, with a light frame-work of wood, covered over with deer or buffalo skin, and painted in a very gay manner. Four dogs are usually harnessed to it, and these are quite sufficient to drag a man on a journey of many days, over every sort of country, where there is no road whatever. Dogs are much used for hauling little sledges in that country in winter. The traveller sits wrapped up so completely in furs, that nothing but his head is visible. He is attended by a driver on snow-shoes, who is armed with a large whip. No reins are used. If the snow is hard, as is usually the case on the surface of a lake or river, the driver walks behind and holds on to a tail-line, to prevent the dogs from running away. If the traveller’s way lies through the woods, the snow is so soft and deep that the poor dogs are neither willing nor able to run away. It is as much as they can do to walk; so the driver goes before them, in this case, and beats down the snow with his snow-shoes—“beats the track,” as it is called. The harness of the dogs is usually very gay, and covered with little bells which give forth a cheerful tinkling sound.

“It’s young Cameron,” cried Mr Pemberton, hastening forward to welcome the newcomer.

Cameron was the gentleman in charge of the nearest outpost—two hundred and fifty miles down the river.

“Welcome, Cameron, my boy, welcome to Fort Erie. You are the pleasantest sight we have seen here for many a day,” said Pemberton, shaking the young man heartily by the hand as soon as he had jumped out of his sleigh.

“Come, Pemberton, you forget Miss Marie Laroche when you talk of my being the pleasantest sight,” said Cameron, laughing.

“Ah! true. Pardon me, Marie—”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” interrupted Jasper, with much gravity, “I know of no such person as Miss Marie Laroche!”

“How? what do you mean?” said Cameron, with a puzzled look.

“Jasper is right,” explained Pemberton, “Marie was Miss Laroche yesterday; she is Mrs Derry to-day.”

“Then I salute you, Mrs Derry, and congratulate you both,” cried the young man, kissing the bride’s fair cheek, “and I rejoice to find that I am still in time to dance at your wedding.”

“Ay,” said Pemberton, as they moved up to the hall, “that reminds me to ask you why you are so late. I expected you before Christmas Day.”

“I had intended to be here by that day,” replied Cameron, “but one of my men cut his foot badly with an axe, and I could not leave him; then my dogs broke down on the journey, and that detained me still longer. But you will forgive my being so late, I think, when I tell you that I have got a packet of letters with me.”

“Letters!” shouted every one.

“Ay, letters and newspapers from England.”

A loud cheer greeted this announcement. The packet was hauled out of the sleigh, hurried up to the fort, torn open with eager haste, and the fur-traders of Fort Erie were soon devouring the contents like hungry men.

And they were hungry men—they were starving! Those who see their kindred and friends daily, or hear from them weekly, cannot understand the feelings of men who hear from them only twice in the year. Great improvements have taken place in this matter of late years; still, many of the Hudson Bay Company’s outposts are so distant from the civilised world, that they cannot get news from “home” oftener than twice a year.

It was a sight to study and moralise over—the countenances of these banished men. The trembling anxiety lest there should be “bad news.” The gleam of joy, and the deep “thank God,” on reading “all well.” Then the smiles, the sighs, the laughs, the exclamations of surprise, perhaps the tears that would spring to their eyes as they read the brief but, to them, thrilling private history of the past half year.

There was no bad news in that packet, and a feeling of deep joy was poured into the hearts of the people of the fort by these “Good news from a far country.” Even the half-breeds and Indians, who could not share the feeling, felt the sweet influence of the general happiness that was diffused among the fur-traders on that bright New Year’s Day in the wilderness.

What a dinner they had that day to be sure! What juicy roasts of buffalo beef; what enormous steaks of the same; what a magnificent venison pasty; and what glorious marrow-bones—not to mention tongues, and hearts, and grouse, and other things! But the great feature of the feast was the plum-pudding. It was like a huge cannon-ball with the measles! There was wine, too, on this occasion. Not much, it is true, but more than enough, for it had been saved up all the year expressly for the Christmas and New Year’s festivities. Thus they were enabled to drink to absent friends, and bring up all the old toasts and songs that used to be so familiar long ago in the “old country.” But these sturdy traders needed no stimulants. There were one or two who even scorned the wine, and stuck to water, and to their credit be it said, that they toasted and sang with the best of them.

At night there was a ball, and the ball beat the dinner out of sight. Few indeed were the women, but numerous were the men. Indian women are not famous for grace or cleanliness, poor things. But they enjoyed the ball, and they did their best to dance. Such dancing! They seemed to have no joints. They stood up stiff as lamp-posts, and went with an up-and-down motion from side to side. But the men did the thing bravely, especially the Indians. The only dances attempted were Scotch reels, and the Indians tried to copy the fur-traders; but on finding this somewhat difficult, they introduced some surprising steps of their own, which threw the others entirely into the shade! There was unfortunately no fiddler, but there was a fiddle—one made of pine wood by an Indian, with strings of deer-skin sinew. Some of the boldest of the party scraped time without regard to tune, and our friend Heywood beat the kettle-drum. The tones of the fiddle at last became so horrible that it was banished altogether, and they danced that night to the kettle-drum!

Of course the fair bride was the queen of that ball. Her countenance was the light of it, and her modest, womanly manner had a softening influence on the rough men who surrounded her.

When the ball was over, a curious thing occurred in the hall in which it had taken place. The room was heated by a stove, and as a stove dries the air of a room too much, it was customary to keep a pan of water on the stove to moisten it a little. This moisture was increased that night by the steam of the supper and by the wild dancing, so that, when all was over, the walls and ceiling were covered with drops of water. During the night this all froze in the form of small beautifully-shaped crystals, and in the morning they found themselves in a crystal palace of nature’s own formation, which beat all the crystal palaces that ever were heard of—at least in originality, if not in splendour.

Thus happily ended the marriage-day of honest Jasper Derry and sweet Marie Laroche, and thus pleasantly began the new year of 18—. But as surely as darkness follows light, and night follows day, so surely does sorrow tread on the heels of joy in the history of man. God has so ordained it, and he is wise who counts upon experiencing both.

Chapter Thirteen. The Conclusion.

A week after the events narrated in the last chapter, Jasper Derry was sitting beside the stove in the hall at Fort Erie, smoking his pipe and conversing with his father-in-law about his intention of going to Lake Winnipeg with the brigade in spring and proceeding thence to Canada in a bark canoe.

“Of course,” said he, “I will take Marie with me, and if you’ll take my advice, father, you’ll come too.”

“No, my son, not yet a while,” said old Laroche, shaking his head; “I have a year yet to serve the Company before my engagement is out. After that I may come, if I’m spared; but you know that the Indians are not safe just now, and some of them, I fear, bear me a grudge, for they’re a revengeful set.”

“That’s true, father, but supposin’ that all goes well with you, will ye come an’ live with Marie and me?”

“We shall see, lad; we shall see,” replied Laroche, with a pleased smile; for the old guide evidently enjoyed the prospect of spending the evening of life in the land of his fathers, and under the roof-tree of his son and daughter.

At that moment the report of a gun was heard outside the house. One of the window-panes was smashed and at the same instant Laroche fell heavily forward on the floor.

Jasper sprang up and endeavoured to raise him, but found that he was insensible. He laid him carefully on his back, and hastily opened the breast of his coat. A few drops of blood showed where he had been wounded. Meanwhile several of the men who had been attracted by the gunshot so close to the house burst into the room.

“Stand back, stand back, give him air,” cried Jasper; “stay, O God help us! the old man is shot clean through the heart!”

For one moment Jasper looked up with a bewildered glance in the faces of the men, then, uttering a wild cry of mingled rage and agony, he sprang up, dashed them aside, and catching up his gun and snow-shoes rushed out of the house.

He soon found a fresh track in the snow, and the length of the stride, coupled with the manner in which the snow was cast aside, and the smaller bushes were broken and trodden down, told him that the fugitive had made it. In a moment he was following the track with the utmost speed of which he was capable. He never once halted, or faltered, or turned aside, all that day. His iron frame seemed to be incapable of fatigue. He went with his body bent forward, his brows lowering, and his lips firmly compressed; but he was not successful. The murderer had got a sufficiently long start of him to render what sailors call a stern chase a long one. Still Jasper never thought of giving up the pursuit, until he came suddenly on an open space, where the snow had been recently trodden down by a herd of buffaloes, and by a band of Indians who were in chase of them.

Here he lost the track, and although he searched long and carefully he could not find it. Late that night the baffled hunter returned to the fort.

“You have failed—I see by your look,” said Mr Pemberton, as Jasper entered.

“Ay, I have failed,” returned the other gloomily. “He must have gone with the band of Indians among whose tracks I lost his footsteps.”

“Have you any idea who can have done this horrible deed?” said Pemberton.

“It was Darkeye,” said Jasper in a stern voice.

Some of the Indians who chanced to be in the hall were startled, and rose on hearing this.

“Be not alarmed, friends,” said the fur-trader. “You are the guests of Christian men. We will not punish you for the deeds of another man of your tribe.”

“How does the white man know that this was done by Darkeye?” asked a chief haughtily.

“I know it,” said Jasper angrily; “I feel sure of it; but I cannot prove it—of course. Does Arrowhead agree with me?”

“He does!” replied the Indian, “and there may be proof. Does Jasper remember the trading store and the bitten bullet?”

A gleam of intelligence shot across the countenance of the white hunter as his comrade said this. “True, Arrowhead, true.”

He turned, as he spoke, to the body of his late father-in-law, and examined the wound. The ball, after passing through the heart, had lodged in the back, just under the skin.

“See,” said he to the Indians, “I will cut out this ball, but before doing so I will tell how I think it is marked.”

He then related the incident in the trading store, with which the reader is already acquainted, and afterwards extracted the ball, which, although much flattened and knocked out of shape, showed clearly the deep marks made by the Indian’s teeth. Thus, the act which had been done slyly but boastfully before the eyes of a comrade, probably as wicked as himself, became the means whereby Darkeye’s guilt was clearly proved.

At once a party of his own tribe were directed by their chief to go out in pursuit of the murderer.

It were vain for me to endeavour to describe the anguish of poor Marie on being deprived of a kind and loving father in so awful and sudden a manner. I will drop a veil over her grief, which was too deep and sacred to be intermeddled with.

On the day following the murder, a band of Indians arrived at Fort Erie with buffalo skins for sale. To the amazement of every one Darkeye himself was among them. The wily savage—knowing that his attempting to quit that part of the country as a fugitive would be certain to fix suspicion on him as the murderer—resolved to face the fur-traders as if he were ignorant of the deed which had been done. By the very boldness of this step he hoped to disarm suspicion; but he forgot the bitten ball.

It was therefore a look of genuine surprise that rose to Darkeye’s visage, when, the moment he entered the fort, Mr Pemberton seized him by the right arm, and led him into the hall.

At first he attempted to seize the handle of his knife, but a glance at the numbers of the white men, and the indifference of his own friends, showed him that his best chance lay in cunning.

The Indians who had arrived with him were soon informed by the others of the cause of this, and all of them crowded into the hall to watch the proceedings. The body of poor Laroche was laid on a table, and Darkeye was led up to it. The cunning Indian put on a pretended look of surprise on beholding it, and then the usual expression of stolid gravity settled on his face as he turned to Mr Pemberton for information.

“Your hand did this,” said the fur-trader.

“Is Darkeye a dog that he should slay an old man?” said the savage.

“No, you’re not a dog,” cried Jasper fiercely; “you are worse—a cowardly murderer?”

“Stand back, Jasper,” said Mr Pemberton, laying his hand on the shoulder of the excited hunter, and thrusting him firmly away. “This is a serious charge. The Indian shall not be hastily condemned. He shall have fair play, and justice.”

“Good!” cried several of the Indians on hearing this. Meanwhile the principal chief of the tribe took up his stand close beside the prisoner.

“Darkeye,” said Mr Pemberton, while he looked steadfastly into the eyes of the Indian, who returned the look as steadily— “Darkeye, do you remember a conversation you had many weeks ago in the trading store at Jasper’s House?”

The countenance of the Indian was instantly troubled, and he said with some hesitation, “Darkeye has had many conversations in that store; is he a medicine-man (a conjurer) that he should know what you mean?”

“I will only put one other question,” said the fur-trader. “Do you know this bullet with the marks of teeth in it?”

Darkeye’s visage fell at once. He became deadly pale, and his limbs trembled. He was about to speak when the chief, who had hitherto stood in silence at his side, suddenly whirled his tomahawk in the air, and, bringing it down on the murderer’s skull, cleft him to the chin!

A fierce yell followed this act, and several scalping knives reached the dead man’s heart before his body fell to the ground. The scene that followed was terrible. The savages were roused to a state of frenzy, and for a moment the white men feared an attack, but the anger of the Indians was altogether directed against their dead comrade, who had been disliked by his people, while his poor victim Laroche had been a universal favourite. Seizing the body of Darkeye, they carried it down to the banks of the river, hooting and yelling as they went; hacked and cut it nearly to pieces, and then, kindling a large fire, they threw the mangled corpse into it, and burned it to ashes.

It was long before the shadow of this dark cloud passed away from Fort Erie; and it was longer still before poor Marie recovered her wonted cheerfulness. But the presence of Mr Wilson did much to comfort her. Gradually time softened the pang and healed the wound.

And now, little remains to be told. Winter passed away and spring came, and when the rivers and lakes were sufficiently free from ice, the brigade of boats left Fort Erie, laden with furs, for the sea-coast.

On arriving at Lake Winnipeg, Jasper obtained a small canoe, and, placing his wife and Heywood in the middle of it, he and Arrowhead took the paddles, seated themselves in the bow and stern, and guided their frail bark through many hundreds of miles of wilderness—over many a rough portage, across many a beautiful lake, and up many a roaring torrent, until, finally, they arrived in Canada.

Here Jasper settled. His farm prospered—his family increased. Sturdy boys, in course of time, ploughed the land and blooming daughters tended the dairy. Yet Jasper Derry did not cease to toil. He was one of those men who feel that they were made to work, and that much happiness flows from working. He often used to say that if it was God’s will, he would “like to die in harness.”

Jasper’s only weakness was the pipe. It stuck to him and he stuck to it to the last. Marie, in course of time, came to tolerate it, and regularly filled it for him every night.

Evening was the time when the inmates of Erie Cottage (as their residence was named) enjoyed themselves most; for it was then that the stalwart sons and the blooming daughters circled round the great fire of wood that roared, on winter nights, up the chimney; and it was then that Jasper received his pipe from his still good-looking, though rather stout, Marie, and began to spin yarns about his young days. At this time, too, it was, that the door would frequently open, and a rugged old Indian would stalk in like a mahogany ghost, and squat down in front of the fire. He was often followed by a tall thin old gentleman, who was extremely excitable, but good-humoured. Jasper greeted these two remarkable looking men by the names of Arrowhead and Heywood.

And glad were the young people when they saw their wrinkled faces, for then, they knew from experience, their old father would become more lively than usual, and would go on for hours talking of all the wonders and dangers that he had seen and encountered long, long ago, when he and his two friends were away in the wilderness.

The End.

Table of Contents

R.M. Ballantyne

"The Big Otter"

Chapter One.

Sleeping in Snow.

Chapter Two.

The Winter Packet.

Chapter Three.

Deeper Desolation.

Chapter Four.

The Winter Journey.

Chapter Five.

The Wounded Man.

The World of Ice and Snow.

Chapter Six.

An Express and its Results.

Chapter Seven.

A Tremendous Storm and Other Experiences.

Chapter Eight.

Deep in the Wilderness we find our Home which is Shared with the Wild Beast, the Wild Bird, and the Savage.

Chapter Nine.

A Bright Apparition—Followed by Rumours of War.

Chapter Ten.

Salamander Gives and Receives a Surprise, and War is Averted by Wise Diplomacy.

Chapter Eleven.

Lumley on Duty—Fort Wichikagan begins to Grow.

Chapter Twelve.

A Narrow Escape—A Strange Meeting, and a Half-Revealed Mystery.

Chapter Thirteen.

Fishing and its Results—Engineering and its Consequences.

Chapter Fourteen.

Arrival of Strange Indians.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Catastrophe, a Letter, and a Surprise.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Joys of Camping Out—Important Additions to the Establishment—Serious Matters and Winter Amusements.

Chapter Seventeen.

Describes a Tremendous Visitation—A Feast—A Surprise—And an Attempt at Murder.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Mysterious Packet—Friends depart, and Lumley is caught singing.

Chapter Nineteen.

Opening of the Mysterious Packet.

Chapter Twenty.

I come out in a New Light, and have a very Narrow Escape.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Buffalo Hunt Followed by a Palaver, an Arrival, and a Traitor-Chase.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Chase, the Capture, and the Revelation.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Attacked by Bandits—A Sad Death and a Sudden Rescue.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Power of Sleep—Plans discussed and a Far Journey resolved on.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Tells of a Wonderful Meeting and a Frustrated Foe.

Chapter Twenty Six.

One of the Difficulties of Correspondence enlarged on—Coming Events, etcetera.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

A Peculiar Wedding and a Wonderful Walk.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Wilderness again—New Plans mooted—Treacherous Ice, and a Brave Rescue.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Last.

The End.

R.M. Ballantyne

"The Big Otter"

Chapter One.

Sleeping in Snow.

Cold comfort is naturally suggested by a bed of snow, yet I have enjoyed great comfort and much warmth in such a bed.

My friend Lumley was particularly fond of warmth and of physical ease, yet he often expressed the opinion, with much emphasis, that there was nothing he enjoyed so much as a night in a snow-bed. Jack Lumley was my chum—a fine manly fellow with a vigorous will, a hardy frame, and a kindly heart. We had a natural leaning towards each other—a sort of undefinable sympathy—which inclined us to seek each other’s company in a quiet unobtrusive way. We were neither of us demonstrative; we did not express regard for each other; we made no protestations of undying friendship, but we drew together, somehow, especially in our hunting expeditions which were numerous.

On holidays—we had two in the week at the outpost in the American backwoods where we dwelt—when the other young fellows were cleaning gulls or arranging snow-shoes for the day’s work, Lumley was wont to say to me:—

“Where d’you intend to shoot to-day, Max?” (Max was an abbreviation; my real name is George Maxby.)

“I think I’ll go up by the willows and round by Beaver Creek.”

“I’ve half a mind to go that way too.”

“Come along then.”

And so we would go off together for the day.

One morning Lumley said to me, “I’m off to North River; will you come?”

“With pleasure, but we’ll have to camp out.”

“Well, it won’t be the first time.”

“D’you know that the thermometer stood at forty below zero this morning before breakfast?”

“I know it; what then? Mercurial fellows like you don’t freeze easily.”

I did not condescend to reply, but set about preparing for our expedition, resolving to carry my largest blanket with me, for camping out implied sleeping in the snow.

Of course I must guard my readers—especially my juvenile readers—from supposing that it was our purpose that night to undress and calmly lie down in, or on, the pure white winding-sheet in which the frozen world of the Great Nor’-west had been at that time wrapped for more than four months. Our snow-bed, like other beds, required making, but I will postpone the making of it till bed-time. Meanwhile, let us follow the steps of Lumley, who, being taller and stronger than I, always led the way.

This leading of the way through the trackless wilderness in snow averaging four feet deep is harder work than one might suppose. It could not be done at all without the aid of snow-shoes, which, varying from three to five feet in length, enable the traveller to walk on the surface of the snow, into which he would otherwise sink, more or less, according to its condition. If it be newly fallen and very soft, he sinks six, eight, or more inches. If it be somewhat compressed by time or wind he sinks only an inch or two. On the hard surface of exposed lakes and rivers, where it is beaten to the appearance of marble, he dispenses with snow-shoes altogether, slings them on his gun, and carries them over his shoulder.

Our first mile lay through a clump of pine-wood, where snow had recently fallen. When I looked at my comrade’s broad back, and observed the vigour of his action as he trod deep into the virgin snow at every stride, scattering it aside like fine white powder as he lifted each foot, I thought how admirably he was fitted for a pioneer in the wilderness, or for the work of those dauntless, persevering men who go forth to add to the world’s geographical knowledge, and to lead the expeditions sent out in search of such lost heroes as Franklin and Livingstone.

My own work was comparatively light. I had merely to tread in the beaten path. I was not, however, thereby secured from disaster, as I found when, having advanced about half a mile, my right shoe caught a twig to which it held for a moment, and then, breaking loose, allowed me to pitch head down with such violence that I almost reached mother earth four feet below the surface.

This kind of plunge is always awkward owing to the difficulty of rising, and usually disagreeable, owing to the manner in which snow stuffs itself into neck, ears, nose, eyes, mouth—if open—and any convenient crevice of person or garments. The snow-shoes, too, which are so serviceable when you are above them, become exasperatingly obstructive when you are below them. After a struggle of two minutes I got my head clear, winked the snow out of my eyes, blew it from my mouth and nostrils, and looked up. Lumley was standing there with a bland smile on his amiable face; he seldom laughed, though he sometimes chuckled!

“What do you mean by grinning there like a Cheshire cat?” I exclaimed, “why don’t you lend a hand?”

“What do you mean by tumbling there like a Christmas goose?” he retorted, “why don’t you look out for stumps and twigs as I do?”

He made some amends for this reply by extending his hand and helping me to rise.

In a few minutes we were clear of the pine-wood, and came out upon a piece of swampland, where the stunted willow bushes just showed their tops above the surface of the snow. This led us to a bend of the broad river near to which, further down, stood our outpost—Fort Dunregan.

For four months there had been neither sight nor sound of water in that river. It was frozen to the bottom, except in the middle where its dark unseen waters flowed silently under six feet or more of solid ice through many a river-channel and lake to the distant sea. In fact, save for the suggestive form of its banks, the river might have been mistaken for an elongated plain or piece of open land. The surface of the snow here was, from exposure to wind and sun, as hard as pavement. We therefore took off our snow-shoes, and, the necessity for maintaining the Indian-file position being removed, we walked abreast.

“The air is keen here,” remarked Lumley, pulling the thick shawl that was round his neck as far up over his mouth as his well-developed nose would permit.

“It is,” said I, following his example with greater success, my own nose being a snub.

There was no wind; not even a breeze—there seldom is at such temperature—but there was a very slight movement of the air, caused by our own advance, which was just sufficient to make one appreciate the intensity of the cold. It became necessary now to pay frequent attention to our noses and cheek-bones and toes, to prevent frostbite. But the sun was brilliant and the air invigorating. So was the aspect of nature, for although there was no grandeur in the character of the scenery, there was extreme beauty in the snow lacework of the trees and leafless shrubs; in the sky, whose bright blue was intensified by the white drapery of earth; and in the myriads of snow-crystals which reflected the dazzling sun with prismatic splendour.

Indeed, the scene was too dazzling, and as there was a tendency in it to produce snow-blindness, we soon returned to the friendly shelter of the woods.

“Tracks!” exclaimed Lumley, in a low voice, pointing to the ground, where footmarks were clearly visible, “and fresh,” he added, turning up the snow under the track with the butt of his gun.

“Ptarmigan!” said I in a whisper, pointing towards a little knoll, not quite a gunshot ahead of us, where some dozens of the beautiful snow-white creatures stood gazing at us in motionless surprise. Their plumage was so white that we had not observed them at first, almost the only black specks about them being their sparkling eyes, and the tips of their wings and tails.

Our guns were pointed instantly. I am ashamed to say that we were guilty of shooting them as they stood! In that land we shot for food as much as for amusement, and, some of us being poor shots, we were glad to take our game sitting! Nay, more, we tried to get as many of the birds in line as possible, so as to make the most of our ammunition. We were not sportsmen in the civilised sense of that term.

The extreme stillness of the woods was broken by the report of our guns in quick succession. A very cloud of pure white birds arose, as if Nature had taken to snowing upwards in rather large flakes, and seven victims remained behind.

“A good supper,” remarked Lumley, as we bagged the game and re-loaded.

It is not my intention here to describe a day’s shooting. Let it suffice to say that a little before nightfall we arrived at a place where was a snowy mound capped by a clump of spruce firs of small size but picturesque appearance.

“Behold our camp!” said Lumley.

“Not inviting at present,” said I, as we slowly toiled up the mound, for we were weary, having walked about twenty miles, weighted with heavy flannel-lined deerskin-coats, blankets, and cooking utensils, besides a small quantity of pemmican, sugar, tea, and ship’s biscuit, axes and firebags. It is true, the cooking utensils were few and simple, consisting of only two tin kettles and two tin mugs.

Dreary indeed—lonesome, desolate, and eerie was our mound when we got to the top of it. By that time the sun had set, and a universal ghostly grey, fast deepening into night, banished every sensation of joy aroused by the previous lightness. Although the scene and circumstances were nothing new to us we could not shake off the depressing influence, but we did not allow that to interfere with our action. Silently, but vigorously—for the cold was increasing—we felled several small dead trees, which we afterwards cut into lengths of about four feet. Then we cleared a space in the snow of about ten or twelve feet in diameter until we reached the solid earth, using our snow-shoes as shovels. What we threw out of the hole formed an embankment round it, and as the snow lay at that spot full four feet deep, we thus raised the surrounding wall of our chamber to a height of six feet, if not more. Standing on the edge of it in the ever-deepening twilight, and looking down into the abyss, which was further darkened by the overspreading pines, this hole in the snow suggested a tomb rather than a bed.

At one end of it we piled up the firewood. Extending from that towards the other end, we spread a carpet of pine-branches, full six inches thick. To do all this took a considerable amount of time and labour, and when Lumley stood up at last to strike a light with flint, steel, and tinder, we felt pretty well exhausted. The night had by that time become profoundly dark, insomuch that we had to grope for the various articles we required.

“We’ve been rather late of beginning to make the camp,” said I, as I watched the sparks.

“Never mind, Max, my boy, we shall soon be all right,” replied my friend, as one of the sparks at last caught on the tinder. In a few seconds the spark was blown into a blaze, and placed in the midst of a handful of dry moss and thin chips. This was applied to some dry twigs under our piled-up logs, and a vivid tongue of flame shot upward.

Blessed fire! Marvellous light! It is a glorious, wonder-working influence, well chosen by the Almighty as one of his titles. There is no change in Nature so intense as that from darkness to light as well in physical as in spiritual things. No sudden change from heat to cold, or from calm to storm; no transformation ever achieved in the most gorgeous of pantomimes, could have the startling effect, or produce the splendid contrast that resulted from the upward flash of that first tongue of fire. It was a vivid tongue, for the materials had been well laid; a few seconds later it was a roaring tongue, with a host of lesser tongues around it—all dancing, leaping, cheering, flashing, as if with ineffable joy at their sudden liberation, and the resulting destruction of dismal darkness.

Our snow-abyss was no longer black and tomb-like. Its walls sparkled as though encrusted with diamonds; its carpet of pine-branches shone vividly green; the tree-stems around rose up like red-hot pillars, more or less intense in colour, according to distance; the branching canopy overhead appeared to become solid with light, and the distance around equally solid with ebony blackness, while we, who had caused the transformation, stood in the midst of the ruddy blaze like jovial red-hot men!

“There’s nothing like a fire,” I remarked with some enthusiasm.

“Except supper,” said Lumley.

“Gross creature!” I responded, as he went about the preparation of supper with a degree of zest which caused me to feel that my epithet was well deserved.

“Gross creature!” he repeated some time afterwards with a pleasant smile of intense enjoyment, as he sat in front of the blaze sipping a can of hot tea, and devouring pemmican and biscuit with avidity. “No, Max, I am not a gross creature. Your intellects are probably benumbed by the cold. If phrenologists are right in dividing the human brain into compartments, wherein the different intellectual powers are said to be located, I should think that some of those chambers lying nearest to the top of the skull are apt to freeze at a temperature of forty below zero, in which case the perfect working of the half-paralysed machine can scarcely be looked for. Hold your head to the fire, and thaw it while I expound this to you.”

“Stay,” said I, holding out my tin pannikin for more tea; “inward heat as well as outward is necessary to my thorough comprehension of your expositions.”

“True, Max, all the faculties of such mind as you possess, in their most active condition, are required to enable you to take in the simplest proposition. Just give my bird a turn, like a good fellow.”

He referred to a ptarmigan which, plucked, split open, roughly cleaned, and impaled on a stick, was roasting in front of the fire. I turned his bird and my own, while he continued:—

“To gratify the appetite with thorough and hearty appreciation after working hard for your food, or walking far to find it, is not gross. Grossness consists in eating heavily when you have not toiled, and stimulating with fire-water, pepper, or mustard, your sluggish appetite. To call me a gross creature, then—”

He stopped short, and, looking up, performed that operation with the nose which is styled sniffing.

“What do I smell?”

“My bird—burnt!” I shouted, snatching at the stick on which it was impaled. In doing so I capsized our can of tea. Lumley looked at it with a sigh, while I regarded with a groan the breast of my bird burnt to a cinder.

“Max, you should remember that a fire strong enough to subdue forty degrees below zero is intense—also, that our supply of tea is limited. All this comes of your unwisely calling me a gross creature.”

“No, it comes of the intense application of my unthawed intellect to your absurd expositions.”

“Whatever it comes of,” returned Lumley, “we must remedy the evil. Here, fall upon my ptarmigan. I’m not quite ready for it, being still engaged with the pemmican. Meanwhile, I’ll replenish the kettle.”

So saying, he took up the kettle, went to the margin of our hole, and filled it with fresh snow well pressed down. This being put on the fire, soon melted; more snow was added, till water enough was procured, and then fresh tea was put in to boil. We were not particular, you see, as to the mode of infusion. While my friend was thus engaged, I had plucked, split, cleansed and impaled another bird. In a marvellously short time—for our fire was truly intense—the tea and ptarmigan were ready, and we proceeded with supper as comfortably as before.

“Now I shall continue,” said Lumley, with a satisfied clearing of the throat, “the exposition of grossness,—”

“Oh, pray spare me that,” said I, quickly, “but tell me, if you can, why it is that such a tremendous fire as that does not melt our snow walls.”

“Put your head nearer to it, Max, for some of the phrenological chambers must still be frozen, else it would be clear to you that the intensity of the cold is the reason. You see that only a small part of the snow quite close to the fire is a little softened. If the fire were hotter it would melt more of it—melt the whole hole and us too. But the cold is so great that it keeps the walls cool and us also—too cool indeed, for while my face and knees are roasting my back is freezing, so I shall rise and give it a turn. Now,” he continued, rising and turning his back to the blaze as he spoke, “I will resume my remarks on gross—”

“You’ve no objection to my making our bed while you lecture?” said I, also rising.

Lumley had not the least objection, so, while he held forth, I spread a large green blanket over our carpet of pine-brush. A bundle of the same under the blanket formed a pretty good pillow. Wrapping myself tightly round in another blanket (for physical heat evaporates quickly in the frozen regions) I lay down. My friend lay down beside me, our feet being towards the fire.

After a silent interval, while lying thus, gazing up through the overhanging branches at the stars that twinkled in the clear frosty sky, our thoughts became more serious. The grandeur of creation led us to think and speak of the Creator—for we were like-minded friends, and no subject was tabooed. We conversed freely about whatever chanced to enter our minds—of things past, present, and to come. We spoke of God the Saviour, of redemption and of sin. Then, with that discursive tendency to which most minds are prone, we diverged to home and civilised lands, contrasting these with life in the wild-woods of the Great Nor’-west. After that we became sleepy, and our converse was more discursive—at times even incoherent—in the midst of which Lumley reverted to his unfinished exposition of grossness, and, in the enthusiasm of his nature, was slowly working himself back into a wakeful condition, when I put an abrupt end to the discourse by drawing a prolonged snore. It was a deceptive snore, unworthy of success, yet it succeeded.

My friend turned round and, with a contented sigh, went to sleep. After a brief space the snore which had been a fiction became a reality, and thus, on our bed of snow, in the depths of an Arctic night, in the heart of the frozen wilderness, and while the mighty fire burned slowly down, we unitedly took our departure for the land of Nod.

Chapter Two.

The Winter Packet.

On returning next morning towards the outpost from our encampment in the woods, Lumley and I made a discovery which excited us greatly. It was nothing more than a track in the snow, but there was a revelation in the track which sent the blood tingling through our veins.

It was not the track of a Polar bear. We should have been somewhat surprised, no doubt, but not greatly excited by that. Neither was it the track of a deer or an Arctic fox. It was only the track of a sledge!

“Is that all?” exclaims the reader. No, that is not all. But, in order that you may understand it better, let me explain.

Fort Dunregan, in which we dwelt, stood more than a thousand miles distant from the utmost verge of civilised life in Canada. We were buried, so to speak, in the heart of the great northern wilderness. Our nearest neighbour lived in an outpost between one and two hundred miles distant, similar to our own in all respects but even more lonely, being in charge of a certain Scotsman named Macnab, whose army of occupation consisted of only six men and two Indian women! The forests around us were not peopled. Those vast solitudes were indeed here and there broken in upon, as it were, by a few families of wandering Red-Indians, who dwelt in movable tents—were here to-day and away to-morrow—but they could not be said to be peopled, except by deer and bears and foxes and kindred spirits.

Of course, therefore, we were far beyond the every day influences of civilised life. We had no newspapers, no mails; no communication whatever, in short, with the outer world except twice in the year. The one occasion was in summer, when a brigade of boats arrived with our outfit of goods for the year’s trade with the few scattered Indians above referred to; the other occasion was in the depth of our apparently interminable winter, when a packet of letters was forwarded from outpost to outpost throughout the land by the agents of the Hudson’s Bay Company which we served.

This half-yearly interval between mails had a double effect on our minds. In the first place, it induced a strange feeling that the great world and all its affairs were things of the past, with which we had little or nothing to do—a sort of dream—and that the little world of our outpost, with its eight or ten men and three or four Indian women, its hunting, and trapping, and firewood-cutting, and fishing, and trading, and small domestic arrangements and dissensions, was the one place of vital importance and interest, before which empires and dynasties and the trifling matter of politics sank into mere insignificance! In the second place, it created an intense longing—a hungering and thirsting—for news of our kindred “at home.”

Our chief, Mr Strang, and our two selves, with another fellow-clerk who was named Spooner, as well as most of our men, were from “the old country,” where we had left fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters—in some cases sweethearts—behind us. It may be conceived then with what anxiety and yearning we looked forward to the periodical break in the weary six months of total silence that had enveloped us. Men in civilised, or even semi-civilised communities, cannot understand this. Convicts on penal servitude for long periods may have some faint notion of it, but even these have periods of literary intercourse more frequently than we had. The reader must just take the statement on trust therefore, that our anxious yearnings were remarkably powerful. What might not have occurred in these six months of dark silence! Who might not have been married, born, laid low by sickness, banished to the ends of the earth like ourselves, or even removed by death!

Is it surprising, then, that we caught our breath and flushed, and that our hearts leaped when we came unexpectedly upon the track of the two men who had dragged news from home for hundreds of miles over the snow? We knew the tracks well. Our intimate acquaintance with every species of track that was possible in that particular region, rendered a mistake out of the question. There was the step of the leader, who wore a snow-shoe the shape of which, although not unknown, was somewhat unfamiliar to us. There was the print of the sled, or toboggan, which was different in pattern from those used at Dunregan, and there was the footprint of the man in rear, whose snow-shoe also made an unfamiliar impression.

“The packet!” exclaimed Lumley, opening his solemn grey eyes to their widest as he looked up from the track to me.

“At last!” I returned, unconsciously betraying the prolonged state of suspense with which my mind had been afflicted.

“Come along!” said my companion, starting off homeward at a pace that was almost too much for me.

We soon reached the outpost, and there stood the makers of the track which had roused in us so much excitement.

Two strong men, chosen expressly for a duty which required mental endurance and perseverance as well as physical vigour. They stood at the door of the entrance-hall, talking with Mr Strang, the one with his snow-shoes slung over his shoulder on the butt of his gun, the other using the same implements as a rest for his hands, while Spooner, in a state of great excitement, was hastily undoing the lashings of the sled, to get at the precious box which contained “the packet.”

“Well, gentlemen, here it is at last,” said our chief, with a genial smile as we came up.

“Yes, we followed the track immediately we struck it,” said Lumley, stooping to assist Spooner in his work.

We soon had the box carried to our chief’s private room, while the two strangers were had off by our men to their own house, there to be feasted on venison, ptarmigan, salt-pork, fish, and pease-pudding to satiety, and afterwards “pumped” to a state of exhaustion.

I followed our chief, who had a provokingly deliberate way of opening the packet and examining its contents, while my feverish agitation and expectancy increased. There was a humorous twinkle in his eye, I thought, which told of mischievous purpose, while he kept up a murmuring commentary.

“Hm! as I expected—no news from Macnab. What’s this?—ah! The Governor! A voluminous epistle, and—hallo! Lumley’s friends must be fond of him. His packet is the biggest in the box. And Spooner too, not so bad for him. Here, take these to them. Stay—here is a bundle of letters for the men. You’d better deliver these yourself.”

I hesitated, while a mist of great darkness began to descend on my soul.

“Nothing for me, sir?” I asked faintly.

“There seems to be—nothing—stay! what’s this?—why, I thought it was a big book, but, yes, it is a packet for you, Mr Maxby—there!”

My heart leaped into my mouth—almost out of it—as I received a thick packet wrapped in newspaper.

Hastening to what was called the clerk’s winter house with these treasures I distributed them, and handed the men’s packet to one of themselves, who was eagerly awaiting it. Then I went to my room and barricaded the door to prevent interruption.

In Bachelors’ Hall, as we styled our apartments, we had an inveterate habit of practical joking, which, however interesting and agreeable it might be at most times, was in some circumstances rather inconvenient. To guard against it at such times we were in the habit of retiring to our respective dens and barricading the doors, the locks being sometimes incapable of standing the strain brought to bear on them.

On this particular occasion I made my barricade stronger than usual; sat down on my bed and opened the packet from home.

But here I must let the curtain fall. I cannot suppose that the reader, however amiable, will sympathise with the joys and sorrows of an unknown family, interesting though they were to me. I may state, however, that before I got through the budget it was so late that I turned into bed and read the remainder there. Then, as the fire in the hall-stove sank low, the cold obliged me to put on above my voluminous blankets (we dared not sleep in sheets out there) a thick buffalo robe, which, besides having on the outside the shaggy hair of the animal to which it had belonged, was lined with flannel. Thus nestled into a warm hole, I read on until a shout arrested me and brought me suddenly back from the hills of bonny Scotland to the frozen wilderness.

“I say,” shouted Lumley at the back of the door, which he saluted with a kick, “my sister is married!”

“Poor thing!” said I. “Who to?”

“Open the door.”

“I can’t. I’m in bed.”

“You must.”

“I won’t.”

“No! then here goes.”

He retired as he spoke, and, making a rush, launched himself against my door, which, however, withstood the shock.

“Here, Spooner,” I then heard him say, “lend a hand; let us go at it together.”

They went at it together. The lock gave way; the chest of drawers went spinning to the other side of the room, and Lumley tumbled over Spooner as both fell headlong to the floor.

As this was by no means an unfamiliar mode of entering each other’s rooms, I took no notice of it, but proceeded to inquire about the married sister; and Lumley, sitting down on my bed with Spooner, for neither of them had yet undressed, began to tell me of home and friends with as much eagerness as if I had been a member of both families. Young Spooner interrupted Lumley now and then when a touch of coincidence struck him with reference to his own family affairs, and I could not resist the pleasure of occasionally making some such remark as, “How odd! that’s very like what happened to my little brother Bob,” etcetera, whereupon Spooner would immediately become excited and draw a parallel more or less striking in regard to his own kindred and so we went on far into the night, until we got our several families mixed up to such an extent that it became almost impossible to disentangle them; for, being three families, you know, we became inextricably confused as to which was which, though each was perfectly clear in regard to his own! Thus, to me, Jane Lumley became confused with Janet Spooner, so that Janet Lumley and Jane Spooner were always tripping over each other in my brain, while my dear cousin Maggie Maxby became a Maggie Spooner to Lumley, and a Maggie Lumley to Spooner, and to each sometimes a Janet or a Jane respectively. If the reader will multiply into this question two mothers and three fathers, four brothers and six sisters, besides numberless aunts, uncles, and cousins, male and female, he will easily perceive how between mental perplexity and a tendency to slumber, we at last gave the matter up in a sort of jovial despair.

We were startled suddenly from this condition by a crash and an exceedingly sharp and bitter cry.

It must be remarked here, that, in order to subdue King Frost in those northern strongholds of his, we had, besides double doors and double windows and porches, an enormous cast-iron stove from the famous Carron foundry. It stood in the centre of our hall, so that its genial favours might be distributed with equal justice to the various sleeping-rooms that opened out of the hall all round. From this stove an iron pipe arose, and, turning at a right angle when within a couple of feet of the ceiling, proceeded to the chimney at the upper end of the hall. When the thermometer stood much below zero, we were accustomed to raise the stove and part of its pipe to a dull-red heat, which had the effect of partially melting the contents of the water-jugs in our bedrooms, and of partially roasting the knees of our trousers. To keep this stove up to its work was the duty of an Indian youth, whom we styled Salamander, because he seemed to be impervious to heat. He was equally so to cold. When I first went to Dunregan I used to pity Salamander, on hearing him every morning enter our hall with a gust of air that seemed cold enough to freeze a walrus, and proceed to strike a light and kindle our fire. My own nose, and sometimes an eye, was all that protruded from the buffalo robe at such times. But Salamander never shivered, and always grinned, from which I came to understand that my pity was misplaced. About nine o’clock each night he left us to look after the great Carron stove ourselves, and we were all pretty good stokers. Self-interest kept us up to duty. Sometimes we overdid it, raising the dull-red to brightness now and then.

On this particular occasion, in the exuberance of his feelings, Lumley, before bursting into my room, had heaped on as much dry wood as the stove could hold. It chanced to be exceedingly resinous wood. He also opened the blow-hole to its utmost extent. Being congregated in my bedroom, as I have described, deeply engaged in eager comments and family reminiscences, we failed to observe that the great Carron stove roared like a wrathful furnace, that it changed from a dull to a bright red in its anger, and eventually became white with passion. As “evil communications” have a tendency to corrupt, the usually innocent pipe became inflamed. It communicated the evil to the chimney, which straightway caught fire, belched forth smoke and flames, and cast a ruddy glare over the usually pallid snow. This chanced to meet the eye of Salamander as he gazed from his “bunk” in the men’s house; caused him to bounce up and rush out—for, having a taste for sleeping in his clothes, he was always ready for action—burst open our door with a crash, and rudely dispel our confusedly pleasant intercourse with the exceedingly sharp and bitter cry before mentioned.

“Hallo!” shouted Lumley and Spooner simultaneously, as they bounded rather than rose from my bed. Before they had crossed the threshold I was out of bed and into my trousers.

There is nothing like the cry of “Fire!” for producing prompt action—or paralysis! Also for inducing imbecile stupidity. I could not find my moccasins! Thought is quick—quicker than words. Amputation at the knee joints stared me in the face for a certainty if I went out with naked feet. In desperation I seized my capote and thrust both feet into the sleeves, with some hazy intention of tying a knot on each wrist to protect the toes. Happily I espied my moccasins at the moment, pulled them on—left shoe on right foot, of course—and put the coat to its proper use.

By this time Salamander, contrary to all traditions of Indian stoicism, was yelling about the fort with his eyes a flame and his hair on end. The men were out in a few seconds with a ladder, and swarmed up to the roof of our house without any definite notion as to what they meant to do. Mr Strang was also out, smothered in winter garments, and with an enormous Makinaw blanket over all. He was greatly excited, though the most self-possessed among us—as most chiefs are, or ought to be.

“Water! water!” shouted the men from the roof.

A keen breeze was blowing from what seemed the very heart of King Frost’s dominion, and snow-drift fine as dust and penetrating as needles, was swirling about in the night-air.

Water! where was water to come from? The river was frozen almost to the bottom. Ice six feet thick covered the lakes and ponds. The sound of trickling water had not been heard for months. It had become an ancient memory. Water! why, it cost our cook’s assistant a full hour every day to cut through the result of one night’s frost in the water-hole before he could reach the water required for daily use, and what he did obtain had to be slowly dragged to the fort by that slowest of creatures, an ox. Nevertheless there was water. In the warmest corner of the kitchen—at that hour about zero—there stood a water-barrel.

“Run, cook—fetch a bucketful!” cried our chief.

Cook, who had “lost his head,” obediently ran, seized a big earthenware jug, dipped it into the barrel, and smashed it to atoms on a cake of thick ice! This had the effect of partially recovering his head for him. He seized an axe, shattered the cake, caught up a bucket, dipped it full and rushed out spilling half its contents as he ran. The spillings became icicles before they reached the flaming chimney, but the frost, keen as it was, could not quite solidify the liquid in so short a space of time.

Blondin, the principal bearer of the winter packet who was a heroic man and chief actor in this scene, received the half-empty bucket.

“Bah!” he exclaimed, tossing bucket as well as water contemptuously down the wide chimney. “Bring shuvill, an’ blunkits.”

Blondin was a French-Canadian half-caste, and not a good linguist.

A shovel was thrown up to him. He seized it and shovelled volumes of snow from the house-top into the chimney. A moment later and two blankets were thrown up. Blondin spread one over the flames. It was shrivelled up instantly. He stuffed down the remains and spread the second blanket over them, while he shouted for a third. The third came, and, another bucket of water arriving at the same moment, with a large mass of snow detached from the roof, the whole were thrust down the chimney en masse, the flames were quenched and the house was saved.

During this exciting scene, I had begun to realise the great danger of fire in the chimney of a wooden house, and, with the aid of my comrades, had been throwing the contents of Bachelors’ Hall out into the snow. We now ceased this process, and began to carry them back again, while the men crowded round the iron author of all the mischief to warm their half-frozen bodies. I now observed for the first time that Blondin had a black patch on the end of his nose. It was a handsome feature usually, but at that time it was red, swelled, and what may be termed blobby.

“What’s the matter with it, Blondin?” I asked.

“My noz was froz,” he replied curtly.

“You’d better have it looked to, or it’ll be worse than froz, my man,” said Lumley.

Blondin laughed and went off to attend to his nose in the men’s house, accompanied by the others, while we set to work to clean ourselves and our abode. Thereafter, with moderated fire, we again got under our buffalo robes, where we spent the remainder of a disturbed night in thinking and dreaming about the thrilling contents of the winter packet.

Chapter Three.

Deeper Desolation.

Eight months of winter! Those who have read and entered into the spirit of Arctic voyagers, may have some idea of what that means, but none save he or she who has had experience of it can fully understand it.

To us who dwelt at the little outpost in the Great Nor’-west, snow and ice had become so familiar—such matter-of-course conditions of existence—that green fields and flowers were a mere reminiscence of the remote past. The scent of a rose was a faded memory—indeed the scent of anything belonging to the vegetable kingdom had not once saluted our nostrils during those eight months. Pure white became one of the chief and most impressive facts of our existence in regard to colour, if we may so call it—white, varying in tone, of course, to pearly grey. Cold, of varied intensity, was the chief modifier of our sensations. Happily light was also a potent factor in our experiences—bright, glowing sunshine and blue skies contrasted well with the white and grey, and helped to counteract the cold; while pure air invigorated our frames and cheered our spirits.

“I tell you what, boys,” said Lumley, one afternoon as he entered the hall with gun and snow-shoes on shoulder, and flung down a bag full of ptarmigan, “winter is drawing to a close at last. I felt my deerskin coat quite oppressive to-day; does any one know what the thermometer stood at this morning?”

“Yes, it was twenty-two above zero,” answered Spooner, who was attempting to smoke a pipe beside the stove; “I went to register it just after breakfast.”

“I thought so—only ten below freezing point; why, it feels quite summery, and the snow has a softness that I have not noticed since last autumn. I hope dinner will soon be ready, for I’m very sharp set. Why, Spooner, what are you making such faces for?”

“Am I making faces?” said Spooner, blushing and trying to look unconcerned.

“Of course you are, a marmozette monkey with the toothache could scarcely make worse.”

Spooner attempted to laugh, and I felt it difficult to refrain from joining him, for I knew well the cause of his faces. He was the youngest of us three and exceedingly anxious to imitate Lumley, who was unfortunately a great smoker; but Spooner, like myself, had been born with a dislike to smoke—especially tobacco smoke—and a liability to become sick when he indulged in the pipe. Hence, whilst foolish ambition induced him to smoke, outraged nature protested; and between the two the poor fellow had a bad time of it. He had a good deal of determination about him, however, and persevered.

The dinner-bell rang at the moment, and put an end to further badinage.

Lumley was right. Spring was in truth at hand, and a host of new anticipations began from that day to crowd upon our minds.

About the same time there came another break in the monotony of outpost life which had, if possible, a more powerful and exciting influence on us than the arrival of the winter packet.

Now at this point I must beg the reader’s pardon for asking him to go with me to a still more desolate and remote outpost than our own. Between one and two hundred miles nearer to the pole the little post of Muskrat House lay under a beetling cliff, near the banks of an affluent of the great Saskatchewan river. It was in charge of Peter Macnab, before mentioned, who, in command of his army of six men and two women, held the post against all comers—the chief comers there being the North Wind and Jack Frost.

Poor Macnab was a jovial and sociable Scottish Highlander, who had been condemned to worse than Siberian banishment because of being one of the most active, enterprising, and pushing fellows in the service of the Fur-Traders. His ability to manage men and Indians, and to establish new trading-posts, excelled that of his fellows. He regarded it as a complimentary though trying circumstance when Mr Strang sent him to establish the post which was named by him Muskrat House, but he faced the duty—as he faced everything—like a man; did his best for his employers, and made the most of the situation.

But it is not easy for even the strongest mind and lightest heart to be jovial when buried for eight months in snow more than twelve hundred miles beyond the influences of civilised life; and it is hard to be sociable with six uneducated men and two Indian women for one’s companions. Macnab tried it, however, and was in a measure successful. He had his Bible with him—the one given him long ago by his mother—and a bound volume of Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal, and three copies of the Times newspaper nearly two years old, and a few numbers of an American paper called the Picayune.

With these materials he set to work—after each day’s labour of water-drawing, firewood-cutting, and trapping was done—to educate his army in religion, politics, political economy, and the varied ramifications of social life. He had intelligent and grateful scholars. If they had not been so, Macnab would at all events have made them obedient pupils, for he was a physically large and powerful man—and might was unavoidably right in those regions!

Still, with all his energy and resources, the genial Highlander began, towards the end of winter, to feel an intense longing for a little intercourse with his equals.

Returning one night to the solitude of his little room, as was his wont, after a couple of hours’ intercourse with his men in their own house, he sat down before his stove and addressed it thus:—

“It won’t last long, I fear. My brain is gradually turning into something like mashed potatoes, and my heart into a tinder-box, ready enough to catch fire, but with neither flint nor steel to light it! The Indians won’t be here for many weeks, and when they do come what good can I get from or do to them? Wow! wow! it’s terribly slow work. Oh! Jessie, Jessie, my dear, what would I not give if I only had you here!”

Lest the reader should suppose Macnab to be a love-sick swain, I may remark here that Jessie was a sister whom he had left on the shores of Loch Ness, and with whom he kept up a vigorous biennial correspondence.

As the stove made no reply, he continued his address.

“If I only had a few books now, it wouldn’t be so hard to bear. To be sure, the Bible is a great resource—a blessed resource; but you see I want something light now and then. A laugh, you know, seems to be absolutely needful at times. Why, now I think of it, we wouldn’t have been given the power to laugh if it hadn’t been necessary, and the last hearty laugh I had was, let me see—that time three months ago, when my long-nosed interpreter mistook a dead mouse in the soup—ha! ha!—for a bit of pemmican, and only found out his mistake when the tail got between his teeth!”

The solitary man burst into peals of laughter at the reminiscence, and then, becoming suddenly grave, looked slowly round the room.

“If I could only have an echo of that,” he resumed, “from somebody else! Well, well, I’ll just go and have another chat with Jessie.”

So saying, Macnab rose, drew a small table near to the stove, laid upon it a very large desk made by himself of pine-wood, and, placing a sheet of paper thereon, began to write.

The sheet of paper merits notice. Like the man who wrote, it was extremely large, being several sizes bigger than foolscap, and very loosely ruled. As I have said, communication with the outer world being possible only twice in the year, our Highlander resolved, as usual, to make the most of his opportunities. Hence he not only used the largest paper which the company provided, but filled up several such sheets with the smallest possible writing, so that Jessie might ultimately get something worth having. It is but justice to add that Macnab wrote not only a very small but a remarkably clear and legible hand—a virtue which I earnestly commend to correspondents in general, to those of them at least who wish their epistles to meet with thorough appreciation.

It was late when our solitaire completed that evening’s addition to his already voluminous letter, and he was thinking about going to bed when a stamping in the porch outside announced that a visitor was clearing the snow from his moccasins.

“One o’ the men forgot something, I fancy,” muttered Macnab to himself.

The latch was lifted, for locks were not deemed necessary in those regions, and the door opening slowly disclosed the copper-hued visage and tall bony figure of a very powerful and handsome native of the soil—perhaps I should rather say—of the snow!

“Hallo! hey! come in,” shouted Macnab, giving way to a gush of his pent-up social feelings; “why it’s good for sore eyes to see a new face, even a red one. What cheer? what cheer? Where d’ye hail from? Come in, come in, and welcome!”

The hearty Highlander spoke the Indian tongue fluently, but in the excitement of his feelings mingled it with a good deal of English and an occasional growl of expressive Gaelic.

The Indian, whose horned cap and person were well powdered with snow, stepped slowly over the threshold, extending his hand to the Highlander’s grasp, and looking cautiously round with rolling black eyes, as if he half expected a dynamite explosion to follow his entrance. His garments bore evidence of rough usage. Holes in his moccasins permitted portions of the duffle socks underneath to wander out. Knots on his snow-shoe lines and netting told of a long rough journey, and the soiled, greasy condition of his leathern capote spoke of its having been much used not only as a garment by day but as a shirt by night.

Placing his gun and snow-shoes in a corner, after solemnly responding “watchee, watchee,” to Macnab’s “what cheer,” the red-man seated himself on the floor beside the stove, with silent disregard of the chair that his host politely offered.

It is the custom of North American Indians—on arriving at an establishment—to withhold the most interesting portion of what they may have to communicate until after they have had a pipe, or a feed, and have answered the questions put on the less interesting objects of their visits. Being well aware of this trait of character, Macnab forebore to question too closely this fine-looking Indian until he had well thawed and smoked himself. Ultimately, however, he brought him to the point.

To the north-westward of Muskrat House, many long days’ march, he said (of course in his native tongue) there was a grand country full of fine furs and fine people, who found it a very long journey indeed to come all the way to Muskrat House to trade their furs. Would his white father go and build a house there, near Lake Wichikagan, and shoot and fish, and trade?—waugh!

To which Macnab replied that he was glad to hear about the plenty of furs and the friendly natives and the fine country, and that he would take the matter into his consideration—waugh!

To this the red-man responded “ho!” and then “how!”—not interrogatively but interjectionally—with much gravity.

That night Macnab took the matter into consideration with his wonted vigour, and came to the conclusion that it was of sufficient importance to warrant a visit on his part to headquarters—Dunregan being headquarters to Muskrat House. Accordingly, he went to the men’s house and introduced the stranger, whose name in the Indian tongue signified Big Otter. The men received him with as much joy as if he had been an angel of light.

“Get a sled and four of the best dogs ready to start by daybreak to-morrow,” said Macnab to one of his men, “and have breakfast sharp,” he added, turning to the cook. “You’ll go with me to Dunregan, won’t you, Big Otter?”

Big Otter was ready for anything at a moment’s notice!

When daylight glimmered faintly in the east the following morning, Macnab sat at his table devouring venison steaks, pancakes, and tea. Big Otter sat opposite to him, having condescended to use a chair in order to be on a level with the table. The chair gave him much anxiety, however. He evidently feared to fall off or upset it, for, on rising to reach some food opposite, he had tilted it back, and received a tremendous though unacknowledged start from the crash that followed.

Half an hour later, Macnab, having left his interpreter in charge of the establishment, was beating the track on snow-shoes through the forest, his four wolfish-looking dogs following with a sled-load of provisions and bedding, and Big Otter bringing up the rear.

The day turned out to be bright calm, and frosty. It was in thorough unison with Macnab’s feelings, for the near prospect of soon meeting with men somewhat like himself produced a calm and bright condition of mind which he had not experienced for many a day. It is true that the frost can scarcely be said to have represented the Highlander’s temperament; but if there be truth in the saying that extremes meet, it may be admissible to say that intense cold, which had the effect of expanding water into ice so that it rent the very rocks, might be appropriately compared with that intense warmth of Macnab’s feelings which had the effect of all but bursting his very bosom! There was not a breath of air stirring when the two men passed from the forest, and struck out upon the marble surface of the great lake which lay at the distance of about two miles from their establishment. The sun was rising at the time on the horizon of the ocean-like lake, gloriously bright and cheering, though with no appreciable warmth in its beams. Diamonds innumerable glittered on the frosted willow-boughs; the snow under the travellers’ tread gave forth that peculiar squeak, or chirping sound, which is indicative of extreme Arctic frost, and the breath from their mouths came out like the white puffs of a locomotive, settling on their breasts in thick hoar-frost, and silvering such of their locks as straggled out beyond the margin of their caps. There was no life at first in the quiet scene, but, just as they passed through the last clump of bushes on the margin of the lake, a battalion of ptarmigan, seemingly a thousand strong, burst with startling whirr from under their very feet, and skimmed away like a snow-cloud close to the ground, while an Arctic fox, aroused from his lair by the noise, slank quietly off under the false belief that he had not been seen.

The rise of the ptarmigan had another effect, on which the travellers had not counted. The four wolfish dogs were so startled by the whirr, that their spirits were roused to the mischievous point. Up to that moment they had been toiling and panting through the soft snow in the woods. They had now emerged upon the hard, wind-beaten snow of the open ground and the lake. The sudden freedom in the action of their limbs, coupled with the impulse to their spirits, caused the team to bound forward with one accord. The sled swung round against Macnab’s legs, and overturned him; and the tail-line was jerked out of Big Otter’s grasp. In a vain effort to recover it, that solemn savage trod, with his right, on his own left snow-shoe, and plunged into a willow bush. Thus freed altogether, the dogs went away with railway speed over the hard snow, ever urged to more and more frantic exertions by the wild boundings of the comparatively light sled behind them.

“After them, lad!” shouted Macnab, as he cast off his snow-shoes and gave chase.

The Indian followed suit in desperate haste, for his receptive mind at once perceived the all but hopeless nature of a chase after four long-legged dogs, little removed from genuine wolves, over a hard level course that extended away to the very horizon.

Happily, there was a small island not far from the shore of the lake, on which grew a few willow bushes whose tops protruded above the overwhelming snow, and whose buds formed the food of the ptarmigan before mentioned. Towards this island the dogs headed in their blind race just as the white man and the red began to regret the comparative slowness of human legs.

“Good luck!” exclaimed Macnab.

“Waugh!” responded his companion.

There was ground for both remarks, for, a few minutes later, the dogs plunged into the bushes and the sled stuck fast and held them.

This was a trifling incident in itself, but it shook out of the travellers any remains of lethargy that might have clung to them from the slumbers of the previous night, and caused them to face the tramp that lay before them with energy.

“Oh, you rascals!” growled Macnab, as he went down on his knees beside the leading dog to disentangle the traces which had been twisted up in the abrupt stoppage.

I know not whether those dogs, being intellectually as well as physically powerful beyond their fellows, understood the uncomplimentary term and lost their tempers, but certain it is that the words were no sooner uttered than the hindmost dog made an unprovoked assault on the dog in front of it. Of course the latter defended itself. The dog next to that, being probably pugnacious, could not resist the temptation to join in, and the leader, feeling no doubt that it was “better to be out of the world than out of the fashion,” fell upon the rest with remarkable fury. Thus the sled, traces, and dogs, instantly became a tumultuous mass of yelling, gasping, heaving, and twisting confusion.

Big Otter carried a short, heavy whip. Without uttering a word, he quietly proceeded to flog the mass into subjection. It was a difficult duty to perform, but Big Otter was strong and persevering. He prevailed after some time. The mass was disentangled; the subdued dogs went humbly forward, and the journey, having been thus auspiciously begun, was continued until nightfall.

They had left the lake and Muskrat House some thirty miles behind them, and had got into a thick and profoundly still part of the great wilderness, when the waning light warned them to encamp.

Chapter Four.

The Winter Journey.

It was not long before our travellers had a large space cleared of snow, its floor spread with pine-branches, a roaring fire kindled, a couple of ptarmigan roasting and the tea-kettle bubbling, while the dogs in the background solaced themselves with raw birds to their heart’s content.

Then the red-man and the white man smoked a friendly pipe. They would probably have smoked even if it had been an unfriendly pipe!

“I wonder,” said Macnab, who was apt to become speculative and philosophical over his pipe after supper, “I wonder if dogs ever envy us our pipes? You look so comfortable, Big Otter, as you sit there with half-shut eyes letting the smoke trickle from your mouth and nose, that I can’t help thinking they must feel envious. I’m sure that I should if I were not smoking!”

The Indian, who was neither a speculator nor a philosopher—though solemn enough for either or both—replied, “Waugh!”

“Very true,” returned the Highlander, “I have no doubt your opinion is quite correct, though not as clearly put as might be wished. Have you ever been at Fort Dunregan?”

“Once when Big Otter was a little boy, he stood beside the Great River,” answered the Indian, gravely; “but the white man had no tent there at that time.”

“The white man has got some pretty big tents there now—made of wood most of ’em,” returned Macnab. “In a few days you shall judge for yourself, if all goes well.”

The red-man smoked over this remark in silence for a considerable time, evidently engaged in profound thought. He was one of those children of nature whose brains admit ideas slowly, and who, when they are admitted, turn them round and round and inside out without much apparent advantage.

At last he looked earnestly at his companion and asked—“Is there fire-water at Fort Dunregan?”

“Well, no—I believe not. At least there is none for red-men. Why do you ask? Did you ever taste fire-water?”

The Indian’s dark eyes seem to gleam with unwonted light as he replied in tones more solemn than usual:—

“Yes. Once—only once—a white brother gave some fire-water to Big Otter.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Macnab, “and what did you think of it!”

“Waugh!” exclaimed the red-man, sending a cloud out of his mouth with such energy that it seemed like a little cannon-shot, while he glared at his friend like a superannuated owl. “Big Otter thought that he was in the happy hunting-grounds with his fathers; his heart was so light and his limbs were so strong, but that was only a dream—he was still in this world. Then he took a little more fire-water, and the dream became a reality! He was away with his fathers on the shining plains; he chased the deer with the lightness of a boy and the strength of a bear. He fought, and his foes fell before his strong arm like snowflakes on the river, but he scalped them not. He could not find them—they were gone. Big Otter was so strong that he had knocked both their lives and bodies into the unknown! He saw his father and his mother—and—his wife and the little one who—died. But he could not speak to them, for the foes came back again, and he fought and took some more fire-water to make him fight better; then the world went on fire, the stars came down from the sky like snow when the wind is high. The Big Otter flew up into the air, and then—forgot—”

“Forgot what?” asked Macnab, much interested in his red friend’s idea of intoxication.

“Forgot everything,” replied the Indian, with a look of solemn perplexity.

“Well, I don’t wonder; you must have had a good swig, apparently. How did ye feel next morning?”

If the Indian’s looks were serious before, they became indescribably solemn now.

“Big Otter felt,” he replied with bated breath, “like bags of shot—heavy like the great stones. He could scarcely move; all his joints were stiff. Food was no longer pleasant to his tongue. When he tried to swallow, it would not remain, but came forth again. He felt a wish to drink up the river. His head had an evil spirit inside which squeezed the brain and tried to burst open the skull. His eyes, also, were swelled up so that he could hardly see, and his nose was two times more big than the day before.”

“That must have been an awful size, Big Otter, considering the size of it by nature! And what d’ye think was the cause of it all?”

As this question involved thought, the Indian smoked his pipe in silence for some time, staring for inspiration into the fire.

“It must have been,” he at length replied, “hunting with his fathers before the right time had come. Big Otter was not dead, and he chased the deer too much, perhaps, or fought too much. It may be that, having only his earth-body, he ate too much.”

“Don’t ye think it’s just possible,” suggested Macnab, “that, having only your earth-body, you drank too much?”

“Waugh!” replied the red-man. Then, after a few minutes’ devotion to the pipe, he added, “Big Otter would like very much to taste the fire-water again.”

“It’s well for you, my boy,” returned the other, “that you can’t get it in these regions, for if you could you’d soon be in the happy hunting-grounds (or the other place) without your earth-body.”

At this point the Highlander became more earnest, and treated his companion to what would have passed in civilised lands for a fair temperance lecture, in which he sought to describe graphically the evils of strong drink. To this the Indian listened with the most intense attention and an owlish expression, making no audible comment whatever—with the exception, now and then, of an emphatic “Waugh!” but indicating his interest by the working of his features and the glittering of his great eyes. Whether the reasoning of Macnab had much influence at that time could not be ascertained, for he was yet in the middle of one of his most graphic anecdotes when the Indian’s owlish eyes shut with a suddenness that was quite startling, and he roused himself just in time to prevent his chin from dropping on his chest.

“Waugh!” he exclaimed with a slightly-confused look.

“Just so,” replied Macnab with a laugh, “and now, boy, we’ll turn in, for it strikes me we’re going to have warmish weather, and if so, we shall have to make the most of our time.”

Soon the blankets were spread; the fire was replenished with mighty logs; the travellers lay down side by side and in a few minutes snored in concert; the flames leaped upwards, and the sparks, entangling themselves on the snow-encrusted branches of bush and tree, gleamed there for an instant, or, escaping, flew gaily away into the wintry sky.

While the two men were sleeping, a change came over the scene—a slow, gentle, scarce perceptible change, which, however, had a powerful influence on the prospects of the sleepers. The sky became overcast; the temperature, which had been down at arctic depth for many months, suddenly rose to that of temperate climes, and snow began to fall—not in the small sharp particles to which the fur-traders of the great northern wilderness are accustomed, but in the broad, heavy flakes that one often sees in England. Softly, silently, gently they fell, like the descent of a sweet influence—but steadily, persistently, continuously, until every object in nature became smothered in the soft white garment. Among other objects the two sleepers were buried.

The snow began by powdering them over. Had any one been there to observe the process, he would have seen by the bright light of the camp-fire that the green blankets in which they were wrapt became piebald first; then assumed a greyish-green colour, which speedily changed into a greenish-grey, and finally into a pure white. The two sleepers might thus have represented those figures in chiselled marble on the tombs of crusaders, had it not been that they lay doubled up, for warmth—perhaps also for comfort—with their knees at their chins, instead of flat on their backs with their hands pressed together. By degrees the correct outline of their forms became an incorrect outline, and gradually more and more rotund—suggesting the idea that the buried ones were fat.

As the night wore on the snow accumulated on them until it lay several inches deep. Still they moved not. Strong, tired and healthy men are not easily moved. The fire of course sank by degrees until it reached that point where it failed to melt the snow; then it was quickly smothered out and covered over. The entire camp was also buried; the tin kettle being capped with a knob peculiarly its own, and the snow-shoes and other implements having each their appropriate outline, while some hundredweights, if not tons, of the white drapery gathered on the branches overhead. It was altogether an overwhelming state of things, and the only evidence of life in all the scene was the little hole in front of each slumberer’s nose, out of which issued intermittent pufflets of white vapour.

So the night passed by and the morning dawned, and the wintry sun arose like a red-hot cannon ball. Then Macnab awoke with a start and sat up with an effort.

“Hallo!” was his first exclamation, as he tried to clear his eyes, then he muttered something in Gaelic which, being incomprehensible, I cannot translate, although the worthy man has many a time since the day of which I write tried to explain it to me!

It may have been his action, or it may have been indignant northern fairies, I know not, but certain it is that the Gaelic was instantly followed by an avalanche of snow from the branch over the Highlander’s head, which knocked him down and reburied him. It also knocked Big Otter up and drew forth the inevitable “Waugh!”

“Humph!” said Macnab, on clearing himself a second time, “I was half afraid of this. We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

The Indian replied not, but proceeded to light the fire and prepare breakfast, while his companion cleared the camp of some of its snow. The wolfish dogs took a lively interest in these proceedings, but lent no assistance beyond wagging their tails, either in approval or in anticipation of breakfast.

Of course breakfast was a repetition of the previous supper, and was soon disposed of both by men and dogs. Then the latter were harnessed to their sledge, the snow-shoes were put on, and the journey was resumed—Macnab manfully leading the way.

And let not the reader imagine that this leadership involved little or no manhood. Northern snow-shoes are about five feet long, and twelve or fifteen inches broad. The netting with which the frames are filled up—somewhat like the bottom of a cane chair—allows fine well-frozen snow to fall through it like dust and the traveller, sinking it may be only a few inches in old well-settled-down snow, progresses with ease. But when a heavy fall such as I have described takes place, especially in spring, and the weather grows comparatively warm, the traveller’s circumstances change greatly for the worse. The new snow being light permits him to sink deep into it—perhaps eight or ten inches—at every step; being also soft, that which falls upon the shoes cannot pass through the netting, but sticks there, giving him many extra pounds weight to lift as he goes heavily along. Add to this that his thick winter garb becomes oppressive in mild weather, and you will perceive that Macnab’s duties as beater of the track were severe.

At first their progress was very slow, for it was through the thick woods, where fallen trees and bushes obstructed them as well as deep snow, but towards noon they came out on a more open country—in summer a swamp; at that time a frozen plain—and the travelling improved, for a slight breeze had already begun to make an impression on the new snow in exposed places.

“Now, Big Otter,” said Macnab, coming to a halt, “we’ll have some grub here, and then you will take a turn in front.”

The Indian was ready for anything. So were the dogs—especially for “grub.” Indeed it was obvious that they understood the meaning of that word, for when Macnab uttered it they wagged their tails and cocked their ears.

It was a cold dinner, if I may describe the meal by that name. The work was too hard, and the daylight in which to do it too brief, to admit of needless delay. A frozen bird thrown to each of the dogs, and a junk of equally frozen pemmican cut out of the bag with a hatchet for the travellers, formed the repast. The latter ate it sitting on a snow-wreath. They, however, had the advantage of their canine friends in the matter of hard biscuits, of which they each consumed two as a sort of cold pudding. Then they resumed the march and plodded heavily on till near sunset, when they again selected a suitable spot in the woods, cleared away the snow, and encamped as before.

“It’s hard work,” exclaimed Macnab with a Celtic sigh, as he sipped his tea that night in the mellow light of the log fire.

“Waugh! Big Otter has seen harder work,” returned the Indian.

“No doubt ye have, an’ so have I,” returned Macnab; “I mind, once, when away on a snow-shoe trip on the St. Lawrence gulf, bein’ caught by a regular thaw when the snow turned into slush, an’ liftin’ the snow-shoes was like to tear one’s legs out o’ their sockets, not to mention the skinning of your toes wi’ the snow-shoe lines, an’ the wet turning your moccasins into something like tripe. Yes, it might be worse, as you say. Now, boy, I’ll turn in.”

The next day travelling was no better, and on the next again it became worse, for although the temperature was still below the freezing point, snow continued to fall all day as well as all night, so that our travellers and their dogs became like animated snowballs, and beating the track became an exhausting labour.

But difficulties cannot finally stop, though they may retard, a “Nor’-wester.” On the sixth day, however, they met with a foe who had power to lay a temporary check on their advance. On the night of the fifth day out, another change of temperature took place. A thermometer, had they carried one, would probably have registered from ten to twenty below zero of Fahrenheit. This, however, was so familiar to them that they rather liked the change, and heaped up fresh logs on the roaring fire to counteract the cold; but when a breeze sprang up and began to blow hard, they did not enjoy it so much, and when the breeze increased to a gale, it became serious; for one cannot face intense cold during a gale without the risk of being frost-bitten. In the shelter of the woods it was all right, but when, towards noon, they came out on an extended plain where the wild winds were whirling the wilder snow in blinding drifts, they halted and looked inquiringly at each other.

“Shall we try it?” asked Macnab.

The Indian shook his head and looked solemn.

“It’s a pity to give in without—”

A snow-drift caught the Highlander full in the mouth and literally shut him up! The effect was not to subdue, but to arouse.

“Yes,” he said in a species of calm ferocity, when the gale allowed him the power of utterance, “we’ll go on.”

He went on, followed by the obedient native and the unhappy dogs, but he had not taken half a dozen steps when he tripped over a concealed rock and broke a snow-shoe. To walk with a broken snow-shoe is impossible. To repair one is somewhat difficult and takes time. They were compelled, therefore, to re-enter the sheltering woods and encamp.

“You’re better at mending than I am,” said Macnab to the Indian. “Set to work on the shoe when the camp is dug out, an’ I’ll go cut some firewood.”

Cutting firewood is not only laborious, but attended with danger, and that day ill-fortune seemed to have beset the Highlander; for he had barely cut half a dozen logs, when his axe glanced off a knot and struck deep into the calf of his left leg.

A shout brought Big Otter to his side. The Indian was well used to such accidents. He bound up the wound securely, and carried his comrade into camp on his back. But now Macnab was helpless. He not only could not walk, but there was no hope of his being able to do so for weeks to come.

“Lucky for us we brought the dogs,” he remarked when the operation was completed.

“Waugh!” exclaimed the Indian by way of assent, while he busied himself in preparing food.

It was indeed lucky, for if they had dragged the provision-sled themselves, as Macnab had once thought of doing, it would have fallen to Big Otter’s lot to haul his comrade during the remainder of the journey. As it was, the dogs did it, and in the doing of it, despite the red-man’s anxious and constant care, many a severe shake, and bump, and capsize in the snow did the unfortunate man receive before that journey came to a close. He bore it all, however, with the quiet stoicism characteristic of the race from which he sprang.

Chapter Five.

The Wounded Man.

It is needful now to return to Fort Dunregan.

The long winter is not yet past, but there are symptoms, as I have said, that it is coming to a close. Snow and ice are still indeed the prevailing characteristic of the region, but the air is no longer intensely cold. On the contrary, a genial warmth prevails, inducing the inhabitants to discard flannel-lined leathern capotes and fur caps for lighter garments. There is a honeycombed look about the snow-drifts, which gives them an aged appearance; and, above all, there is an occasional dropping of water—yes, actual water—from the points of huge icicles! This is such an ancient memory that we can scarce believe our senses. We sniff, too, as we walk about; for there are scents in the air—old familiar smells of earth and vegetation—which we had begun to fancy we had almost forgotten.

The excitement caused by the arrival of the winter packet had also by that time passed almost out of memory, and we had sunk back into that calm state of patient waiting which may probably be familiar to the convict who knows that some months of monotonous existence still lie before him; for, not until the snow and ice should completely clear away and the summer be pretty well advanced could we hope for the blessed sight of a new face and the cheering sound of a fresh human voice. Of course we had the agreeable prospect of hearing ere long the voices of wild-fowl in their noisy northern flight, but such a prospect was not sufficient to satisfy poor secluded humanity.

“Oh that I were a bird!” exclaimed Spooner, one morning as we were seated round the Carron stove in our hall.

“No need to wish that,” said Lumley, “for you’re a goose already!”

“Well, I’d even consent to be a real goose,” continued Spooner, “if I could only thereby use my wings to fly away over the snowy wilderness and alight in my old home.”

“What a surprise you’d give them if you did!” said Lumley, “especially if you came down with your ruffled feathers as clumsily as you tumbled into the saw-pit the other day when—”

He stopped, for at that moment I said “Hush!” and held up a finger.

“Sleigh-bells!” exclaimed Spooner, with a catch of his breath.

“Nothing new in that,” said Lumley: “we hear them every day.”

“Nothing new,” I retorted, “to your unmusical ear, but these bells are not our bells—listen!”

I started up as I spoke, flung open the outer door, and we all listened intently.

Clear and pleasant they rang, like the music of a sweet new song. We all gave a shout, clapped on our caps, and ran out to the fort gate. There an almost new sensation thrilled us, for we beheld a team of dogs coming up weary and worn out of the wilderness, preceded by a gaunt yet majestic Indian, whose whole aspect—haggard expression of countenance, soiled and somewhat tattered garments, and weary gait—betokened severe exhaustion. On the sled, drawn by four lanky dogs, we could see the figure of a man wrapped in blankets and strapped to the conveyance.

“Who can it be?” exclaimed Lumley, as he hastened out to meet the new arrivals.

“A sick man from somewhere,” suggested Spooner.

“Perhaps the governor,” said I, “on an unexpected tour of inspection.”

As we drew near we could see that the recumbent figure waved a hand and cheered.

“Macnab,” said I, as the familiar voice struck my ear.

“Ill—dying!” gasped the anxious Spooner.

“No dying man ever cheered like that!” cried Lumley, “except a hero of romance in the hour of death and victory!”

A few seconds more and the matter was put at rest, while we warmly shook the hearty and genial Highlander by both hands.

“Help me out, boys,” he said; “I’m tired o’ this sled, and think I can do the little remaining bit o’ the journey on foot with your help.”

We disentangled him from the sledge and set him on his feet.

“Hold on, Lumley,” he said, with a smile on his haggard and unshaven face, “I want to embrace you, like the Frenchmen. There—my arm round your neck—so. Now, Max, I want to embrace you likewise wi’ the other arm. I’ve grown awful affectionate in my old age. You are rather short, Max, for a good crutch, but you’re better than nothing. You see, I’ve only got one good leg.”

“But what has happened to the other—when, how, and where?” we exclaimed in chorus.

Macnab answered the questions to our chief, who came forward at the moment with welcome in his visage and extended hands.

“It’s only a cut, sir, stupidly done with my own hatchet when we had been but a few days out. But rest will soon put me to rights. My poor man, Big Otter, is more to be pitied than I. But for him I should have perished in the snow.”

“What cheer? what cheer?” said our chief, grasping the Indian’s hand on hearing this.

“What cheer?” we all exclaimed, following his example.

“Watchee! watchee!” echoed Big Otter, returning the hearty salutation as well as his tongue could manage it, and giving us each a powerful squeeze with his huge bony hand, which temporary exhaustion had not appreciably reduced in strength.

The native was obviously a sociable, well-disposed man, for his eyes glittered and his white teeth gleamed and his bronzed visage shone with pleasure when Macnab explained the cause of our sudden burst of affection for him.

Thus chatting and limping we got the Highlander slowly up to the hall, set him down in our only armchair—a wooden one without stuffing—and fetched him a basin of hot soup, that being a liquid which our cook had always more or less frequently on hand.

“Ha! boys!” cried Macnab, smacking his lips, “that’s the thing to put life into a man! I’ve not had anything like it for many a day. You see, we had a small misfortune soon after my accident, which cost us our kettle, and rendered soup or tea impossible.”

“How was that?” inquired our chief, sitting down, while we gathered round the stove to listen.

“Well, you see, sir, not long after my accident, there came a sharp frost which made the surface of the snow hard after the thaw, so the dogs could run on the top of the crust without breaking it, but Big Otter, bein’ heavy, broke through—by the way, I hope he’s bein’ looked after.”

“You may be sure of that,” said Spooner. “I saw him safely placed in the men’s house, and Salamander, who, it turns out, is a sort of relation of his, set to work to stuff him with the same sort of soup you think so much of. I only hope they’ve enough to keep him going, for before I left the house he had drunk off two bowls of it almost without taking breath, though it was scalding hot.”

“Good. He’ll do it ample justice,” returned Macnab, taking another pull at his own bowl. “I hope you’re well provisioned, for Big Otter’s an awful consumer of victuals. Well, as I was saying, the surface of the snow got frozen thinly, and the work o’ tramping after the sled and holding on to the tail-line was uncommonly hard, as I could see, for I lay with my head to the front, looping back on the poor man. But it was on the exposed places and going down the slopes that the greatest difficulty lay, for there the dogs were keen to run away. Once or twice they did fairly get off, and gave me some rough as well as long runs before my man could catch them up. At last we came one afternoon to an open plain where the snow had felt the thaw and been frozen again pretty hard. The moment we got on it away went the dogs. Big Otter tried to run, but one of his shoes went through the crust and the other didn’t, so down he came, and had to let go the line. I felt easy enough at first, for the plain was level, but after a time it became lumpy, and I got some ugly bumps. ‘Never mind,’ thought I, ‘they’ll be sure to come to some bushes, and that’ll pull them up.’ Just as I thought so, we came to a slope, and the team went slap over a bank. The sled and I threw a complete somersault. Fortunately we came down on the dogs, which broke our fall, though it half killed them!

“When Big Otter came and turned me right side up, I found that I had sustained no damage whatever, but, woe’s me! our tin kettle was almost knocked flat. The worst of it was that in trying to put it right we drove a big hole in the bottom of it, so we had to bid farewell to hot food, except what we roasted. We could also melt snow by plastering up the hole so as to get enough to drink, but boiling water was quite out of the question.”

“Well, Macnab,” said our chief, rising, “since you have got the soup over at last, come along with me and let’s hear about your Indian friend’s proposals.”

We assisted our visitor into the mess-room, which was also our principal council-chamber, and there left him to talk business with Mr Strang while we returned to Bachelors’ Hall to let off our effervescing spirits by indulging in a running commentary on the unexpected visit, and a minute analysis of the characters of Macnab and Big Otter, which, I must add, was decidedly favourable.

“It seems to me a piece of good luck that he has got here at all,” said Lumley, after we had finished the analysis.

“Why so?” asked Spooner.

“Because there are some unmistakable symptoms that winter is about over, and that snow-shoe and dog-sleigh travelling will soon be impossible.”

That Lumley was right, the change of weather during the next few days clearly proved, for a thaw set in with steady power. The sun became at last warm enough to melt ice and snow visibly. We no longer listened with interest to the sounds of dropping water from eaves and trees, for these had become once more familiar, and soon our ears were greeted with the gurgling of rills away in mysterious depths beneath the snow. The gurgling ere long gave place to gushing, and it seemed as if all nature were dissolving into liquid.

While this pleasant change was going on we awoke with song and laugh and story the echoes of Bachelors’ Hall—at no time very restful echoes, save perhaps in the dead hours of early morning; and even then they were more or less disturbed by snoring. For our sociable Highlander, besides having roused our spirits by his mere presence to the effervescing point, was himself much elated by the mighty change from prolonged solitude to joyous companionship.

“My spirit feels inclined,” he remarked one day, “to jump clean out of my body.”

“You’d better not let it then,” said Lumley, “for you know it might catch cold or freeze.”

“Not in this weather, surely,” retorted Macnab, “and if I did feel coldish in the circumstances, couldn’t I borrow Spooner’s blanket-capote? it might fit me then, for I’d probably be a few sizes smaller.”

“Come, Mac,” said I, “give us a song. You know I’m wildly fond of music; and, most unfortunately, not one of us three can sing a note.”

Our visitor was quite willing, and began at once to sing a wild ditty, in the wilder language of his native land.

He had a sweet, tuneful, sympathetic voice, which was at the same time powerful, so that we listened to him, sometimes with enthusiasm swelling our hearts, at other times with tears dimming our eyes. No one, save he who has been banished to a wilderness and long bereft of music, can understand the nature of our feelings—of mine, at least.

One evening, after our wounded man had charmed us with several songs, and we all of us had done what we could, despite our incapacity, to pay him back in kind, he pulled a sheet of crumpled paper out of his pocket.

“Come,” said he, unfolding it, “I’ve got a poet among the men of Muskrat House, who has produced a song, which, if not marked by sublimity, is at least distinguished by much truth. He said he composed it at the rate of about one line a week during the winter, and his comrades said that it was quite a picture to see him agonising over the rhymes. Before they found out what was the matter with him they thought he was becoming subject to fits of some sort. Now, then, let’s have a good chorus. It’s to the tune of ‘The British Grenadiers.’”

The World of Ice and Snow.

Come listen all good people who dwell at home at ease,

I’ll tell you of the sorrows of them that cross the seas

And penetrate the wilderness,

Where arctic tempests blow—

Where your toes are froze,

An’ the pint o’ your nose,

In the world of Ice and Snow.

You’ve eight long months of winter an’ solitude profound,

The snow at your feet is ten feet deep and frozen hard the ground.

And all the lakes are solid cakes,

And the rivers all cease to flow—

Where your toes are froze,

An’ the pint o’ your nose,

In the world of Ice and Snow.

No comrade to enliven; no friendly foe to fight;

No female near to love or cheer with pure domestic light;

No books to read; no cause to plead;

No music, fun, nor go—

Ne’er a shillin’, nor a stiver,

Nor nothin’ whatsomediver,

In the world of Ice and Snow.

Your feelin’s take to freezin’, so likewise takes your brain;

You go about grump-and-wheezin’, like a wretched dog in pain;

You long for wings, or some such things,

But they’re not to be had—oh! no—

For there you are,

Like a fixéd star,

In the world of Ice and Snow.

If you wished you could—you would not, for the very wish

would die.

If you thought you would—you could not, for you wouldn’t

have heart to try.

Confusion worse confounded,

Would aggravate you so—

That you’d tumble down

On the frozen ground

In the world of Ice and Snow.

But “never-give-in” our part is—let British pluck have sway

And “never-say-die,” my hearties—it’s that what wins the day.

To face our fate in every state,

Is what we’ve got to do,

An’ laugh at our trouble

Till we’re all bent double—

In the world of Ice and Snow.

Now all ye sympathisers, and all ye tender souls;

Ye kind philanthropisers, who dwell between the poles,

Embrace in your affections

Those merry merry men who go—

Where your toes are froze,

An’ the pint o’ your nose,

In the world of Ice and Snow.

It almost seemed as though the world of ice and snow itself had taken umbrage at Macnab’s song, for, while we were yet in the act of enthusiastically prolonging the last “sno–o–ow,” there sounded in our ears a loud report, as if of heavy artillery close at hand.

We all leaped up in excitement, as if an enemy were at our doors.

“There it goes at last!” cried Lumley, rushing out of the house followed by Spooner.

I was about to follow when Macnab stopped me.

“Don’t get excited, Max, there’s no hurry!”

“It’s the river going to break up,” said I, looking back impatiently.

“Yes, I know that, but it won’t break up to-night, depend on it.”

I was too eager to wait for more, but ran to the banks of the river, which at that place was fully a mile wide. The moon was bright, and we could see the familiar sheet of ice as still and cold as we had seen it every day for many months past.

“Macnab’s right,” said I, “there will be no breakup to-night.”

“Not so sure of that,” returned Lumley; “the weather has been very warm of late; melting snow has been gushing into it in thousands of streams, and the strain on the ice—six feet thick though it is—must be tremendous.”

He was checked by another crashing report; but again silence ensued, and we heard no more till next morning. Of course we were all up and away to the river bank long before breakfast, but it was not till after that meal that the final burst-up occurred. It was preceded by many reports—towards the end by what seemed quite a smart artillery fire. The whole sheet of ice on the great river seemed to be rising bodily upwards from the tremendous hydraulic pressure underneath. But though the thaws of spring had converted much snow into floods of water, they had not greatly affected the surface of the ice, which still lay hard and solid in all its wintry strength.

A greater Power, however, was present. If the ice had been made of cast-iron six feet in thickness, it must have succumbed sooner or later.

At last, as Macnab said, “She went!” but who shall describe how she went? It seemed as if the mighty cake had been suddenly struck from below and shattered. Then the turmoil that ensued was grand and terrible beyond conception. It was but an insignificant portion of God’s waters at which we gazed, but how overwhelming it seemed to us! Mass rose upon mass of ice, the cold grey water bursting through and over all, hurling morsels as large as the side of a house violently on each other, till a mighty pile was raised which next moment fell with a crash into the boiling foam. Then, in one direction there was a rush which seemed about to carry all before it, but instead of being piled upwards, some of the masses were driven below, were thrust deep into the mud, and a jam took place. In a few minutes the ice burst upwards again, and the masses were swept on to join the battalions that were already on their way towards the distant lake amid noise and crash and devastation. It seemed as if ice and snow and water had combined to revive the picture if not the reality of ancient chaos!

Thus the drapery of winter was rudely swept away, and next morning we had the joy of seeing our river sweeping grandly on in all the liquid beauty of early and welcome spring.

Chapter Six.

An Express and its Results.

Some weeks after the breaking up of the ice, as we were standing at the front gate of Fort Dunregan, we experienced a pleasant surprise at the sight of an Indian canoe sweeping round the point above the fort. Two men paddled the canoe, one in the bow and one in the stern.

It conveyed a message from headquarters directing that two of the clerks should be sent to establish an outpost in the regions of the far north, the very region from which Macnab’s friend Big Otter had come. One of the two canoe-men was a clerk sent to undertake, at Dunregan, the work of those who should be selected for the expedition, and he said that another clerk was to follow in the spring-brigade of boats.

“That’s marching orders for you, Lumley,” said Macnab, who was beside us when the canoe arrived.

“You cannot tell that,” returned Lumley. “It may be that our chief will select Max or Spooner. Did you hear any mention of names?” he asked of the new clerk, as we all walked up to the house.

“No, our governor does not tell us much of his intentions. Perhaps your chief may be the man.”

“He’s too useful where he is,” suggested Macnab. “But we shall know when the letters are opened.”

Having delivered his despatches, the new arrival returned to us in Batchelors’ Hall, where we soon began to make the most of him, and were engaged in a brisk fire of question and reply, when a message came for Mr Lumley to go to the mess-room.

“I’ve sent for you, Lumley,” said our chief, “to say that you have been appointed to fill an honourable and responsible post. It seems that the governor, with his wonted sagacity, has perceived that it would be advantageous to the service to have an outpost established in the lands lying to the westward of Muskrat House, on the borders of Lake Wichikagan. As you are aware, the Indian, Big Otter, has come from that very place, with a request from his people that such a post should be established, and you have been selected by the governor to conduct the expedition.”

As our chief paused, Lumley, with a modest air, expressed his sense of the honour that the appointment conferred on him, and his willingness to do his best for the service.

“I know you will, Lumley,” returned Mr Strang, “and I must do you the justice to say that I think the governor has shown his usual wisdom in the selection. Without wishing to flatter you, I think you are steady and self-reliant. You are also strong and big, qualities which are of some value among rough men and Indians, not because they enable you to rule with a strong hand, but because they enable you to rule without the necessity of showing the strength of your hand. Bullies, if you should meet with any, will recognise your ability to knock them down without requiring proof thereof. To say truth, if you were one of those fellows who are fond of ruling by the mere strength of their arms, I should not think you fit for the command of an expedition like this, which will require much tact in its leader. At the same time, a large and powerful frame—especially if united to a peaceable spirit—is exceedingly useful in a wild country. Without the peaceable spirit it only renders its possessor a bully and a nuisance. I am further directed to furnish you with the needful supplies and men. I will see to the former being prepared, and the latter you may select—of course within certain limits. Now go and make arrangements for a start. The lakes will soon be sufficiently free of ice, and you are aware that you will need all your time to reach your ground and get well established before next winter sets in.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Lumley, turning back as he was about to depart. “Am I permitted to select the clerk who is to go with me as well as the men?”

“Certainly.”

“Then I should like to have Mr Maxby.”

Our chief smiled as he replied, “I thought so. I have observed your mutual friendship. Well, you may tell him of the prospect before him.”

Need I say that I was overjoyed at this prospect? I have always felt something of that disposition which animates, I suppose, the breast of every explorer. To visit unknown lands has always been with me almost a passion, and this desire has extended even to trivial localities, insomuch that I was in the habit, while at fort Dunregan, of traversing all the surrounding country—on snow-shoes in winter and in my hunting canoe in summer—until I became familiar with all the out-of-the-way and the seldom-visited nooks and corners of that neighbourhood.

To be appointed, therefore, as second in command of an expedition to establish a new trading-post in a little-known region, was of itself a matter of much self-gratulation; but to have my friend and chum Jack Lumley as my chief, was a piece of good fortune so great that on hearing of it I executed an extravagant pirouette, knocked Spooner off his chair by accident—though he thought it was done on purpose—and spent five or ten minutes thereafter in running round the stove to escape his wrath.

As to my fitness for this appointment, I must turn aside for a few moments to pay a tribute of respect to my dear father, as well as to tell the youthful reader one or two things that have made a considerable impression on me.

“Punch,” said my father to me one day—he called me Punch because in early life I had a squeaky voice and a jerky manner—“Punch, my boy, get into a habit of looking up, if you can, as you trot along through this world. If you keep your head down and your eyes on the ground, you’ll see nothing of what’s going on around you—consequently you’ll know nothing; moreover, you’ll get a bad habit of turning your eyes inward and always thinking only about yourself and your own affairs, which means being selfish. Besides, you’ll run a chance of growing absent-minded, and won’t see danger approaching; so that you’ll tumble over things and damage your shins, and tumble into things and damage your clothes, and tumble off things and damage your carcase, and get run over by wheels, and poked in the back by carriage-poles, and killed by trains, and spiflicated in various ways—all of which evils are to be avoided by looking up and looking round and taking note of what you see as you go along the track of life—d’ye see?”

“Yes, father.”

“And this,” continued my father, “is the only mode that I know of getting near to that most blessed state of human felicity, self-oblivion. You won’t be able to manage that altogether, Punch, but you’ll come nearest to it by looking up. Of course there are times when it is good for a man to look inside and take stock—self-examination, you know—but looking out and up is more difficult, to my mind. And there is a kind of looking up, too, for guidance and blessing, which is the most important of all, but I’m not talking to you on that subject just now. I’m trying to warn you against that habit which so many people have of staring at the ground, and seeing and knowing nothing as they go along through life. I’ve suffered from it myself, Punch, more than I care to tell, and that’s why I speak feelingly, and wish to warn you in time, my boy.

“Now, there’s another thing,” continued my father. “You’re fond of rambling, Punch, and of reading books of travel and adventure, and I have no doubt you think it would be a grand thing to go some day and try to discover the North Pole, or the South Pole, or to explore the unknown interior of Australia.”

“Yes, father,” I replied, in a tone which made him laugh.

“Well, then, Punch, I won’t discourage you. Go and discover these places by all means, if you can; but mark me, you’ll never discover them if you get into the habit of keeping your eyes on the ground, and thinking about yourself and your own affairs. And I would further advise you to brush up your mathematics, and study navigation, and learn well how to take an observation for longitude and latitude, for if you don’t know how to find out exactly where you are in unknown regions, you’ll never be a discoverer. Also, Punch, get into a habit of taking notes, and learn to write a good hand, for editors and publishers won’t care to be bothered with you if you don’t, and maybe the time will come when you won’t be able to make out your own writing. I’ve known men of that stamp, whose penmanship suggested the idea that a drunk fly had dipped its legs in the ink-pud an’ straggled across his paper.”

These weighty words of my dear father I laid to heart at the time, and, as a consequence I believe, have been selected on more than one occasion to accompany exploring parties in various parts of the world. One very important accomplishment which my father did not think of, but which, nevertheless, I have been so fortunate as to acquire, is, sketching from Nature, and marking the course of rivers and trend of coasts. I have thus been able not only to make accurate maps of the wild regions I have visited, but have brought home many sketches of interesting scenes of adventure, which words alone could not have sufficed to pourtray.

But to return from this long digression. I set about my preparations without delay, and was soon ready with a small but very select amount of baggage. You may be sure also that Lumley was active in his preparations, and the result was that, on a fine afternoon in the early spring, we—that is, Lumley, Macnab, Big Otter, and I—set out on our expedition in a strong new boat which was manned by two Indians, two Scotchmen, and a number of Canadian half-breeds—all picked men.

I must not however, drag my readers through the details of our arduous voyage, not because those details are devoid of interest or romance, far from it, but because I have other matters more interesting and romantic to relate. I will, therefore, pass them over in silence, and at once proceed to the remote region where our lot at that time was to be cast.

One beautiful evening we encamped on the margin of one of those innumerable lakelets which gleam like diamonds on the breast of the great wilderness through which for many weeks we had been voyaging. The vast solitudes into which we had penetrated, although nearly destitute of human inhabitants, were by no means devoid of life, for aquatic birds of varied form and voice made sweet music in the air as they swept over their grand domains on whirring wing, or chattered happily in their rich feeding-grounds.

Those pleasant sounds were augmented by the axes of our men as they busied themselves in cutting firewood, and preparing our encampment.

The spot chosen was a piece of level sward overhung by trees and surrounded by bushes, except on the side next the little lake where an opening permitted us to see the sheet of water gleaming like fire as the sun sank behind the opposite trees. By that time we had traversed hundreds of miles of wilderness, stemming many rivers and rivulets; crossing or skirting hundreds of lakes which varied from two hundred miles to two hundred yards in length; dragging our boat and carrying our baggage over innumerable portages, and making our beds each night, in fair weather and foul, under the trees of the primeval forest, until we had at last plunged into regions almost unknown—where, probably, the foot of a white man had never before rested. On the way we had passed Muskrat House. There, with feelings of profound regret, we parted from our genial Highlander, promising, however, to send him an unusually long account of all our doings by the packet, which we purposed sending to headquarters sometime during the winter.

The particular duty which Lumley and I undertook on the evening in question was the lighting of the fire, and putting on of the kettles for supper. We were aided by our guide, Big Otter, who cut down and cut up the nearest dead trees, and by Salamander, who carried them to the camp.

“Three days more, and we shall reach the scene of our operations,” said Lumley to me, as we watched the slowly-rising flame which had just been kindled; “is it not so?” he asked of Big Otter, who came up at the moment with a stupendous log on his shoulders and flung it down.

“Waugh?” said the Indian, interrogatively.

“Ask him,” said Lumley to Salamander, who was interpreter to the expedition, “if we are far now from the lodges of his people.”

“Three times,” replied the red-man, pointing to the sun, “will the great light go down, and then the smoke of Big Otter’s wigwam shall be seen rising above the trees.”

“Good; I shall be glad when I see it,” returned Lumley, arranging a rustic tripod over the fire, “for I long to begin the building of our house, and getting a supply of fish and meat for winter use. Now then, Salamander, fetch the big kettle.”

“Yis, sar,” replied our little servant, with gleeful activity (he was only sixteen and an enthusiast) as he ran down to the lake for water.

“Cut the pemmican up small, Max. I’ve a notion it mixes better, though some fellows laugh at the idea and say that hungry men are not particular.”

“That is true,” said I, attacking the pemmican with a small hatchet; “yet have I seen these same scoffers at careful cookery doing ample and appreciative justice to the mess when cooked.”

“Just so. I have observed the same thing—but, I say, what is Big Otter looking so earnestly at over there?”

“Perhaps he sees a bear,” said I; “or a moose-deer.”

“No, he never pays so much attention to the lower animals, except when he wants to shoot them. He shakes his head, too. Let’s go see. Come, Salamander, and interpret.”

“Big Otter sees something,” said Lumley through Salamander as we approached.

“Yes, Big Otter sees signs,” was the reply.

“And what may the signs be?”

“Signs of wind and rain and thunder.”

“Well, I suppose you know best but no such signs are visible to me. Ask him, Salamander, if we may expect the storm soon.”

To this the Indian replied that he could not tell, but advised that preparation should be made for the worst.

It may be well here to remark that although Lumley and I, as well as some of our men, had acquired a smattering of the Indian tongue, our chief deemed it expedient to give us a regular interpreter whose knowledge of both languages was sufficiently extensive. Such an interpreter had been found in the youth whom we had styled Salamander, and whose real name I have now forgotten. This lad’s knowledge of Indian was perfect. He also understood French well, and spoke it badly, while his comprehension of English was quite equal to any emergency, though his power of speaking it was exceedingly limited. What he spoke could scarcely be styled a broken tongue; it was rather what we may call thoroughly smashed-up English! Such as it was, however, it served our purpose well enough, and as the lad was a willing, cheery, somewhat humorous fellow, he was justly deemed an acquisition to our party. While on this subject I may add that Blondin, who brought the winter packet to Dunregan, was one of our number—also, that both our Scotsmen were Highlanders, one being named Donald Bane, the other James Dougall. Why the first called the second Shames Tougall, and the second styled the first Tonal’ Pane is a circumstance which I cannot explain.

Among the French-Canadian half-breeds our blacksmith, Marcelle Dumont and our carpenter, Henri Coppet, were the most noteworthy; the first being a short but herculean man with a jovial temperament, the latter a thin, lanky, lugubrious fellow, with a grave disposition. Both were first-rate workmen, but indeed the same may be said of nearly all our men, who had been chosen very much because of their readiness and ability to turn their hands to anything.

Soon the kettles boiled. In one we infused tea. In another we prepared that thick soup so familiar to the Nor’-wester, composed of pemmican and flour, which is known by the name of robbiboo. From a frying-pan the same substances, much thicker, sent up a savoury steam under the name of richeau.

There was not much conversation among us at the commencement of the meal, as we sat round the camp-fire, but when appetite was appeased muttered remarks were interchanged, and when tobacco-pipes came out, our tongues, set free from food, began to wag apace.

“Dere is noting like a good souper,” remarked Marcelle Dumont, the blacksmith, extending his burly form on the grass the more thoroughly to enjoy his pipe.

“Shames Tougall,” said Donald Bane, in an undertone, and with the deliberate slowness of his race, “what does he mean by soopy?”

“Tonal’,” replied Dougall with equal deliberation, “ye’d petter ask his nainsel’.”

“It be de French for supper,” said Salamander, who overheard the question.

“Humph!” ejaculated Dougall and Bane in unison; but they vouchsafed no further indication of the state of their minds.

“You’re a true prophet, Big Otter,” said Lumley, as a low rumbling of distant thunder broke the silence of the night, which would have been profound but for our voices, the crackling of the fire, and the tinkle of a neighbouring rill.

Soon afterwards we observed a faint flash of lightning, which was followed by another and deeper rumble of heaven’s artillery. Looking up through the branches we perceived that the sky had become overcast with heavy clouds.

Suddenly there came a blinding flash of lightning, as if the sun in noonday strength had burst through the black sky. It was followed instantly by thick, almost palpable darkness, and by a crash so tremendous that I sprang up with a sort of idea that the end of the world had come. The crash was prolonged in a series of rolling, bumping thunders, as though giants were playing bowls with worlds on the floor of heaven. Gradually the echoing peals subsided into sullen mutterings and finally died away.

Chapter Seven.

A Tremendous Storm and Other Experiences.

It need hardly be said that we all sprang up when the thunder-clap shook the earth, and began hastily to make preparation for the coming storm. The broad flat branches of a majestic pine formed a roof to our encampment. Dragging our provisions and blankets as near as possible to the stem of the tree, we covered them up with one of our oiled-cloths, which were somewhat similar in appearance and texture to the tarpaulings of seafaring men, though light in colour. Then we ran down to the lake, carried all our goods hastily to the same spot, covered them up in like manner, and finally dragged our boat as far up on the beach as possible.

Several blinding flashes and deafening peals saluted us while we were thus employed, but as yet not a drop of rain or sigh of wind disturbed us, and we were congratulating ourselves on having managed the matter so promptly, when several huge drops warned us to seek shelter.

“That will do, boys,” cried Lumley, referring to the boat, “she’s safe.”

“Voilà! vite!” shouted Marcelle, our volatile son of Vulcan, as the first big drops of rain descended on him.

He sprang towards the sheltering tree with wild activity. So, indeed, did we all, but the rain was too quick for us. Down it came with the suddenness and fury of a shower-bath, and most of us were nearly drenched before we reached our pine. There was a good deal of shouting and laughter at first, but the tremendous forces of nature that had been let loose were too overwhelming to permit of continued levity. In a few minutes the ground near our tree became seamed with little glancing rivulets, while the rain continued to descend like straight heavy rods of crystal which beat on the earth with a dull persistent roar. Ere long the saturated soil refused to drink in the superabundance, and the crystal rods, descending into innumerable pools, changed the roar into the plash of many waters.

We stood close together for some time, gazing at this scene in silent solemnity, when a few trickling streams began to fall upon us, showing that our leafy canopy, thick though it was, could not protect us altogether from such a downpour.

“We’d better rig up one of the oiled-cloths, and get under it,” I suggested.

“Do so,” said our chief.

Scarcely had he spoken when a flash of lightning, brighter than any that had gone before, revealed to us the fact that the distant part of the hitherto placid lake was seething with foam.

“A squall! Look out!” shouted Lumley, grasping the oiled-cloth we were about to spread.

Every one shouted and seized hold of something under the strong conviction that action of some sort was necessary to avert danger. But all our voices were silenced in a dreadful roar of thunder which, as Donald Bane afterwards remarked, seemed to split the universe from stem to stern. This was instantly followed by a powerful whirlwind which caught our oiled-cloth, tore it out of our hands, and whisked it up into the tree-tops, where it stuck fast and flapped furiously, while some of our party were thrown down, and others seemed blown away altogether as they ran into the thick bush for shelter.

For myself, without any definite intentions, and scarce knowing what I was about, I seized and clung to the branches of a small tree with the tenacity of a drowning man—unable to open my eyes while sticks and leaves, huge limbs of trees and deluges of water flew madly past, filling my mind with a vague impression that the besom of destruction had become a veritable reality, and that we were all about to be swept off the face of the earth together.

Strange to say, in this crisis I felt no fear. I suppose I had not time or power to think at all, and I have since that day thought that God perhaps thus mercifully sends relief to His creatures in their direst extremity—just as He sends relief to poor human beings, when suffering intolerable pain, by causing stupor.

The outburst was as short-lived as it was furious. Suddenly the wind ceased; the floods of rain changed to slight droppings, and finally stopped altogether, while the thunder growled itself into sullen repose in the far distance.

But what a scene of wreck was left behind! We could not of course, see the full extent of the mischief, for the night still remained intensely dark, but enough was revealed in the numerous uprooted trees which lay all round us within the light of our rekindled camp-fire. From most of these we had been protected by the great pine under which we had taken shelter, though one or two had fallen perilously near to us—in one case falling on and slightly damaging our baggage.

Our first anxiety, of course, was our boat, towards which we ran as if by one impulse, the instant the wind had subsided.

To our horror it was gone!

Only those who know what it is to traverse hundreds of leagues of an almost tenantless wilderness, and have tried to push a few miles through roadless forests that have grown and fallen age after age in undisturbed entanglement since the morning of creation, can imagine the state of our minds at this discovery.

“Search towards the woods, men,” said Lumley, who, whatever he might have felt, was the only one amongst us who seemed unexcited. We could trace no sign of anxiety in the deep tones of his steady voice.

It was this quality—I may remark in passing—this calm, equable flow of self-possession in all circumstances, no matter how trying, that rendered our young leader so fit for the work with which he had been entrusted, and which caused us all to rely on him with unquestioning confidence. He never seemed uncertain how to act even in the most desperate circumstances, and he never gave way to discontent or depression. A gentle, good-humoured expression usually played on his countenance, yet he could look stern enough at times, and even fierce, as we all knew.

While we were stumbling in the dark in the direction indicated, we heard the voice of Salamander shouting:—

“Here it am! De bot—busted on de bank!”

And “busted” it certainly was, as we could feel, for it was too dark to see.

“Fetch a blazing stick, one of you,” cried Lumley.

A light revealed the fact that our boat, in being rolled bodily up the bank by the gale, had got several of her planks damaged and two of her ribs broken.

“Let’s be thankful,” I said, on further examination, “that no damage has been done to keel or gun’le.”

“Nor to stem or stern-post,” added Lumley. “Come, we shan’t be delayed more than a day after all.”

He was right. The whole of the day that followed the storm we spent in repairing the boat, and drying such portions of the goods as had got wet, as well as our own garments. The weather turned out to be bright and warm, so that when we lay down to rest, everything was ready for a start at the earliest gleam of dawn.

“Lumley,” said I, next day, as we rested after a good spell at the oars, “what would have become of us if our boat had been smashed to pieces, or bodily blown away?”

“Nothing very serious would have become of us, I think,” he replied with an amused look.

“But consider,” I said; “we are now hundreds of miles away from Muskrat House—our nearest neighbour—with a dense wilderness and no roads between. Without a boat we could neither advance nor retreat. We might, of course, try to crawl along river banks and lake shores, which would involve the wading or swimming of hundreds of rivulets and rivers, with provisions and blankets on our backs, and even then winter would be down on us, and we should all be frozen to death before the end of the journey. Besides, even if we were to escape, how could we ever show face after leaving all our supply of goods and stores to rot in the wilderness?”

“Truly,” replied my friend with a short laugh, “the picture you paint is not a lively one, but it is I who ought to ask you to consider. There are many ways in which we might overcome our supposed difficulties. I will explain; and let me begin by pointing out that your first error lies in conceiving an improbability and an impossibility. In the first place it is improbable that our boat should get ‘smashed to pieces.’ Such an event seldom occurs in river navigation, except in the case of going over something like Niagara. In the second place it is impossible that a boat should be blown bodily away. But let us suppose that, for the sake of argument, something of the kind had happened, and that our boat was damaged beyond repair, or lost; could we not, think you, fabricate a couple of birch-bark canoes in a country where such splendid birch-trees grow, and with these proceed to our destination?”

“Very true,” said I, “that did not occur to me; but,” I continued, waxing argumentative, “what if there had been no birch-trees in this part of the country?”

“Why then, Max, there would be nothing to prevent our placing most of our goods en cache, construct a small portable raft for crossing streams, and start off each man with a small load for Big Otter’s home, at which we should arrive in a week or two, and there set about the erection of huts to shelter us, begin a fishery, and remain until winter should set fast the lakes and rivers, cover the land with snow, and thus enable us to go back for our goods, and bring them forward on sledges, with aid, perhaps, from the red-men.”

“True, true, Lumley, that might be done.”

“Or,” continued my friend, “we might stay where the disaster overtook us, remain till winter, and send Big Otter on to tell his people that we were coming. When one plan fails, you know, all you’ve got to do is to try another. There is only one sort of accident that might cause us a deal of trouble, and some loss—and that is, our boat getting smashed and upset in a rapid, and our goods scattered. Even in that case we might recover much of what could swim, but lead and iron would be lost, and powder damaged. However we won’t anticipate evil. Look! there is a sight that ought to banish all forebodings from our minds.”

He pointed as he spoke to an opening ahead of us, which revealed a beautiful little lake, whose unruffled surface was studded with picturesque bush-clad islets. Water-fowl of many kinds were swimming about on its surface, or skimming swiftly over it. It seemed so peaceful that I was led to think of it as a miniature paradise.

“Come, Henri, chante, sing,” cried Lumley, with a touch of enthusiasm in eye and tone.

Our carpenter, Coppet, was by general consent our leading singer. He possessed a sweet tenor voice, and always responded to a call with a willingness that went far to counteract the lugubrious aspect of his visage. On this occasion he at once struck up the canoe-song, “A la claire fontaine,” which, besides being plaintive and beautiful, seemed to me exceedingly appropriate, for we were at that time crossing a height of land, and the clear, crystal waters over which we skimmed formed indeed the fountain-head of some of the great northern rivers.

The sudden burst of song had a wonderful effect upon the denizens of Clear Lake, as we named the sheet of water; for, after a brief momentary pause in their chatter—as if of incredulity and blazing surprise—they all arose at once in such myriads that the noise of their wings was not unlike what I may style muffled thunder.

Before the song was well finished we had reached the other end of the lakelet, and found that a deep river ran out of it in a nor’easterly direction. The current of the river was powerful, and we had not proceeded many miles down its course when we came to a series of turbulent rapids.

As we entered them I could not help recalling Lumley’s remarks about the risks we ran in descending rapids; but no thought of actual danger occurred to me until I saw Blondin, who was our bowman, draw in his oar, grasp a long pole with which he had provided himself, and stand up in the bow, the better to look out inquiringly ahead.

Now, it must be explained that the bowman’s is the most important post in river navigation in the Nor’-west—equal, at all events, to that of steersman. In fact the two act in concert; the bowman, whose position commands the best view of rocks and dangers ahead, giving direction, and the watchful steersman acting sympathetically with his long oar or sweep, so that should the bowman with his pole thrust the head of the boat violently to the right the steersman sweeps its stern sharply to the left, thus causing the craft to spin round and shoot aside from the danger, whatever it may be. Of course the general flow and turmoil of a rapid indicates pretty clearly to skilled eyes where the deepest water lies; nevertheless, in spite of knowledge, skill, and experience, disasters will happen at times.

“Monsieur,” said Blondin in French to Lumley, as we gained a smooth piece of water at the foot of a short rapid, “I know not the rocks ahead. It may be well to land and look.”

“Do so, Blondin.”

We ran the boat’s head on shore, and while the bowman and our leader went to look at the rapids in advance, most of our men got out their pipes and began to chat quietly.

Our scouts quickly returned, saying that the rapids, though rough, were practicable. Soon we were among them, darting down with what would have seemed, to any inexperienced eye, perilous velocity. The river at the place was about a hundred yards wide, with an unusually rugged channel, but with a distinctly marked run—deep and tortuous—in the middle. On both sides of the run, sweeping and curling surges told of rocks close to the surface, and in many places these showed black edges above water, which broke the stream into dazzling foam.

“Have a care, Blondin,” said our chief, in a warning voice, as the bowman made a sudden and desperate shove with his pole. A side current had swept us too far in the direction of a forbidding ledge, to touch on which might have been fatal. But Henri Coppet, who acted as steersman as well as carpenter, was equal to the occasion. He bent his lanky form almost double, took a magnificent sweep with the oar, and seconded Blondin’s shove so ably that we passed the danger like an arrow, with nothing but a slight graze.

That danger past we were on the brink of another, almost before we had time to think. At the time I remember being deeply impressed, in a confused way, with the fact that, whatever might await us below, there was now no possibility of our returning up stream. We were emphatically “in for it,” and our only hope lay in the judgment, boldness, and capacity of the two men who guided our frail bark—doubly frail, it seemed to me, when contrasted with the waters that surged around, and the solid rocks that appeared to bar our way in all directions. Even some of our men at the oars, whose only duty was to obey orders promptly, began to show symptoms of anxiety, if not of fear.

“Smooth water ahead,” muttered Lumley, pointing to a small lake into which the turbulent river ran about a quarter of a mile further down.

“All right soon,” I said, but just as I spoke the boat lightly touched a rock. Blondin saw that there was not sufficient depth in a passage which he had intended to traverse. With a shout to the steersman he thrust his pole over the side with all his might. The obedient craft turned as if on a pivot, and would have gone straight into a safe stream in another second, if Blondin’s pole had not stuck fast either in mud or between two rocks.

In a moment our bowman was whisked over the side as if he had been a feather. Letting go the pole he caught the gunwale and held on. The boat was carried broadside on the rocks, and the gushing water raised her upper side so high that she was on the point of rolling over when all of us—I think instinctively—sprang to that side and bore her down.

“Over the side, some of you,” cried Lumley, leaping into the water on the lower side, followed by six of us, including myself. Some of us were breast deep; others, on rocks, stood higher.

“Now—together—shove!—and hold on!”

There was no need to give us the latter caution.

Our boat shot into deep water and we all held on for life. Fortunately the more open part of the rapid had been gained. The steersman without aid could keep us in deep water, and, before we had fairly scrambled back into our places, we were floating safely on the quiet lake into which the river ran.

You may be sure that we had matter not only for gratulation but for conversation that night at supper; for, after discussing our recent adventure in all its phases, nearly every one of our party had numerous similar incidents to tell of—either as having occurred to himself, or to his friends. But the pleasure of that night’s intercourse and repose was materially diminished by a pest with which for some time previously we had not been much afflicted.

Who has not heard of mosquitoes? We may inform those who have never seen or felt them that they are peculiarly virulent and numerous and vicious and bloodthirsty in the swampy lands of North America, and that night we had got into a region of swamps. It may also, perhaps, be unknown to some people that mosquitoes do not slumber—unless, indeed, they do it on a preconcerted plan of relieving guard. Either there is a “day and night shift” or they do not rest at all. As a consequence we did not rest. Groans and maledictions were the order of the night. We spent much time in slapping our own faces, and immolated hundreds of the foe at each slap, but thousands came on to refill the ranks. We buried our heads under our blankets, but could not sleep for suffocation. Some of the men left their faces exposed, went to sleep in desperate exhaustion, after hours of fruitless warfare, and awoke with eyes all but shut up, and cheeks like dumplings. Others lay down to leeward of the fire and spent the night in a compound experience of blood-sucking and choking. One ingenious man—I think it was Salamander—wrapped his visage in a kerchief, leaving nothing exposed save the point of his nose for breathing purposes. In the morning he arose with something like a huge strawberry on the end of his prominent feature.

Indeed, it was a wearing night to follow such a trying day!

Chapter Eight.

Deep in the Wilderness we find our Home which is Shared with the Wild Beast, the Wild Bird, and the Savage.

Availing myself now of that wonderful power which we possess of projecting the mind instantaneously through space and time, I will leave our adventurous fur-traders, and, conveying my reader still deeper into the heart of the great wilderness, set him down on the margin of one of those lesser sheets of water which lie some distance in a south-westerly direction from that mighty fresh-water ocean called Athabasca.

This lake, although small when compared with the vast reservoirs which stud those northern wilds, is, nevertheless, of goodly dimensions, being about six miles in diameter, and studded here and there with numerous islets, some of which are almost bare rocks of a few yards in extent, while others are not less than a quarter of a mile in circumference, and thickly wooded to the edge.

It is a somewhat peculiar lake. It does not lie, as many lakes do, in the bottom of a valley, from which the spectator lifts his eye to surrounding heights, but rests in a little hollow on a height of land from many points of which the eye looks down on the surrounding low country. It is true, that in one direction, westward, a line of distant blue hills is seen, which are obviously higher than our lake, for the land rises gently towards them; but when you ascend a wooded knoll close by, the summit of which is free from underwood, it is seen at a glance that on all other sides the land is below you, and your eye takes in at one grand sweep all round the compass a view of woodland and plain, mound and morass, lake, river, and rivulet, such as is probably unequalled—certainly unsurpassed—in any other part of the known world.

Solitude profound—as far as men and their works are concerned—marked this lovely region at the time of our arrival, though there was the most telling evidence of exuberant animal life everywhere, to the ear as well as to the eye; for the air was vocal with the plaintive cries and whistling wings of wild-fowl which sported about in blissful enjoyment of their existence, while occasional breaks in the glassy surface of the water, and numerous widening circles, told that fish were not less jovial in the realms below. This was at last the longed-for Lake Wichikagan.

Man, however, was not altogether absent, though less obviously present, at that time. At the extreme western end of the lake, where the view of the regions beyond was most extensive as well as most beautiful, there was a bright green patch of land, free from underwood as well as trees—a sort of natural lawn—which extended with a gentle slope towards the lake; ending in a pebbly beach on which the waters rested so calm and pure that it was difficult to distinguish the line where dry land and water met.

A little to the right of this beautiful spot there grew a small clump of bushes, and in the midst of these there crouched two Indians. One was middle-aged, the other was entering on the period of early manhood, and a strongly marked resemblance in feature and form indicated plainly that they stood to each other in the relation of father and son. Both were clothed in leather, with the usual ornamentation of beads, scalp-locks, and feathers. Their faces, however, were not disfigured with war-paint—a sign that at that time they were at peace with all mankind.

It might have struck an observer, however, that for men of peace they were in suspiciously warlike attitudes. The elder savage stooped low to conceal himself behind the foliage, and held a long single-barrelled gun in readiness for instant action, while the youth, also stooping low, held an arrow ready fitted to his short bow. The eyes of both glared with expressions that might have been indicative of joy, hope, hate, revenge, expectation, or anything else you please—for a glare is unquestionably an ambiguous expression at the best, needing a context to expound it.

“Let two die,” muttered the elder redskin—of course in his own tongue. (I had the details from his own lips afterwards, and translate them as literally as may be.)

“Ho!” replied the son, without moving his glare from the direction from which the two doomed ones were expected to emerge.

Presently a flock of grey wild-geese came majestically along, close to the margin of the lake—flying low, as well as slow, and following the curvings of the shore as if in search of a suitable feeding-place at which to alight. The green of the natural lawn had evidently attracted these birds, for they skimmed over the bushes behind which our Indians crouched almost within pistol-shot.

Like statues the red-men stood until the geese were over them; then an arrow from the son’s bow quivered in the heart of one bird, and brought it fluttering heavily to the ground. At the same instant the echoes around answered to the father’s gun, and another goose lay dead upon the sward.

“Waugh!” exclaimed both Indians as they stepped forth and picked up their game.

These sons of the wilderness were not, however, very communicative, for they spake never a word more. Perhaps they were hungry, and it is well-known that hungry men are not sociable. At all events they maintained a profound silence while they cut down a small decayed tree, made a good fire, and prepared dinner, or—as the sun was beginning to decline at the time—I may call it supper.

The mode of preparation was simple. Of course they plucked the geese; an operation which revealed the fact that both birds were plump and fat. Next they split them open with their scalping-knives, and, going down to the lake, cleaned them out with the same weapons. Then, transfixing them on two pieces of stick, after the manner of red-men, they stuck them up before the fire to roast. The roasting did not take long, for they were either partial to underdone food or impatient, and began at once upon such portions of the birds as were first ready, by cutting them off and chewing away without removing the remainder of the roasts from the fire. By degrees the solid parts were devoured. Then the drumsticks and other extremities were picked; after that the merry-thoughts and smaller bones were cleaned, and not until every fragment of edible matter was consumed did father or son cease his toil or utter a word.

“Waugh!” exclaimed the father at last, regarding the skeleton of his meal with a sad look, as if grieved that all was over.

“Hough!” responded the son with a sigh of satisfaction, as he wiped his fingers on the grass and sheathed his scalping-knife. Then, searching in their little pouches, which contained flint steel, tinder, etcetera, they drew forth two little stone pipes with wooden stems, which they filled and began to smoke.

The first whiff seemed to break the magic spell which had hitherto kept them silent. With another emphatic “Waugh!” the elder savage declared that the goose was good; that it distended him pleasantly, and that it warmed the cockles of his heart—or words to that effect. To which the son replied with a not less emphatic “Hough!” that he was entirely of the same opinion. Thus, whiffing gently, letting the smoke slowly out of their mouths and trickling it through their nostrils, so as to get the full benefit—or or damage!—of the tobacco, those sons of the wilderness continued for some time to enjoy themselves, while the sun sank slowly towards the western horizon, converting every lake and pond, and every river and streamlet, into a sheet, or band, or thread of burnished gold. At last the elder savage removed his pipe and sent a final shot of smoke towards the sky with some vigour as he said, rather abruptly,—“Mozwa, my brother must be dead!”

“I hope not, father,” returned the youth, whose name, Mozwa, signifies in the Cree language “moose-deer,” and had been given to the lad because he possessed an unusual power of running great distances, and for long periods, at a sort of swinging trot that left all competitors of his tribe far behind.

“I also hope not,” said his father, whose name was Maqua, or “bear,” “but I am forced to think so, for when Big Otter promises he is sure to perform. He said to Waboose that he would be home before the berries were ripe. The berries are ripe and he is not home. Without doubt he is now chasing the deer in the happy hunting-grounds with his fathers.”

Waboose, to whom this promise had been made, was a favourite niece of Big Otter, and had been named Waboose, or “rabbit,” because she was pretty innocent, soft, and tender.

“My father,” said Mozwa, rather solemnly, “Big Otter has not broken his word, for all the berries are not yet ripe.”

He plucked a berry which chanced to be growing near his hand, as he spoke, and held it up to view.

“Waugh!” exclaimed the elder savage.

“Hough!” returned the younger.

What more might have been said at that time no one can tell, for the conversation was cut short by a sound which caused both Indians to listen with intense earnestness. Their eyes glittered like the eyes of serpents, and their nostrils dilated like those of the wild-horse, while each man gently moved his right hand towards his weapon.

And if the too inquisitive reader should ask me how I could possibly come to know all this, seeing that I was not there at the time, I reply that the whole matter was related to me with minute and dramatic power by young Mozwa himself not long afterwards.

There was indeed ground for the excitement and earnest attention of those red-men, for the sweet and distant notes of a Canadian canoe-song had at that moment, for the first time, awakened the echoes of that part of the Great Nor’-west.

The two men were not indeed ignorant of the fact that such songs were sung by Canadian voyageurs—Maqua had even heard some of them hummed once by the men of Muskrat House, when, a good while before, he had paid a visit to that remote trading-post—but never before had father or son listened to the songs sung in full chorus as they now heard them.

Spell-bound they waited until the sound of oars mingled with the gradually strengthening song. Then their fingers closed convulsively upon their weapons and they sprang up.

“What does my son think?”

“He thinks that the white man may be on the war-path, and it behoves the red-man like the serpent to creep into the grass and lie still.”

The elder savage shook his head.

“No, Mozwa. The white man never goes on the war-path, except to track down murderers. When he goes through the land he travels as the red-man’s friend. Nevertheless, it is well to be on our guard.”

As he spoke, the song, which had been increasing in strength every moment, suddenly burst forth with great power in consequence of the boat which bore the singers rounding a rocky point and coming into full view.

To sink into the grass, imitate the serpent and vanish from the scene, was the work of a few seconds on the part of Maqua and his son.

Meanwhile the boat, which I need scarcely say was ours, came sweeping grandly on, for the fineness of the evening, the calmness of the lake, the splendour of the scene, and the prospect of a good supper, to be followed by a good night’s rest lent fresh vigour to the arms as well as to the voices of our men.

“Hold on a bit, boys,” cried Jack Lumley, standing up in the stern and looking shoreward, “this seems a pretty good place to camp.”

“There is a better place a few yards further on,” said Big Otter, who pulled the stroke oar. “I know every foot of the country here. It is a soft—”

“What does Big Otter see?” asked Lumley, for the Indian had come to a sudden stop, and was gazing earnestly ahead.

“He sees the smoke of a fire.”

“Is it likely to be the fire of an enemy?”

“No—more like to be the camp of some of my people, but their wigwams are two days beyond this lake. Perhaps hunters are out in this direction.”

“We shall soon see—give way, lads!” said Lumley, sitting down.

In a few minutes the boat was on the beach. We sprang ashore, and hastened to the spot where a thin wreath of smoke indicated the remains of a camp-fire.

Of course we carried our arms, not knowing whom we should meet with.

After examining the spot carefully, Big Otter stood up and was about to speak to our chief, when a slight peculiar chirp was heard in the bushes. It is probable that we should have deemed it that of some small bird and paid no attention to it if our Indian had not suddenly bent his head on one side as if to listen. At the same time he replied to the chirp. Again the sound was heard, and Big Otter, turning round quickly, without uttering a word, entered the bushes and disappeared.

“Stand ready, lads!” said Lumley in a quiet voice, bringing forward the muzzle of his gun, “there’s no saying what may come of this.”

Scarcely had he spoken when a rustling was heard in the bushes. Next moment they were thrust aside and Big Otter reissued from them, followed by two Indians, whom he introduced to us as his brother and nephew. At the same time he gave us the gratifying information that his tribe had moved up from the region in which they usually dwelt for the purpose of hunting and fishing in the neighbourhood of the lake, and that the camp was not more than six or seven miles distant from the spot on which we stood.

To this Lumley replied by expressing his gratification at the news, and shaking hands with the two Indians, who, however, received the shake with some distrust and much surprise, until Big Otter explained the nature and meaning of the white man’s salutation. He also explained the meaning of “What cheer.” On hearing which Maqua, not to be outdone in politeness, extended his hand for another shake, and exclaimed “Watchee!” with profound gravity. Mozwa, with some hesitation, imitated his father’s example.

While we were thus pleasantly engaged, a sonorous trumpet sound was heard behind the clump of small trees near us. A moment later and two magnificent wild swans sailed over the tree-tops and above our heads. They made a tumultuously wild swoop to one side on discovering the near proximity of their enemy man but were too late. Almost before any of the party had time to move a muscle, two sharp cracks were heard, and both swans fell stone dead, with a heavy splash, at the margin of the lake.

It was our chief, Jack Lumley, who had brought them down with his double-barrelled fowling-piece. I have omitted to mention that Lumley was one of the noted crack-shots of the country at that time—noted not only for the deadly precision, but also for the lightning-like rapidity of his aim.

The Indians, albeit themselves pretty fair marksmen, were deeply impressed with this evidence of skill, and it went far to strengthen the influence which our chief’s manly proportions and genial countenance had already begun to exercise.

“That’s a good beginning, Lumley,” said I, “for it not only impresses our new friends favourably, but provides excellent fresh meat for supper.”

“Yonder comes better meat for supper,” he replied, pointing towards a neighbouring height, where we could see the forms of two men approaching, with the carcase of a deer between them.

It was Donald Bane and James Dougall who had been thus successful. These sons of the Scottish Highlands, being ardent sportsmen as well as good marksmen, had been appointed to the post of hunters to our party, and were frequently sent ashore to procure fresh meat.

“The country is swarmin’ wi’ game, Muster Lumley,” said Bane, as they came up, and flung down the deer. “Not only teer an’ rabbits, but tucks an’ geese, an’ all sorts o’ pirds. Moreover, Tougall, she got into a bog after wan o’ the peasts, an’ I thought I wass goin’ to lose him altogither. ‘Shames Tougall,’ says I, ‘don’t you go anither step till I come to you, or you’re a lost man,’ but Shames went on—he was always an obstinate loon—”

“Dat is true,” remarked Salamander.

“Hold yer noise!” said Bane. “Well, sur, Tougall went on, an’ sure enough the very next step down he went up to the neck—”

“No, Tonald,” interrupted Dougall, “it wass not up to the neck; it wass only to the waist. The nixt after that it wass up to the neck, but then I wass soomin’.”

“Ye would hey bin soomin’ yet, Shames, if I had not pulled ye oot,” said his friend.

“Oo ay, Tonald Pane. That iss true, but—”

“Well, Dougall,” interrupted Lumley at this point, “it will be better to dry your garments than discuss the question just now. We will encamp here, so go to work, boys.”

There was no need for more. During our long journey into these far-off wilds each man had fallen into his allotted place and work, and the force of habit had made us so like machines that I think if we had suddenly become a party of somnambulists we would have gone through the same actions each evening on landing.

Accordingly, Lumley and I gathered small branches and rekindled the Indians’ fire, which had by that time almost gone out. Marcelle Dumont being professionally a forger of axes, and Henri Coppet, being an artificer in wood, went off to cut down trees for firewood; and Donald Bane with his friend set about cutting up and preparing the venison, while Blondin superintended and assisted Salamander and the others in landing the cargo, and hauling up the boat.

“Max,” said Lumley to me that evening during an interval in our devotion to steaks and marrow-bones, “look around for a moment if you can tear your gross mind from the contemplation of food, and tell me what you see?”

He made a sweep with his arm to indicate the surrounding scenery, which was at the moment irradiated by the after-glow of the setting sun, as well as the brightening beams of the full moon.

“I see,” said I, looking up, “a lovely lake, dotted with islets of varied shape and size, with the pale moon reflected almost unbroken in its glassy waters.”

“What else do you see?” asked Lumley.

“I see around and beyond a prospect of boundless woodland, of plain, mound, hill, lake, and river, extending with a grand sweep that suggests ideas which can only be defined by the word Immensity. I see altogether a scene the like of which I never looked upon before—a scene of beauty, peacefulness, and grandeur which gladdens the eye to behold and fills the heart with gratitude to its Maker.”

“You say well, Max,” returned my friend, “and it seems to me that we may regard this Lake Wichikagan which we now look upon as our inheritance in the wilderness, and that the spot on which we now sit shall be, for some time at least, our future home.”

Chapter Nine.

A Bright Apparition—Followed by Rumours of War.

While we were thus feasting and chatting on the green sward of the region which seemed destined to be our future home, an object suddenly appeared among the bushes, near the edge of the circle of light cast by our camp-fire.

This object was by no means a frightful one, yet it caused a sensation in the camp which could hardly have been intensified if we had suddenly discovered a buffalo with the nose of an elephant and the tail of a rattlesnake. For one moment we were all struck dumb; then we all sprang to our feet, but we did not seize our firearms—oh no!—for there, half concealed by the bushes, and gazing at us in timid wonder, stood a pretty young girl, with a skin much fairer than usually falls to the lot of Indian women, and with light brown hair as well as bright blue eyes. In all other respects—in costume, and humble bearing—she resembled the women of the soil.

I would not willingly inflict on the reader too much of my private feelings and opinions, but perhaps I may be excused for saying that I fell over head and ears in love with this creature at once! I make no apology for being thus candid. On the contrary, I am prepared rather to plume myself on the quick perception which enabled me not only to observe the beauty of the girl’s countenance, but, what is of far more importance, the inherent goodness which welled from her loving eyes. Yes, reader, call me an ass if you will, but I unblushingly repeat that I fell—tumbled—plunged headlong in love with her. So did every other man in the camp! There is this to be said in excuse for us, that we had not seen any members of the fair sex for many months, and that the sight of this brilliant specimen naturally aroused many pleasant recollections of cousins, sisters, nieces, aunts, mothers, grandmothers—well, perhaps I am going too far; though, after all, the tender, loving-kindness in this girl’s eyes might well have suggested grandmothers!

Before any of us could recover the use of our limbs, Big Otter had glided rapidly towards the girl. Grasping her by the hand, he led her towards Lumley, and introduced her as his sister’s daughter, Waboose.

The red-man was evidently proud as well as fond of his fair niece, and equally clear did it become in a short time that the girl was as fond and proud of him.

“Your relative is very fair,” said Lumley. “She might almost have been the daughter of a white man.”

“She is the daughter of a white man.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; her father was a white hunter who left his people and came to dwell with us and married my sister. He was much loved and respected by us. He lived and hunted and went on the war-path with us for many years—then he was killed.”

“In war?” I asked, beginning to feel sympathetic regard for the father of one who had stirred my heart to—but, I forget. It is not my intention to bore the reader with my personal feelings.

“No,” answered the Indian. “He perished in attempting to save his wife from a dangerous rapid. He brought her to the bank close to the head of a great waterfall, and many hands were stretched out to grasp her. She was saved, but the strength of the brave pale-face was gone, and we knew it not. Before we could lay hold of his hand the current swept him away and carried him over the falls.”

“How sad!” said Lumley. “What was the name of this white man?”

“He told us that his name was Weeum—but,” said the Indian, turning abruptly to Waboose, whose countenance betrayed feelings which were obviously aroused by other matters than this reference to her lost father, “my child has news of some sort. Let her speak.”

Thus permitted, Waboose opened her lips for the first time—disclosing a double row of bright little teeth in the act—and said that she had been sent by her mother in search of Maqua and his son, as she had reason to believe that the camp was in danger of being attacked by Dogrib Indians.

On hearing this, Maqua and Mozwa rose, picked up their weapons, and without a word of explanation entered the bushes swiftly and disappeared.

Big Otter looked after them for a moment or two in grave silence.

“You had better follow them,” suggested Lumley. “If you should require help, send a swift messenger back and we will come to you.”

The Indian received this with a quiet inclination of the head, but made no reply. Then, taking his niece by the hand, he led her into the bushes where his relatives had entered and, like them, disappeared.

“It seems like a dream,” said I to Lumley, as we all sat down again to our steaks and marrow-bones.

“What seems like a dream, Max—the grub?”

“No, the girl.”

“Truly, yes. And a very pleasant dream too. Almost as good as this bone.”

“Oh! you unsentimental, unsympathetic monster. Does not the sight of a pretty young creature like that remind you of home, and all the sweet refining influences shed around it by woman?”

“I cannot say that it does—hand me another; no, not a little thing like that, a big one full of marrow, so—. You see, old boy, a band of beads round the head, a sky-blue cloth bodice, a skirt of green flannel reaching only to the knees, cloth leggings ornamented with porcupine quills and moccasined feet, do not naturally suggest my respected mother or sisters.”

For the first time in our acquaintance I felt somewhat disgusted with my friend’s levity, and made no rejoinder. He looked at me quickly, with slightly raised eyebrows, and gave a little laugh.

With a strong effort I crushed down my feelings, and said in a tone of forced gaiety:—

“Well, well, things strike people in strangely different lights. I thought not of the girl’s costume but her countenance.”

“Come, then, Max,” returned my friend, with that considerate good nature which attracted men so powerfully to him, “I admit that the girl’s face might well suggest the thought of dearer faces in distant lands—and especially her eyes, so different from the piercing black orbs of Indian squaws. Did you note the—the softness, I was going to say truthfulness, of her strangely blue eyes?”

Did I note them! The question seemed to me so ridiculous that I laughed, by way of reply.

I observed that Lumley cast on me for the second time a sharp inquiring glance, then he said:—

“But I say, Max, we must have our arms looked to, and be ready for a sudden call. You know that I don’t love fighting. Especially at the commencement of our sojourn would I avoid mixing myself up with Indians’ quarrels; but if our guide comes back saying that their camp is in danger, we must help him. It would never do, you know, to leave women and children to the mercy of ruthless savages.”

“Leave woman and children!” I exclaimed vehemently, thinking of only one woman at the moment, “I should think not!”

The tone of indignation in which I said this caused my friend to laugh outright.

“Well, well,” he said, in a low tone, “it’s a curious complaint, and not easily cured.”

What he meant was at the time a mystery to me. I have since come to understand.

“I suppose you’ll all agree with me, lads,” said Lumley to the men who sat eating their supper on the opposite side of the fire, and raising his voice, for we had hitherto been conversing in a low tone, “if Big Otter’s friends need help we’ll be ready to give it?”

Of course a hearty assent was given, and several of the men, having finished supper, rose to examine their weapons.

The guns used by travellers in the Great Nor’-west in those days were long single-barrels with flint-locks, the powder in which was very apt to get wet through priming-pans and touch-holes, so that frequent inspection was absolutely necessary.

As our party consisted of twelve men, including ourselves, and each was armed—Lumley and myself with double-barrelled fowling-pieces—we were able, if need be, to fire a volley of fourteen shots. Besides this, my chief and I carried revolvers, which weapons had only just been introduced into that part of the country. We were therefore prepared to lend effective aid to any whom we thought it right to succour.

Scarcely had our arrangements been made when the lithe agile form of Mozwa glided into the camp and stood before Lumley. The lad tried hard to look calm, grave, and collected, as became a young Indian brave, but the perspiration on his brow and his labouring chest told that he had been running far at the utmost speed, while a wild glitter in his dark eye betrayed strong emotion. Pointing in the direction whence he had come, he uttered the name—“Big Otter.”

“All right. I understand you,” said Lumley, springing up. “Now, boys, sharp’s the word; we will go to the help of our guide. But two of you must stay behind to guard our camp. Do you, Donald Bane and James Dougall, remain and keep a bright look-out.”

“Is it to stop here, we are?” asked Bane, with a mutinous look.

“Yes,” exclaimed our leader so sharply that the mutinous look faded.

“An’ are we to be left behind,” growled Dougall, “when there’s fightin’ to be done?”

“I have no time for words, Dougall,” said Lumley in a low voice, “but if you don’t at once set about preparation to defend the camp, I’ll give you some fighting to do that you won’t relish.”

Dougall had no difficulty in understanding his leader’s meaning. He and his friend at once set about the required preparations.

“Now then, Mozwa,” said Lumley.

The young Indian, who had remained erect and apparently unobservant, with his arms crossed on his still heaving chest, turned at once and went off at a swift trot, followed by all our party with the exception of the ill-pleased Highlanders, who, in their eagerness for the fray, did not perceive that theirs might be a post of the greatest danger, as it certainly was one of trust.

“Tonald,” said Dougall, sitting down and lighting his pipe after we were gone, “I wass vera near givin’ Muster Lumley a cood threshin’.”

“Hum! it’s well ye didn’t try, Shames.”

“An’ what for no?”

“Because he’s more nor a match for ye.”

“I don’t know that Tonald. I’m as stout a man as he is, whatever.”

“Oo ay, so ye are, Shames; but ye’re no a match for him. He’s been to school among thae Englishers, an’ can use his fists, let me tell you.”

At this Dougall held up a clenched hand, hard and knuckly from honest toil, that was nearly as big as a small ham. Regarding it with much complacency he said, slowly:—

“An’ don’t you think, Tonald, that I could use my fist too?”

“Maybe you could, in a kind o’ way,” returned the other, also filling his pipe and sitting down; “but I’ll tell ye what Muster Lumley would do to you, Shames, if ye offered to fight him. He would dance round you like a cooper round a cask; then, first of all, he would flatten your nose—which is flat enough already, whatever—wi’ wan hand, an’ he’d drive in your stummick wi’ the other. Then he would give you one between the two eyes an’ raise a bridge there to make up for the wan he’d destroyed on your nose, an’ before you had time to sneeze he would put a rainbow under your left eye. Or ever you had time to wink he would put another under your right eye, and if that didn’t settle you he would give you a finishin’ dig in the ribs, Shames, trip up your heels, an’ lay you on the ground, where I make no doubt you would lie an’ meditate whether it wass worth while to rise up for more.”

“All that would be verra unpleasant, Tonald,” said Dougall, with a humorous glance from the corners of his small grey eyes, “but I duffer with ye in opeenion.”

“You would duffer in opeenion with the Apostle Paul if he wass here,” said the other, rising, as his pipe was by that time well alight, and resuming his work, “but we’ll better obey Muster Lumley’s orders than argufy about him.”

“I’ll agree with you there, Tonald, just to convince you that I don’t always duffer,” said the argumentative Highlander, rising to assist his not less argumentative friend.

The two men pursued their labour in silence, and in the course of an hour or so had piled all the baggage in a circle in the middle of the open lawn, so as to form a little fortress, into which they might spring and keep almost any number of savages at bay for some time; because savages, unlike most white men, have no belief in that “glory” which consists in rushing on certain death, in order to form a bridge of dead bodies over which comrades may march to victory. Each savage is, for the most part, keenly alive to the importance of guarding his own life, so that a band of savages seldom makes a rush where certain death awaits the leaders. Hence our two Highlanders felt quite confident of being able to hold their little fort with two guns each and a large supply of ammunition.

Meanwhile Mozwa continued his rapid trot through wood and brake; over swamp, and plain, and grassy mound. Being all of us by that time strong in wind and limb, we followed him without difficulty.

“Lads, be careful,” said Lumley, as we went along, “that no shot is fired, whatever happens, until I give the word. You see, Max,” he continued in a lower tone, “nothing but the sternest necessity will induce me to shed human blood. I am here to open up trade with the natives, not to fight them, or mix myself up in their quarrels. At the same time it would be bad policy to stand aloof while the tribes we have come to benefit, and of which our guide is a member, are assailed by enemies. We must try what we can do to make peace, and risk something in the attempt.”

Arrived at the Indian camp, we found a band of braves just on the point of leaving it, although by that time it was quite dark. The tribe—or rather that portion of it which was encamped in leathern wigwams, on one of the grassy mounds with which the country abounded—consisted of some hundred families, and the women and children were moving about in great excitement, while the warriors were preparing to leave. I was struck, however, by the calm and dignified bearing of one white-haired patriarch, who stood in the opening of his wigwam, talking to a number of the elder men and women who crowded round him. He was the old chief of the tribe; and, being no longer able to go on the war-path, remained with the aged men and the youths, whose duty it was to guard the camp.

“My children,” he said, as we came up, “fear not. The Great Spirit is with us, for our cause is just. He has sent Big Otter back to us in good time, and, see, has He not also sent white men to help us?”

The war-party was detained on our arrival until we should hold a palaver with the old chief and principal braves. We soon ascertained that the cause of disagreement between the two tribes, and of the declaration of war, was a mere trifle, strongly resembling in that respect the causes of most wars among civilised nations! A brave of the one tribe had insultingly remarked that a warrior of the other tribe had claimed the carcase of a moose-deer which had been mortally wounded, and tracked, and slain by him, the insulter. The insulted one vowed that he shot the deer dead—he would scorn to wound a deer at all—and had left it in hiding until he could obtain assistance to fetch the meat. Young hotheads on both sides fomented the quarrel until older heads were forced to take the matter up; they became sympathetically inflamed, and, finally, war to the knife was declared. No blood had yet been shed, but it was understood by Big Otter’s friends—who were really the injured party—that their foes had sent away their women and children, preparatory to a descent on them.

“Now, Salamander,” said Lumley, who, although he had considerably increased his knowledge of the Indian language by conversing with the guide during our voyage, preferred to speak through an interpreter when he had anything important to say, “tell the old chief that this war-party must not go forth. Tell him that the great white chief who guides the affairs of the traders, has sent me to trade furs in this region, and that I will not permit fighting.”

This was such a bold—almost presumptuous, way of putting the matter that the old red chief looked at the young white chief in surprise; but as there was neither bluster nor presumption in the calm countenance of Lumley—only firmness coupled with extreme good humour—he felt somewhat disconcerted.

“How will my white brother prevent war?” asked the old chief, whose name was Muskrat.

“By packing up my goods, and going elsewhere,” replied Lumley directly, without an instant’s hesitation, in the Indian tongue.

At this, there was an elongation of the faces of the men who heard it, and something like a soft groan from the squaws who listened in the background.

“That would be a sad calamity,” said old Muskrat, “and I have no wish to fight; but how will the young white chief prevent our foes from attacking us?”

“Tell him, Salamander, that I will do so by going to see them.”

“My young braves will be happy to go out under the guidance of so strong a warrior,” returned Muskrat, quite delighted with the proposal.

“Nay, old chief, you mistake me, I will take no braves with me.”

“No matter,” returned Muskrat; “doubtless the white men and their guns will be more than a match for our red foes.”

“Still you misunderstand,” said Lumley. “I am no warrior, but a man of peace. I shall go without guns or knives—and alone, except that I will ask young Mozwa to guide me.”

“Alone! unarmed!” murmured the old man, in astonishment almost too great for expression. “What can one do against a hundred with weapons?”

“You shall see,” said Lumley, with a light laugh as he turned to me.

“Now, Max, don’t speak or remonstrate, like a good fellow; we have no time to discuss, only to act. I find that Muskrat’s foes speak the same dialect as himself, so that an interpreter is needless. I carry two revolvers in the breast of my coat. You have a clasp-knife in your pocket; make me a present of it, will you? Thanks. Now, have our men in readiness for instant action. Don’t let them go to rest, but let them eat as much, and as long, as they choose. Keep the old chief and his men amused with long yarns about what we mean to do in these regions, and don’t let any one follow me. Keep your mind easy. If I don’t return in three hours, you may set off to look for me, though it will I fear be of no use by that time; and, stay, if you should hear a pistol-shot, run out with all our men towards it. Now, Mozwa, lead on to the enemy’s camp.”

The young Indian, who was evidently proud of the trust reposed in him, and cared nothing for danger, stalked into the forest with the look and bearing of a dauntless warrior.

Chapter Ten.

Salamander Gives and Receives a Surprise, and War is Averted by Wise Diplomacy.

It has been already said that our interpreter, Salamander, possessed a spirit of humour slightly tinged with mischief, which, while it unquestionably added to the amusement of our sojourn in those lands, helped not a little to rouse our anxieties.

On returning to our men, after parting from Lumley, for the purpose of giving them their instructions, I found that Salamander was missing, and that no one could tell where he had gone. I caused a search to be made for him, which was unsuccessful, and would have persevered with it if there had not pressed upon me the necessity of obeying my chief’s orders to keep the savages amused. This I set about doing without delay, and having, like my friend, been a diligent student of the language on the journey, found that I succeeded, more than I had ventured to hope for, in communicating my ideas.

As the disappearance of Salamander, however, was the subject which exercised my mind most severely at the time, and as he afterwards gave me a full account of the cause in detail, I shall set it down here.

Being possessed that evening, as he confessed, with a spirit of restlessness, and remembering that our two Highlanders had been left to guard the camp at Lake Wichikagan, he resolved to pay them a visit. The distance, as I have said elsewhere, was not much more than six miles—a mere trifle to one who was as fleet as a young deer and strong as an old bear. He soon traversed the ground and came up to the camp.

At first he meant merely to give the men a surprise, but the spirit to which I have already referred induced him to determine on giving them a fright. Approaching very cautiously, therefore, with this end in view, he found that things were admirably arranged for his purpose.

Donald Bane and James Dougall, having finished their fortress in the centre of the open lawn, as already described, returned to their fire, which, it may be remembered, was kindled close to the edge of the bushes. There they cooked some food and devoured it with the gusto of men who had well earned their supper. Thereafter, as a matter of course, they proceeded to enjoy a pipe.

The night, besides being fine and calm, was unusually warm, thereby inducing a feeling of drowsiness, which gradually checked the flow of conversation previously evoked by the pipes.

“It is not likely the redskins will come up here to give us a chance when there’s such a lot of our lads gone to meet them,” said Bane, with a yawn.

“I agree with you, Tonald,” answered Dougall grumpily.

“It is quite new to hev you agreein’ with me so much, Shames,” returned Bane with another yawn.

“You are right. An’ it is more lively to disagree, whatever,” rejoined Dougall, with an irresistible, because sympathetic, yawn.

“Oo ay, that’s true, Shames. Yie-a-ou!”

This yawn was so effusive that Dougall, refusing to be led even by sympathy, yawned internally with his lips closed and swallowed it.

The conversation dropped at this point, though the puffs went on languidly. As the men were extended at full-length, one on his side, the other on his back, it was not unnatural that, being fatigued, they should both pass from the meditative to the dreamy state, and from that to the unconscious.

It was in this condition that Salamander discovered them.

“Asleep at their posts!” he said mentally. “That deserves punishment.”

He had crept on hands and knees to the edge of the bushes, and paused to contemplate the wide-open mouth of Bane, who lay on his back, and the prominent right ear of Dougall, whose head rested on his left arm. The débris of supper lay around them—scraps of pemmican, pannikins, spoons, knives, and the broken shells of teal-duck eggs which, having been picked up some time before, had gone bad.

Suddenly an inspiration—doubtless from the spirit of mischief—came over Salamander. There was one small unbroken egg on the ground near to Bane’s elbow. Just over his head the branch of a bush extended. To genius everything comes handy and nothing amiss. Salamander tied the egg to a piece of small twine and suspended it to the twig in such fashion that the egg hung directly over Bane’s wide-open mouth. At a glance he had seen that it was possible to lay a light hand on the inner end of the branch, and at the same time bend his mouth over Dougall’s ear. He drew a long breath, for it was a somewhat delicate and difficult, being a duplicate, manoeuvre!

Pressing down the branch very slowly and with exceeding care, he guided the egg into Bane’s mouth. He observed the precise moment when it touched the sleeper’s tongue, and then exploded a yell into Dougall’s ear that nearly burst the tympanum.

Bane’s jaws shut with a snap instantly. Need we—no, we need not! Dougall leaped up with a cry that almost equalled that of Salamander. Both men rushed to the fortress and bounded into it, the one spurting out Gaelic expletives, the other rotten egg and bits of shell. They seized their guns and crouched, glaring through the various loopholes all round with finger on trigger, ready to sacrifice at a moment’s notice anything with life that should appear. Indeed they found it difficult, in their excited condition, to refrain from blazing at nothing! Their friendly foe meanwhile had retired, highly delighted with his success. He had not done with them however. By no means! The spirit of mischief was still strong upon him, and he crept into the bushes to meditate.

“It wass an evil speerut, Shames,” gasped Donald Bane, when he had nearly got rid of the egg. “Did you smell his preath?”

“No, Tonald, it wass not. Spirits are not corporeal, and cannot handle eggs, much less cram them down a man’s throat. It wass the egg you did smell.”

“That may be so, Shames, but it could not be a redskin, for he would be more likely to cram a scalpin’ knife into my heart than an egg into my mouth.”

“Iss it not dreamin’ ye wass, an’ tryin’ to eat some more in your sleep? You wass always fond of overeatin’ yourself—whativer—Tonald.”

Before this question could be answered, another yell of the most appalling and complex nature rang out upon the night-air, struck them dumb, and seemed to crumple up their very hearts.

Salamander had been born with a natural gift for shrieking, and being of a sprightly disposition, had cultivated the gift in boyhood. Afterwards, being also a good mimic, he had made the subject a special study, with a view to attract geese and other game towards him. That he sometimes prostituted the talent was due to the touch of genius to which I have already referred.

When the crumpled-up organs began to recover, Bane said to Dougall, “Shames, this iss a bad business.”

Dougall, having been caught twice that evening, was on his guard. He would not absolutely agree with his friend, but admitted that he was not far wrong.

Again the yell burst forth with intensified volume and complicated variation. Salamander was young; he did not yet know that it is possible to over-act.

“Shames!” whispered Bane, “I hev got a notion in my hid.”

“I hope it’s a coot w’an, Tonald, for the notions that usually git into it might stop there with advantage. They are not much to boast of.”

“You shall see. Just you keep talkin’ out now an’ then as if I wass beside you, an’ don’t, whativer ye do, fire into the bushes.”

“Ferry coot,” answered Dougall.

Another moment, and Donald Bane glided over the parapet of their fort at the side nearest the lake; and, creeping serpent-fashion for a considerable distance round, gained the bushes, where he waited for a repetition of the cry. He had not long to wait. With that boldness, not to say presumption, which is the child of success, Salamander now began to make too many drafts on genius, and invented a series of howls so preposterously improbable that it was impossible for even the most credulous to believe them the natural cries of man, beast, demon, or monster.

Following up the sound, Donald Bane soon came to a little hollow where, in the dim light, he perceived Salamander’s visage peering over a ridge in the direction of the fortress, his eyes glittering with glee and his mouth wide-open in the act of giving vent to the hideous cries. The Highlander had lived long in the wilderness, and was an adept in its ways. With the noiseless motion of a redskin he wormed his way through the underwood until close alongside of the nocturnal visitor, and then suddenly stopped a howl of more than demoniac ferocity by clapping a hand on Salamander’s mouth.

With a convulsive wriggle the youth freed his mouth, and uttered a shriek of genuine alarm, but Bane’s strong arm pinned him to the earth.

“Ye dirty loon,” growled the man in great wrath, “wass you thinkin’ to get the better of a Heelandman? Come along with ye. I’ll give you a lesson that you’ll not forget—whatever.”

Despite his struggles, Bane held Salamander fast until he ceased to resist, when he grasped him by the collar, and led him towards the little fort.

At first, Salamander had been on the point of confessing the practical joke, but the darkness of the night induced him to hope for another escape from his position. He had not yet uttered a word; and, as he could not distinguish the features of the Highlander, it was possible, he thought, that the latter might have failed to recognise him. If he could give him the slip, he might afterwards deny having had anything to do with the affair. But it was not easy to give the slip to a man whose knuckly hand held him like a vice.

“Shames,” said Bane as he came near the fortress, “I’ve cot the peast! come oot, man, an’ fetch a stick wi’ you. I’ll ha’d ’im while you lay on.”

Salamander, who understood well enough what he might expect, no sooner heard Dougall clambering over the barricade than he gathered himself up for a tremendous wriggle, but received such a fearful squeeze on the neck from the vice-like hand of his captor that he was nearly choked. At the moment a new idea flashed into his fertile brain. His head dropped suddenly to one side; his whole frame became limp, and he fell, as it were, in a heap on the ground, almost bringing the Highlander on the top of him.

“Oh! the miserable cratur,” exclaimed Bane, relaxing his grasp with a feeling of self-reproach, for he had a strong suspicion that his captive really was Salamander. “I do believe I’ve killed him. Wow! Shames, man, lend a hand to carry him to the fire, and plow up a bit flame that we may see what we’ve gotten.”

“Iss he tead, Tonald?” asked Dougall, in a pitiful tone, as he came forward.

“No, Shames, he’s no tead yet. Take up his feet, man, an’ I’ll tak’ his shouthers.”

Dougall went to Salamander’s feet, turned his back to them, and stooped to take them up as a man takes a wheelbarrow. He instantly received a kick, or rather a drive, from Salamander’s soles that sent him sprawling on his hands and knees. Donald Bane, stooping to grasp the shoulder, received a buffet on the cheek, which, being unexpected, sent him staggering to the left, while the sly youth, springing to his feet bounded into the bushes on the right with a deep-toned roar ending in a laugh that threw all his previous efforts quite into the shade.

The Highlanders rose, but made no attempt to pursue.

“My friend,” said Bane, softly, “if that wass not an evil speerut, I will be fery much surprised.”

“No, Tonald, it wass not a speerut,” replied the other, as they returned to their fortress. “Speeruts will not be kickin’ an’ slappin’ like that; they are not corporeal.”

While these scenes were enacting on the margin of Lake Wichikagan, Lumley and Mozwa arrived at the enemy’s camp. It was a war-camp. All the women and children had been sent away, none but armed and painted braves remained.

They were holding a palaver at the time. The spot was the top of an open eminence which was so clear of underwood that the approach of a foe without being seen was an impossibility. Although the night was rather dark, Lumley and his guide had been observed the instant they came within the range of vision. No stir, however, took place in the camp, for it was instantly perceived that the strangers were alone. With the grave solemnity of redskin warriors, they silently awaited their coming. A small fire burned in their midst, for they made no attempt at concealment. They were prepared to fight at a moment’s notice. The red flames gleamed on their dusky faces, and glittered in their glancing eyes, as Lumley and Mozwa strode boldly into the circle, and stood before the chief.

Intense surprise filled the hearts of the warriors at this unexpected apparition of a white man, but not an eye or muscle betrayed the smallest symptom of the feeling.

“The pale-face is welcome,” said the chief, after a short pause.

“The pale-face is glad to meet with his dark-skinned brother, and thanks him,” returned Lumley.

If the surprise at the sudden appearance of the pale-face was great, the astonishment to find that he spoke the Indian tongue was greater; but still the feeling was not betrayed.

After a few short complimentary speeches, our hero came at once to the point.

“My brothers,” he said, looking round on the dusky warriors, who remained sitting all the time, “the white chief of the fur-traders has sent me into this country to trade with you.”

This statement was received with a “waugh” of satisfaction from several of the warriors.

“And,” continued Lumley, “I have brought men—strong men, who can work well—to help me to build a house, so that we may live among you and hunt together.”

He paused here to let the statement have its full effect. Then he continued:—

“I have also brought plenty of guns, and powder, and lead.”

Again he paused, and an emphatic “waugh” proved that the remark was fully appreciated.

“The white man knows,” continued Lumley, in a more flowing style, “that his red brothers have need of many things which they do not possess, while the white man is in need of furs, and does not possess them. It is for the good of each that we should exchange. The Great Spirit, who is all-wise, as well as all-good, has seen fit to scatter His children over a wide world, and He has given some of them too much of one thing, some of them too much of another. Why has He done so? May we not think that it is for the purpose of causing His children to move about the world, and mingle, and help each other, and so increase Love? Some of the bad children prefer to move about and steal. But there is no need. It is easier to do good than to do evil. If all men would help and none would steal, there would be more than enough for all.”

Again a pause. Some of the savages, who were thoughtful men, were greatly tickled in their minds by the arguments set forth. Others, who could not understand, were deeply impressed.

“Now,” continued Lumley, coming to the marrow of his discourse, “the red-men have more than enough of furs.”

“Waugh!” in a tone of emphasis, that implied “that’s true.”

“And the pale-faces have few furs, but want some very much.”

“Waugh?” interrogatively, in a tone that implied “what then?”

“Well, but the pale-faces are not poor. They are rich, and have far too much of many things. They have far too much of those pleasant sweet things called sugar and molasses (the Indians involuntarily licked their lips). Too much cloth as bright as the sun at setting, and as blue as the sky at noon (the Indian eyes glistened). Too many guns, and too much powder and shot (the savage eyes glared). They have more beads, and blankets, and hatchets, and tobacco, than they know what to do with, so they have sent some of these things here to be given to you in exchange for furs, and food, and leather.”

The waughs! and hows! and hos! with which these remarks were followed up were so hearty, that Lumley thought it best to make a considerable pause at this point; then he resumed:—

“But, my brothers,”—he stopped for a considerable time, and looked so grave, that the hearts of the red-men sank, lest the glorious vision which had been suddenly revealed to them, should be as suddenly withdrawn in some way.

“But,” repeated Lumley, again, with a sort of awful emphasis, “the pale-faces detest war. They can fight—yes, and when they must fight, they will fight, but they do not love fighting, and if they are to stay here and open up trade with their guns, and their powder, and their blankets, and beads, and cloth (he wisely went all over it again for the sake of effect), there must be peace in the land. If there is war the pale-faces will take all their good things and go away—waugh!”

Finishing off in the true red-man style, Lumley sat down with decision, as though to say, “Now, the ball is at your own feet, kick it which way you please.”

Then the chief of the savages rose with dignity, but with a tinge of eagerness which he could not altogether conceal, and said:—

“Let not my white brother talk of going away. War shall cease at his bidding. Let him and his pale-faced warriors fell trees, and build wigwams, and hunt. We have plenty furs—the black fox, the red fox, the beaver, the marten, the minks, the bear, and many other animals are plentiful. We will exchange them for the goods of the white man. We will bury the hatchet, and smoke the calumet of peace, and the sound of the war-whoop shall no more be heard in the land—waugh!”

“Are my brothers ready to go to the camp of Big Otter, and make friends at once?” asked Lumley.

This was a testing question, and for some time remained unanswered, while the chiefs and braves looked preposterously solemn. At last, however, they seemed to make up their minds, and the chief replied, “We are ready.”

That night the hostile savages met on the shores of Lake Wichikagan, and encamped with the fur-traders. Fires were lighted, and kettles put on, a royal feast was prepared; and the reunited tribes of red-men finally buried the war-hatchet there, and smoked the pipe of peace.

Chapter Eleven.

Lumley on Duty—Fort Wichikagan begins to Grow.

The bold and prompt manner in which peace was established among the contending savages of Lake Wichikagan did more to raise my friend Jack Lumley in their estimation than if he had fought a hundred successful battles, and subdued a nation of foes. It seemed to be felt on all hands that he was a man who could be trusted, and his pointed reference to the Great Spirit conveyed an impression that truth and justice must be his guiding principles.

And on this point these children of nature read his character correctly, for, as I have had frequent occasion to observe, my friend was strictly truthful, and, I might almost say, sternly just. Duty indeed was his pole-star—duty to God and man.

“Max,” he once said to me when we had got into a confidential chat beside our camp-fire, “let me advise you to take a sound view and a good grasp of what men call duty. There is a right and a wrong in everything that the mind or hand of man can be brought to bear upon. It is our duty to discover and do the right if we can—to recognise and avoid the wrong. True success in life depends upon this principle being acted on at all times, and in all things. Even what worldly men deem success—the acquisition of wealth, fame, etcetera—is largely dependent on strict regard to duty.”

Of course I heartily agreed with him in this matter, but I am free to confess that I feel woefully far short of the standard to which he attained. Perhaps a soft and somewhat undecided nature had something to do with my failure. I say not this by way of excuse but explanation. Whatever the cause, I felt so very far below my friend that I looked up to him as a sort of demigod. Strange to say, his affection for me was also very strong. He never seemed to perceive my weak points—but, then, he was of a large-hearted, generous disposition, and he came to be loved not only by me and the Indians, but by the men of the expedition, some of whom, although good workers, were rather turbulent fellows.

All things having been satisfactorily arranged, as detailed in the last chapter, we now set about preparation for wintering. The first point to settle was the site for our establishment, and a council of the whole party was called to settle it on the lawn-like spot on the margin of our lake where the first fire had been kindled.

“No spot could be better, I think,” said our chief, as we stood in a picturesque group around him, with Masqua, Mozwa, and several other Indians looking on. “The little rising ground and clump of wood at the back will shelter us from the north winds; the underwood on the east and west is sufficiently high to form a slight protection in those directions, and to the south the island-studded bosom of Lake Wichikagan lies spread out before us, to supply us with fish and water, and a cheering prospect.”

“And to remind Donald Bane and James Dougall,” said I, “of Loch Lomond or Loch Ness.”

“I rather think,” said Lumley, “that it strikes Dougall as having more resemblance to Loch Awe, if we may judge from the awesome expression of his face.”

“Weel, Muster Lumley,” returned Dougall with a slight smile, “not to spoil your choke, sir, it wass thinkin’ o’ the fush I wass, an’ wonderin’ if they wass goot fush.”

“Big Otter says they are good,” returned our chief, “and I think we may rely on his opinion. There’s a little stretch of rock over there, jutting out from the shore, which could be made into a capital pier for our boats and canoes without much labour. What say you, Henri Coppet; could not a few trees and some planks be easily fitted to these rocks?”

“Oui, monsieur—yes, sir—very easily,” answered the carpenter, in French.

“Ay, an’ wan or two big stones on the other pint o’ rocks there,” observed Donald Bane, “would make a goot breakwater, an’ a fine harbour, whatever.”

“And I’m sure nothing could be finer than the view,” said I, with feelings of enthusiasm.

“Well, then, since we all seem agreed on that point—here shall our house be raised,” rejoined Lumley, driving the point of a stick he carried into the ground. “Come now, boys, go to work. Max, you will superintend the placing of the goods in a secure position and cover them with tarpaulin in the meantime. We’ll soon have a hut ready. Dumont, set up your forge under yon pine-tree and get your tools ready. Overhaul your nets, Blondin, and take Salamander to help you—especially the seine-net; I’ll try a sweep this afternoon or to-morrow. Come here, Max, I want to speak with you.”

“Now, Max,” he said, when we had gone aside some distance, “see that you arrange the goods so that they may be easily guarded, and don’t let the redskins come too near. They may be honest enough, but we won’t throw temptation in their way. We shall want one of them, by the bye, to keep house for us. What say you to hiring Waboose?”

“Out of the question,” said I, quickly.

“Why so, Max?”

“Why, because—don’t you see—she’s far above that sort o’ thing, she’s quite a kind of princess in the tribe. Haven’t you noticed how respectful they all are to her? And, besides, she is so—what one might almost call ladylike. I am convinced that her father must have been a gentleman.”

“Perhaps so,” returned Lumley, with a quiet laugh; “well, we won’t insult her by asking her to fill such a position. Away to work now. I will sketch out the plan of our establishment. When the goods are all safe, send your men to fell heavy timber for the houses, and let them also cut some firewood. Off you go.”

In a few minutes we were all at work, busy as bees—carrying, hauling, cutting, hammering and chopping; while some of the Indians looked on, intensely interested, others assisted under the direction of Big Otter, and the woods resounded with the noise of the new-born activity.

Soon Blondin had a net down, and before evening we had caught enough of that splendid staple of the North American lakes, the whitefish, to supply us with a good meal and leave something over for our red friends.

I observed during these operations that, after planning, sketching, and measuring, our chief took his axe into the wood and felled a tall pine, from which he proceeded to remove the branches and bark. Towards evening he took a spade, and dug a deep hole in the ground on the most prominent part of the lawn, in front of what was to be our future home.

“Come now, four of you,” he said, “and help me to set up our flag-staff.”

I ran with three others to assist, and in another minute or two the end of the tall taper stick was dropped into the hole and fixed there. A hole had been already bored in the top and a rope rove through it, to which Lumley soon attached the corners of a small red bundle.

“Ho! lads,” he shouted, when all was ready, in a voice that rang out full and strong, “Fall in!”

We had previously been trained to obey this order with the utmost alacrity, by running towards our leader, carrying our loaded guns with us, and forming into line, so as to be ready for any emergency. It was a fancy of Lumley to drill us thus, and we fell in with his humour, most of us counting it a piece of fun to break off from what we chanced to be doing at the moment the order was given, and trying who should be first to reach the spot where he stood. As our guns were always loaded and primed, we never had to lose time in charging them.

On the occasion of which I write, we amazed and somewhat alarmed the Indians by our prompt action, for we stood together in a silent row in less than half a minute after the summons was shouted.

“I have called you up, lads,” said Lumley, “to take part in a little ceremony. Through the goodness of the Almighty we have been brought in safety and health to our new home. It is already part of the Queen of England’s dominions, and I now take possession of it in the name of the Hudson’s Bay Company. May God prosper and bless us while we stay here!”

He hoisted, as he spoke, the small red bundle, which when shaken out proved to be a flag on which were the letters HBC in white.

“Now, boys, send a volley at the new moon up there. Ready—present—fire! Hoorah!”

The crash of the united volley and the wild huzza which followed caused many a redskin’s heart to leap, and would doubtless have caused many a foot to run, but for the fact that their own redskin brother—Big Otter—was one of the firing party, and, perhaps, the wildest cheerer of the band!

The ceremony ended, orders were given to knock off work for the day, and set about the preparation oh supper.

The food was sweet that night, sweeter than usual, for we were very hungry; the stars were bright that night, brighter than usual, for we were very happy at the auspicious commencement of our sojourn; and our sleep was unusually sound, for we felt safer than ever under the guidance of a chief who had proved himself so capable of turning threatened war into peace. This being the condition of things, it was not surprising that we indulged in a longer rest than usual, and continued to slumber long after the sun had risen and converted Lake Wichikagan into a glorious sheet of silver.

It is true that our guide, with that sense of responsibility which seems to weigh heavy on guides even when asleep, had awakened at the usual hour of starting—daybreak—and, from the mere force of habit, had given forth his accustomed and sonorous “Lève! lève!”—rise, rise. From the mere force of habit, too, we all turned round to have a few seconds repose on our other sides before obeying the order, but suddenly light flashed into our minds, and various growls in varied keys saluted our guide.

“Go to sleep, men,” said our chief, with a half laugh, which ended in a sigh of contentment.

French growls of doubtful meaning issued from the lips of Dumont and Coppet, but Blondin condescended on no remark at all, unless “Pooh!” may be considered such.

“Hoots! man—heigh-ho!” remonstrated Donald Bane, while his comrade Dougall merely said, “Wow!” and followed it with a prolonged snore.

For myself, I felt inclined to laugh, but, being much too lazy to do so, turned over, and was instantly lost again in oblivion. The whole camp was immediately in the same condition, and thus, as I have said, we remained till the sun was high.

Soon after daybreak, however, the Indians began to stir in their camp—which lay a little apart from ours—and, ascending a slight eminence, whence they could look down on our slumbering forms at their leisure, squatted there and continued to gaze—perhaps to wonder how long we meant to rest. They were soon joined by others—men, women, and children—from the neighbouring camp. Self-restraint, at least in some matters, is a characteristic of the red-men, and they remained very patiently and silently there; even the children spoke in whispers, and gazed in solemn earnestness at our slumbering camp.

When we rose and began active preparations for breakfast, the little ones melted away—influenced either by fear or by the orders of their parents. They returned, however, in greater force than ever when we began the labours of the day. Being all more or less naked, they resembled a band of brown monkeys without tails, whose great eyes were capable of expressing only one powerful sentiment—that of surprise!

Thus, watched with deep interest by a large portion of the tribe, we proceeded to the erection of the first house.

“The Hall will stand here, Max,” said Lumley to me, as I approached him, bearing one end of a long squared log on my shoulder, the other end of which was carried by Big Otter, while Bane and one of the Canadians supported the centre of it. “Set it down there, lads—a little more this way—so.”

We laid the timber on the green sward facing the lake, in such a way that it corresponded with the front line of a large square which had been traced on the turf by Lumley.

“Stay with me, Max, I want your help and advice.” The men went back to the bush, from which, at the same moment, four others of our party issued, bearing a similar log.

It was laid at the other side of the square, parallel to the first one. In a few minutes the two end logs were carried up and deposited in their places. These logs had all been cut, squared, mortised at their ends, and fitted together in the woods before being brought to the lawn.

“Now, the question is,” said Lumley, as he stood with coat off, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and pencil and plan in hand, “shall we turn the front of the house a little more to the south or a little more to the east? We must decide that now, before fixing the framework together.”

“We should get more of the rising sun,” said I, “if we turned it more towards the east. And you know we shall not have too much of its beams in winter to gladden our hearts and eyes.”

“Right, Max, but then we might have too much of the east winds to trouble our toes and noses.”

“Still the view eastward,” said I, “is so extensive and varied—so full of sublimity.”

“While that to the southward,” urged Lumley, “is so soft and beautiful—so full of poetry and romance.”

“Come, Jack, don’t laugh at me. You know that I am not jesting; I mean what I say.”

“I know it, Max, but though I may seem to be half jesting, is it not possible that I, too, may thoroughly mean what I say?”

He pointed as he spoke to the southward, where certain combinations of light and shade thrown on the numerous islets as well as on the clouds—all of which were reflected in the clear water—presented a scene which it is easier to imagine than describe.

I at once admitted the justice of his remark, and it was finally settled that the house should face due south.

“Fix the frame together now, Coppet,” said Lumley to our carpenter, who came forward with a load of small timbers, “and let it face as it now lies. The ground is fortunately so flat that we won’t require much levelling of foundations. Now, the next thing, Max,” he added, turning to me and consulting the plan, “is this—have we made the best possible arrangement of our space? You see I am not much of an architect, but luckily we have not to contend with the civilised difficulties of lobbies and staircases.”

“You intend our palace to have only one storey, I suppose?” said I.

“Just so, Max. Arctic gales, you see, might carry a top storey off. We shall have no lobby at all—only a front door and a back door entering direct upon our hall. Of course I shall have a porch and door outside of each, to keep wind and snow out. Now, see here. There, you observe, is the foundation frame now being laid down. Well, one-third of the space in the middle is to be the hall—our drawing-room, dining-room, library, snuggery, smokery, public-room, etcetera, all in one. It will extend from front to rear of the building; but at the back, you see, I have marked a little oblong space which is to be boarded off as a sort of larder, and gun-room, and place for rubbish in general. It will extend along the width of the hall, leaving only space for the back door.”

“What a capital contrivance!” said I; “it will, besides being so useful, break in on the oblong shape of the hall and give variety of form.”

“Just so, Max; then the space left on each side of the hall shall be partitioned off into four rooms—two on either side—with the doors opening into the hall. No passages, you see, anywhere, and no wasted space. One room for me, one for you, one for Salamander, who is to be our man-servant as well as interpreter, and one for Blondin, whom I intend to make a sort of overseer of the men. We shan’t want a spare room, for we won’t be troubled much, I fear, with guests; but if such a blessing should ever descend on us, we can turn Blondin or Salamander out. They will have to mess with the men at any rate; and, by the way, we must start the men’s house and the store immediately, for I intend to carry on all three at the same time, so that we and the men and the goods may all get housed together.”

“Are you to have attics?” I asked.

“No; but there will be a space under the sloping roof, which can be turned into a garret, and may be reached through a trap-door by a movable ladder. As to windows, the hall is to have two—one on each side of the door, which will give the house the lively aspect of appearing to have two eyes and a nose. The bedrooms will each have one window in its side, and you may take the one looking eastward if you choose, Max. In winter these windows shall have double frames and glass to keep the cold out. Go now, my boy, and see to the foundation of the men’s house.”

Need I say that we all toiled with hearty good-will; for, although the weather was pleasantly warm at the time, we knew that the short-lived autumn would quickly pass and render a good roof over our heads most desirable.

Soon a pit-saw which we had brought with us was set to work, and planks began to multiply. Henri Coppet and his men swung their great axes, and trees began to fall around, and to take unwonted shapes. The ring of Marcelle Dumont’s anvil was heard from morn till eve, echoing through the wild-woods; and powerful bands, and nuts, and screws, of varied size and form, were evolved from our bundle of iron bars. Thus the whole party wrought with untiring energy, and our future abode began to grow.

At all this our red friends gazed with countenances expressive of inconceivable surprise and profound admiration.

Chapter Twelve.

A Narrow Escape—A Strange Meeting, and a Half-Revealed Mystery.

One afternoon, not very long after our arrival at Lake Wichikagan, Lumley and I found ourselves on the summit of a rising ground which was scantily clothed with trees, and from the top of which we could see the region all round like a map spread at our feet. We were out after a black bear whose footprints had led us to the spot.

“Bruin has escaped us this time,” said Lumley, “and I don’t feel disposed to go after him any further. You see, Max, I must be up early to-morrow to superintend Coppet at his water-mill, so I would advise resting here a bit to refresh ourselves at this spring, and then make tracks for home.”

He descended as he spoke towards a small basin in the rocks, into which fell a rivulet formed by the spring referred to, and flung himself down beside it. Seating myself at his side I said:—

“Coppet needs superintendence, I suspect, for although he is an excellent carpenter and reliable workman, I’m not sure that he understands complicated or large works—except, indeed, the building of houses; but then he has been taught that since he was a boy.”

“That’s just it, Max,” returned Lumley, filling the hollow of his hand with clear water for want of a better drinking-cup, “he can do anything which he has been taught, but I find that he cannot originate, and suspect that he has not a very deep knowledge of the strength of materials or the power of forces. The worst of it is that neither you nor I are very profound in such matters. However, we must do our best and make everything ten times stronger than there is any occasion for, and thus make up for the lack of engineering knowledge.”

“Shall you want my help to-morrow earlier than usual?” I asked.

“No—not till after breakfast.”

“Well then, as there is no necessity for my going to bed before my ordinary time, I’ll let you return alone, for I don’t feel at all disposed to give up this bear after tracking him so many hours. He’s only a small one, to judge from his footprints, and I am a pretty sure shot, you know.”

“Be it so, Max—but don’t be late, else I’ll have to send men to look for you!”

Lumley got up and left me—making a straight line for Fort Wichikagan, as we had named our outpost, and leaving me in a dreamy state of mind beside the spring.

It was a delightful afternoon in that most charming period of the American season which is styled the Indian summer; when mosquitoes, sand-flies, and all other insect-tormentors disappear, and the weather seems to take a last enjoyable fortnight of sunny repose before breaking into winter.

I fell into a pleasant reverie. The backwoods of the Great Nor’-west vanished from my mental view, and, with eyes half closed, I indulged in memories of home and all its sweet associations.

Bethinking me suddenly of my reason for remaining where I was, I sprang up, seized my gun, and began to follow the trail of the bear. Before descending from the eminence, however, I took a look round the landscape, and saw the figure of an Indian woman in the distance, proceeding towards our fort. Although too far-off to be distinguished by feature, I could clearly perceive the light-blue cotton kerchief which formed part of the dress of Waboose.

At once my interest in the bear vanished, and I began to follow the Indian girl instead. I had not seen her since the evening of our arrival at the lake, and I felt a strong desire to make further inquiries as to the circumstances of her father’s life among the Indians and his unfortunate death.

Waboose had not seen me. By making a wide and rapid détour I got in front of her and sat down on a fallen tree at a spot where she was sure to pass.

As she drew near, I could not fail to observe how graceful her port was, and how different from that of the other girls with whom her lot had been cast.

“Assuredly,” muttered I to myself, “her father was a gentleman!”

Leaving my gun on the bank on which I had been seated, I advanced to meet her. She showed a very slight symptom of surprise, and, I thought, of uneasiness, on seeing me, but made no remark until I had spoken. At first I was about to adopt the Indian style of address, and begin with “my red sister,” but the phrase, besides being false, appeared to me ridiculous; still, the ice had to be broken somehow, so I made a bungling plunge.

“Blue-eyes wanders far to-day from the wigwams of her—her—people?”

A gleam of surprise mingled with pleasure rippled over her pretty face when she found that I could speak to her in the native tongue.

“Yes,” she replied in the same language. “I have wandered far. I was the bearer of a message.”

As she volunteered no more I continued:

“If Waboose goes to her wigwam, will she object to the pale-face bearing her company?”

With something like a graceful inclination of the head, the Indian girl gave me to understand that she had no objection.

“An Indian!” thought I, “she’s a lady in disguise, as sure as I am a fur-trader!”

Of course I was careful not to give her, either by tone or look, the slightest hint of what was passing in my mind, and was about to continue my remarks, when a rustling in the bushes caused us both to look round quickly. The foliage parted next moment close to us, and before I had time to think a large brown bear bounded into the open space. It seemed to be taken as much by surprise as we were, and I have no doubt would have turned and fled if it had not been so near. It rose on its hind legs, however, to attack us, and then I perceived that it was not the small bear which Lumley and I had been tracking.

The blood rushed to my head when I remembered that the monster stood between me and the bank on which my gun was lying! Then the feeling that the helpless Indian girl was at its mercy filled me with feelings which are indescribable. Thought is swifter than the lightning-flash. Much more than I have written flashed through my brain during those two or three seconds, but one overmastering idea filled me—I would save her, or perish!

I glanced sharply round. To my surprise she had fled! So much the better. I could at least keep the creature engaged till she had got well away.

Drawing the small hatchet which like all Nor’westers I carried in my belt, I rushed at the bear and made a cut at its head with all the force that lay in my arm. Where the blow fell I know not, but apparently it was ineffective, for, with a quick vicious turn of its paw, the bear struck my weapon from my hand with such violence that it flew over the tree-tops as if shot from a catapult, and I stood unarmed—helpless—at the creature’s mercy!

The terrible feeling that death was so near almost unnerved me, but the thought of Waboose caused me to utter a roar of mingled rage and despair as I doubled my fist and launched it full against the monster’s nose!

At that moment a loud report at my ear deafened and almost stunned me. Next instant the bear lay dead at my feet. I looked round and beheld Waboose standing close to me with my gun in her hands!

“Noble heroine!” I exclaimed, but as I exclaimed it in English she did not understand. She had, indeed, a very slight smattering of that language—of which more hereafter—but “Noble heroine” was not at that time in her vocabulary!

Instead of trembling or looking pale, as I might have expected to see her, Waboose looked at me in the most composed manner, and with something on her lip that seemed to me like a smile of amusement. In some confusion, I thanked her for having saved my life.

She did not object to the thanks, but replied by asking me if it was the usual practice of white men to attack bears with their fists.

I could not help laughing at this.

“No, Waboose,” I replied, as I recharged my gun, “it is by no means usual; but when a man has no other weapon at hand, he is compelled to use his fists. And let me tell you,” I added, for I was somewhat nettled by the obvious laugh that nestled in the girl’s blue eyes,—“let me tell you that we English are pretty good at using our fists.”

“I know that,” she replied, becoming suddenly very grave as we walked on.

“You know that?” I repeated in surprise; “how came you to know that?”

“My dear father was English,” she answered in a low sad tone that smote me to the heart for having felt nettled—though I believe I did not show the feeling on my face or in my tone.

“Ah! Big Otter told me that,” said I, in an earnest tone of sympathy. “If it does not hurt her feelings too much to recall the past, I should like Waboose to tell me about her father.”

The girl looked at me in surprise. I had a fancy, at the time, that this was the result of the novel sensation of a man having any consideration for her feelings, for Indian braves are not, as a rule, much given to think about the feelings of their women. Indeed, from the way in which many of them behave, it is probable that some red-men think their women have no feelings at all.

In a low, melodious voice, and with some of that poetic imagery which marks the language, more or less, of all North American Indians, the girl began to speak—raising her eyes wistfully the while to the sky, as if she were communing with her own thoughts rather than speaking to me.

“My father was good—oh! so good and kind,” she said. “When I was small, like the foolish rabbit when it is a baby, he used to take me on his shoulders and run with me over the prairie like the wild mustang. Sometimes he put me in his bark canoe and skimmed with me over Lake Wichikagan till I fancied I was a grey-goose or a swan. Ah! those were happy days! No one can ever understand how much my father loved me. My mother loves me much, but she is not like my father. Perhaps it is the nature of the pale-faces to love more deeply than the red-men.”

Waboose uttered this last sentence as if she were questioning the sky on the point. I felt at the time that there was at least one pale-face who loved her better than all the red-men or women on earth, but a sense of justice caused me to repudiate the general idea.

“No, Waboose,” said I, firmly, “that is a mistake. Rough surroundings and a harsh life will indeed modify the heart’s affections, but the mere colour of the skin has nothing to do with it. The heart of the redskin can love as deeply as that of the white man—both were made by the same Great Master of Life.”

The girl cast her eyes meditatively on the ground and murmured simply, “It may be so.”

The reader must not suppose that I expressed my meaning in the Indian tongue during this conversation as clearly as I have set it down in English. No doubt I mangled the sentences and confused the ideas sadly, nevertheless Waboose seemed to have no difficulty in understanding me. I had certainly none in comprehending her.

I was about to ask Waboose to relate the circumstances of her father’s death while in the act of rescuing her mother, but feeling that it might cause her needless pain, and that I could get the details as easily from some of the Indians, I asked her instead where her father came from. She looked at me sadly as she replied—

“I cannot tell. My dear father had nothing to conceal from me but that. On all other things his heart was open. He spoke to me of all the wonders of this world, and of other places that my people know nothing of, and of the great Master of Life, and of His Son Jesus, who came to save us from evil, and of the countries where his white brothers live; but when I asked him where he came from, he used to pat my head and smile, and say that he would perhaps tell me one day, but not just then. I shall never know it now.”

“At all events you must know his name, Waboose?”

“His name was Weeum,” replied the girl quickly.

“Was that all?”

“All,” she replied with a quick look, “was not that enough?”

“Well, perhaps it was,” I replied, scarce knowing what to say. “And why did he give you the name of Waboose?” I asked.

“Because when I was small I was round and soft,” replied the girl, with a slight smile, “like the little animal of that name. He told me that in his own language the animal is called rubbit.”

“Rabbit, not rubbit,” said I, with a laugh.

“My father taught me rubbit,” returned Waboose, with a simple look, “and he was always right.”

I felt that it would be useless to press my correction, and therefore changed the subject by asking if her father had never tried to teach her English. Immediately she answered, with a somewhat bashful air—

“Yes, a leetil.”

“Why, you can speak English, Waboose,” I exclaimed, stopping and looking down at her with increasing interest.

“No—note mush, but me un’erstan’ good—deal,” she returned, with a hearty laugh at my expression.

I found on trial, however, that the girl’s knowledge of English was so slight that we could not readily converse in it. We therefore fell back on the Indian tongue.

“I wish I had known your father, Waboose,” I said earnestly. “He must have been a very good man.”

She looked at me gratefully.

“Yes,” she returned, “he was very good.”

As she said this Waboose cast on me a look which I could not understand; it was so intense, as if she were trying to read my thoughts, and at the same time seemed mingled with doubt. Then, with some hesitation, she said—

“My father left a secret with me. He told me never to show it to my tribe, as they could not understand it—not even to my mother.”

“What is the secret, Waboose?” I asked, seeing that she hesitated again and looked at me with another of her searching glances.

“I do not know,” she replied.

“It must indeed be a secret, if none of your people know it, and you don’t know it yourself,” I returned with a peculiar smile.

“It is a written secret, I believe, but I—I—do not know. He told me never to show it to any but a white man—to one whom I felt that I could trust. May I trust you?” she asked, looking me full in the face.

The question naturally surprised as well as flattered me.

“You may trust me, Waboose,” I said earnestly, laying my hand involuntarily on my heart, “I would die rather than deceive or injure you.”

She seemed satisfied and resumed in a low tone—

“Not long before my dear father died he took me into the woods to walk in a place that we were both fond of. We had long sweet talks in that wood; sometimes walking under the trees, sometimes sitting on the hill-tops, and always happy—very happy! One day he looked sad. He took my hand as we sat together on a bank. He said, ‘I have sometimes longed to open up all my heart to you, my rubbit,’ (he was fond of calling me by the English name), ‘but I cannot do so yet.’”

“‘Why not, my father?’ I asked.

“‘Because—because—’ he answered, ‘it could do no good, and it might do harm. No, my rubbit, the time may come, but not now—not yet. Listen; for your mother’s sake I left the home of the pale-faces and came to live with your tribe. For her sake I shall remain. But you know that life is uncertain. We cannot tell when the Great Master of Life may call us away. Sometimes he calls us suddenly and we are forced to leave our works unfinished. I may be called away thus, before the time comes when I may tell you what I want you to know. If so, you will find it all here.’

“My father took from the breast of his coat a small bundle wrapped in birch-bark and placed it in my hands.

“‘Do not open it,’ he said. ‘Do not show it to man or woman in the tribe. They could not understand, but if ever a white man comes here, whom you feel that you can trust, show it to him.’

“My father rose as he said this, and as he seemed to wish not to speak more about it, I did not trouble him, but I went and hid the parcel with care. It was almost immediately afterwards that my dear father was taken from me.”

We were suddenly interrupted at this point by the appearance of a man in the distance walking smartly towards us. I could perceive, as he drew near, that it was James Dougall.

“Well, well, Muster Maxby,” he said on coming up, “it’s gled I am to find you. I’ve been seekin’ you far an’ near.”

“Nothing wrong, I hope, Dougall,” said I with some anxiety, on observing that the man was perspiring and panting vehemently.

“No, no, nothin’ wrong, Muster Maxby, only it’s runnin’ aboot the wuds I’ve been, lookin’ for ye an’ skirlin’ like a pair o’ pipes. We’re aboot to draw the seine-net, ye see, an’ Tonald Pane said it would be a peety, says he, to begin when ye wur awa’, an’ Muster Lumley agreet wi’ um, an’ sent me oot to seek for ’ee—that’s a’.”

“Come along then, Dougall, we won’t keep them waiting.”

Nodding adieu to Waboose, I hurried away towards Fort Wichikagan, followed by the sturdy Highlander.

Chapter Thirteen.

Fishing and its Results—Engineering and its Consequences.

I found on reaching Wichikagan that the fun was about to begin. Blondin, who was our chief fisherman, had let down a long seine-net, which was being drawn slowly in by a band of natives, whose interest in a process which they had never before seen was deepening into excitement, as they observed here and there a symptom of something shooting below the surface of the still water, or beheld a large fish leap frantically into the air.

At first, when the net was being prepared, those children of the forest had merely stood by and looked on with curiosity. When Blondin and his men rowed out from the shore, letting the net drop off the stern of our boat as they went, they indulged in a few guesses and undertoned remarks. When the boat gradually swept round and turned shoreward again, having left a long line of floats in its wake, they perceived that a large sheet of water had been enclosed, and a feeling of wonder, combined with a half guess as to what all this portended caused their black orbs to enlarge, and the whites thereof to glisten. But when they were requested to lay hold of a rope attached to the other end of the net and haul, the true state of the case burst upon their awakened minds and proportionate excitement followed.

As the circle of the net diminished and the evidences, above referred to, of life in the water became more frequent, gleeful expectation took the place of wonder, and a disposition to chatter manifested itself, especially among the women and children, who by that time had eagerly laid hold of the drag-rope.

Soon it became apparent that a mighty mass of fish had been enclosed, and the creatures seemed themselves to become suddenly alive to their danger, for the crowded condition of their element—which, no doubt, caused only surprise at first—became so inconvenient that with one accord they made a terrified rush to the right. Failing to obtain relief they turned and rushed to the left. Discomfited again, they dashed lakeward. Each rush was followed by a howl of anxiety from the natives; each failure was hailed with a yell of joy. Three birch-bark canoes followed the net to send the more obstreperous of the fish shoreward. Finding that they could not escape, the finny prisoners seemed to lose their wits and took to rushing skyward, with splashing consequences that almost drove the red-men mad!

“Hold on! not so hard! You’ll break it!” shouted Lumley to the men and women at the rope.

“What a tremendous haul!” said I, as I joined my friend, who stood at the outer end of our little wharf, enjoying the scene.

“I hope the net won’t break,” he replied. “If it does we shall lose them all, and the disappointment to the Indians might be almost too much to bear. See, they prepare for action!”

This was very obvious. The men of the tribe, who might be described as glaring maniacs, had dropped their robes, and, almost naked, ran waist-deep into the water in a vain attempt to catch some of the larger fish as they were slowly forced towards the beach. Even some of the women lost self-control and, regardless of petticoats, floundered after the men. As for the children, big and little, they developed into imps of darkness gone deranged.

Suddenly a very wave of fish was sent upon the shore, where, of course, they began to leap about wildly. Not less wildly did the Indians leap among them, throttling the big ones and hurling armfuls of the lesser ones high up on the sward.

By that time the net was close in shore. The whole of the enclosed space became a sweltering mass. Treading on the fish at last, many of both men and boys slipped in the water, and fell down over head and ears, so that the spectacle was presented of human beings bounding out of the water in apparent emulation of their prey. The excitement was almost too much for them. Several of the boys were seen to rush up into the woods and dash back again, with no apparent reason except the desire to get rid of superabundant energy. One brave, in particular, so far forgot the characteristic dignity of the red-man, that he rushed up on the bank, bent forward, clapped a hand on each knee, threw back his head, shut his eyes, opened wide his mouth, and sought to relieve his feelings in one stupendous roar. But it would not do. He became suddenly solemn, glared again, and went at the fish more furiously than ever.

Our men in the canoes landed, and rendered assistance. Salamander was in one of the canoes which ran alongside of the wharf. The only other occupant was Donald Bane, who sat in the stern and steered. Salamander was greatly excited. As the canoe ran up to the wharf, the bow was thrust over the net-rope, and he gazed at the struggling creatures below with intense delight on his brown visage.

“You had petter take care,” said Donald Bane, as he grasped the edge of the wharf, and cautiously rose up, “for canoes are easily overturned.” But Salamander was too much engrossed to hear or reply. The Highlander, who had not forgotten the trick formerly played on him and his countryman by the interpreter, stepped carefully out on the wharf. As he did so, he gave the canoe a little tilt with his foot, and Salamander went head-foremost down among the fish!

A simulated cry of consternation broke from Donald Bane.

“Wow—wow!” he exclaimed, as Salamander’s head appeared with a number of little fish struggling in his hair, and a pike or jack-fish holding on to the lobe of his left ear, “the poor cratur! Tak a grup o’ my hand, man. Here! wow! but it seems a fery frundly jack-fush that—whatever.”

Amid much spluttering, Salamander was hauled out, and, regardless of his mishap, both he and Donald immediately joined the others in securing their prey.

“It wass a grand haul, man, Tonald,” said Dougall that night at supper.

“Oo ay, Shames. It was no that paad,” replied Donald.

And, truly, it was a grand haul; for, not only did we obtain enough of every species of fish that swarmed in Lake Wichikagan, to provide a right royal feast to ourselves and our red friends, but a good many were left over and above to form the commencement of a store for the future.

By that time we had fairly commenced the fishery with a view to a winter supply. The weather was still delicious, and had begun to grow cool at nights, but as there was yet no frost, all the fish we took had to be hung up by the tail, and thus partially dried. Afterwards, when the frost fairly set in, this hanging process was dispensed with, for fish, once frozen in those regions, remain perfectly fresh during the entire winter, so that those eaten in spring are quite as good as those consumed in autumn.

Lumley now set me to superintend the digging and constructing of an ice-house, which should be ready to receive in spring the ice that would be required to keep our provisions fresh during the following summer. It consisted merely of a shallow square pit or hole in the ground, over which a log hut was constructed. The pit we intended to floor with solid cubes of ice measuring about a yard on each side. This lowest foundation, in those northern ice-houses, never melts, but a fresh stratum is laid above it which is cleared out and renewed every spring, and it is amongst this that the meat or fish to be preserved is laid in summer.

Another piece of work that Lumley gave me to superintend at this time was the construction of a water-wheel and dam to drive our pit-saw. You see, I had a turn for mechanics, and was under the impression that my powers in that way were greater than they afterwards turned out to be. We were sitting at tea alone in our hall at the time the subject was mooted.

“Where have you sent the carpenter?” I asked, as I pushed in my pannikin for more of the refreshing beverage.

I must interrupt the thread of my narrative here for a moment to say that we took no crockery with us on that expedition. Our cups were tin pannikins, our plates were made of tin; our pots and kettles were either tin or copper. We had no sugar basins, or butter-dishes, or table-cloths, or any of the other amenities of civilised life. But everything we had was strong and serviceable, and the same may be said of the things we constructed. The deal tables and chairs made for us by Coppet were very strong if not elegant, and the plank walls and ceiling of our rooms were cheerful, though neither papered nor whitewashed. It has often struck me, while sojourning in the great Nor’-west, that civilised man surrounds himself with a great many needless luxuries which do not by any means add to his comfort, though the removal of them might add considerably to his distress.

But to return.

“Coppet is off,” said Lumley in reply to my question, “to get some timber for oars, as well as birch-bark to make a canoe or two; we must also set about making a new boat some day or other.”

“Lumley,” said I, “it has often occurred to me that it takes a terrible deal of time to cut trees into planks with our pit-saws, and occupies far too much of the time of two men who might be much more profitably employed.”

“True, Max—what then?”

“Why then,” said I, “what would you say if I were to construct a saw-mill!”

“I’d say you were a clever fellow,” replied my friend, with one of his knowing looks.

“But what say you to my making the attempt?”

“Do so, by all means, my boy—only don’t use up too many pit-saws in the attempt!”

I saw that he did not believe in my powers, and became all the more determined to succeed.

Accordingly, I went next day with Coppet and Dumont, on whom of course I depended for the carrying out of my designs, to examine the ground where the mill-dam was to be made.

“You see,” I explained, “we have a superabundance of water in the rivulet at the back of the fort, and by collecting it we may get any amount of power we please, which is of importance, because it will enable us to simplify the machinery.”

“Oui, oui, monsieur,” said Coppet, who either was, or wished to appear, very knowing on such matters.

“Now,” continued I, “here is a natural basin formed by rocks, which only wants a small dam at its lower end to enable us to collect water enough to drive the biggest mill in the world. By making our opening at the very bottom of the basin, the pressure of water, when it is full, will be so great that a very small water-wheel, without any multiplying gear, will suffice to drive our saw—don’t you see?”

“Oui, monsieur, oui,” answered Dumont, whose knitted brows showed that the worthy blacksmith was at least doing his best to understand me.

“Well, then,” I continued, “you see that we shall have no difficulty as to the dam. Then, as to the wheel, it will be a simple one of not more than four feet diameter, presented vertically to what I may term the water-spout, so that its axle, which will have a crank in it, will work the saw direct; thus, avoiding toothed wheels and cogs, we shall avoid friction, and, if need be, increase the speed easily, d’you see?”

“Bon, monsieur—good, good,” exclaimed Coppet, becoming quite enthusiastic in his appreciation of my plans.

“Of course,” I continued, “the saw can easily be fitted to a frame, and a very simple contrivance can be made to drive along the larger frame that will carry the logs to be sawn; but these are trifling matters of detail which you and I will work out at our leisure, Dumont.”

“Oui, monsieur, oui,” replied the blacksmith, with tighter knitted brows, and with a readiness of assent which I do believe the good fellow would have accorded if I had proposed to fit a new axis to the world.

“There is only one thing that troubles me,” said I: “how are we to gauge or estimate the force of our water-spout so as to regulate our mill when made? Do you understand such matters—the measurement of force—Coppet?”

The carpenter shook his head.

“That’s unfortunate. Do you, Dumont?”

“Non, Monsieur.”

“H’m! I’m sadly ignorant on the point myself,” I continued. “Of course I know that so many cubic feet of water will exert a certain pressure, but then I don’t know what that certain pressure is, nor how to find out how many cubic feet our somewhat irregular dam will contain. Nor do I know precisely the strength of the material required in the dam to resist the water.”

Dumont humbly suggested here that we could at all events act on the principle that guided Adam and Eve in the formation of their first water-mill, and find out by experiment. And Coppet said that we could get over the difficulty about the strength of materials by making everything ten times stronger than was required.

“You are right lads,” said I, much amused with the earnest manner in which they gave the advice. “Now let us go at it without delay, so that we may get into working order before the frost stops us.”

We set to with enthusiasm, and progressed with our labour much faster than I had expected. The natural basin to which I have referred lay just below a ledge of rock over which the rivulet flowed into it, forming a pretty deep pool about ten feet in diameter. Flowing out of this pool, it ran about twelve feet further through a narrow gorge, where it dropped over another ledge. Now, all that we had to do was to shut up the outlet of the narrow gorge with a strong dam, and so cause the pool to swell and rise into a small but very deep pond.

Our first step was to divert the channel of the brook so as to leave us free to construct the dam. The nature of the ground rendered this easy enough. Then, before going further, we made the trough which was to conduct the water out of the dam. It was made of four strong planks about ten feet long and eight inches wide, forming, so to speak, a square pipe. This we laid firmly in the bottom of the basin with its end projecting over the lower ledge. To the inner end we attached a perpendicular piece of wooden piping which rose several feet from the ground. This was meant to prevent mud and stones from getting into, and choking, the pipe.

This done, we laid some very large timbers over the pipe and across the opening of the gorge, above and between which we put heavy stones and large quantities of gravel—also turf and twigs, and all sorts of rubbish. Thus was the dam begun, and we continued the process until we raised it to a height of some twenty feet or so.

“What a magnificent pool it will be to dive in!” said Lumley, one day, when he came to see us at work.

“Won’t it,” said I; “especially in winter!”

“Whatever happens to your works, the dam, I think, will never give way,” continued Lumley; “it seems to me unnecessarily strong.”

Not to try the reader’s patience, I may say at once that we advanced with our labour without a hitch until it was nearly finished. To the opening in the pipe or spout we attached a powerful sluice by which to stop the flow desired, and, all being ready, broke down the dyke that had turned aside our stream, and let the water in. Of course we had constructed an overflow part of the basin by which to conduct the surplus water back to its proper channel below our works.

It was a trying moment when we first let the water in. Would it leak?—would it break down?—was in everyone’s mind. I had no fear as to the latter point, but felt uncertain as to the former. We had much longer to wait, however, for the filling than I had expected; but when at last it was full up to the brim, and the trees around were reflected on its surface, and no leak appeared anywhere, I could not resist giving a cheer, which was heartily taken up and echoed by our whole party—for we had all assembled to watch the result.

“Now, Coppet, lend a hand at the winch. We’ll open the sluice and observe the force.”

After a few turns our winch refused to move, and only a small part of the opening had been uncovered, from which the water was squirting furiously.

“Something wrong,” said I, looking down at the men below. “Just take a look, Salamander, and see what it is.”

Our lively interpreter went down on hands and knees and made an earnest examination, despite the squirting water.

“Oh! I sees. All right now,” he shouted, “heave away!”

“Get out of the way, then,” we cried, as we once more applied all our force to the winch. It turned with unexpected suddenness, the sluice flew up, and out came a straight column of water with extreme violence. It hit Salamander full in the stomach, lifted him off his legs, and swept him right down the gully, pitching him headlong over another ledge, where he fell with such force that his mortal career had certainly been ended then and there but for a thick juniper bush, which fortunately broke his fall. As it was, he was little the worse of his adventure, but he had learned a lesson of prompt obedience to orders which he did not soon forget.

I now planned a sort of movable buffer by which the force of the water-spout could be diminished or even turned aside altogether. It acted very well, and, under its protection, we set up the saw and started it. We were all assembled again, of course, at the first starting of the saw, along with a good many of our red friends, whose curiosity in our various proceedings knew no bounds.

Opening the sluice slowly, and fixing the buffer so as to turn at least three-quarters of the furious water-spout aside, I had the extreme satisfaction of seeing the saw begin to rip up a large log. It went on splendidly, though still with somewhat greater force than I desired. But, alas! my want of critical knowledge of engineering told heavily against us, for, all of a sudden, the sluice broke. The buffer still acted, however, and being needlessly strong, was, I thought, safe, but the hinges of the thing were far too weak. They gave way. The violent spout thus set free dashed against the wheel with its full force, turning it round with a whirr–r–r! that sent the saw up and down so fast as to render it almost invisible.

We stood aghast! What fearful termination to the machine impended we could not guess. A moment later and the crank broke, entangled itself with the wheel and stopped it. As if maddened by this additional resistance, the water-spout then swept the whole concern away, after which, like a wild-horse set free, it took a leap of full thirty feet—a straight column of solid water—before it burst itself on the ground, and rushed wildly down to the lake! It was a humiliating termination—and showed how terrible it is to create a power which one cannot control.

I draw a veil over the story here. My feelings forbid me to write more!

Chapter Fourteen.

Arrival of Strange Indians.

About this time a band of strange Indians came in with a large supply of valuable furs. They had heard, they said, of the establishment of the new post, and had gladly come to trade there, instead of making their customary long journey to Muskrat House.

The change to these Indians was, in truth, of the utmost importance, for so distant were some of their hunting-grounds from Macnab’s establishment, that nearly all the ammunition obtained there—the procuring of which was one of the chief desires of their hearts—was expended in shooting for mere subsistence on the way back to their hunting-grounds. It will be easily understood, then, that they received us with open arms.

By this time we were quite prepared for their visit. The two dwelling-houses for ourselves and the men were completed, so also was the store for our goods. There only remained unfinished one or two outhouses and our back kitchen, the latter a detached building, afterwards to be connected with the main dwelling by a passage. The store was an unusually strong log-house of one storey with a very solid door. It was attached to the side of our dwelling, with which it was connected by an inner door, so that we could, if necessary, enter it without having to go outside—a matter of some importance in case we should ever be forced to defend the fort.

I had just returned, much dispirited, from a visit to the camp of our own Indians, when this band of strangers arrived.

Remembering my last conversation with Waboose, and being very curious to know what were the contents of the mysterious packet she had mentioned, I had gone to the camp to visit her, but, to my extreme regret, found that Big Otter and several of the Indians had struck their tents and gone off on a long hunting expedition, taking their families with them—Waboose among the rest.

On finding, however, that strange Indians had arrived with a goodly supply of furs to trade, thoughts of all other matters were driven out of my mind, the depression of spirits fled, and a burst of enthusiasm supervened as the thought occurred to me that now, at last, the great object of our expedition was about to begin in earnest. I verily believe that the same spirit of enthusiasm, or satisfaction—call it what you will—animated more or less every man at the fort. Indeed, I believe that it is always so in every condition of life; that men who lay claim to even the smallest amount of spirit or self-respect, experience a thrill of justifiable pride in performing their duty well, and earning the approval of their official superiors. My own thoughts, if defined, would probably have amounted to this—

“Now then, here’s a chance at last of driving a good trade, and we will soon show the Governor and Council of the Fur-traders that they were well advised when they selected John Lumley as the chief of this trading expedition into the remote wilderness!”

“Come, Max,” cried my friend, whom I met hastening to the store as I arrived, “you’re just in time. Here’s a big band of redskins with splendid packs of furs. I fear, however, that what is our gain will to some extent be poor Macnab’s loss, for they say they used to take their furs to him in former years.”

“But, then,” said I, “will not the company gain the furs which used to be damaged, and therefore lost, on the long voyage to Muskrat? Besides, the Indians will now be enabled to devote the time thus saved to hunting and trapping, and that will also be clear gain.”

We reached the store as I said this, followed by a dozen Indians with large packs on their shoulders. These were the chief men of the tribe, who were to be attended to first. The others, who had to await their turn with what patience they could command, followed behind in a body to gaze at least upon the outside of the store—that mysterious temple of unknown wealth of which all of them had heard, though many of them had never seen or entered one.

Putting a large key into the lock, Lumley turned it with all due solemnity, for it was his plan among savages to make all acts of importance as impressive as possible in their eyes. And this act of visiting for the first time the stores—the palace of wealth—the abode of bliss—the red-man’s haven of rest—was a very important act. It may not seem so to the reader, but it was so to the savage. The very smell of the place was to him delicious—and no wonder, for even to more cultivated nostrils there is an odour about the contents of a miscellaneous store—such as tea, molasses, grindstones, coffee, brown paper, woollen cloths, sugar, fish-hooks, raisins, scalping-knives, and soap—which is pleasantly suggestive.

Entering, then, with the dozen Indians, this important place, of which I was the chief and only clerk, Lumley salesman and trader, and Salamander warehouseman, the door was shut. Becoming instantly aware of a sudden diminution in the light, I looked at the windows and observed a flattened brown nose, a painted face and glaring eyes in the centre of nearly every pane!

When I looked at this band of powerful, lithe, wiry, covetous savages, and thought of the hundreds of others whom they could summon by a single war-whoop to their side, and of the smallness of our own party, I could not help feeling that moral influence was a powerful factor in the affairs of man. No doubt they were restrained to some extent by the certain knowledge that, if they attacked and killed us, and appropriated our goods without the preliminary ceremony of barter, the white men would not only decline to send them goods in future, but would organise a force to hunt down and slay the murderers: nevertheless, savages are not much given to prudential reasoning when their cupidity or passions are roused, and I cannot help thinking that we owed our safety, under God, to the belief in the savage mind that men who put themselves so completely in their power, as we did, and who looked so unsuspicious of evil, must somehow be invulnerable.

Be that as it may, we calmly acted as if there could be no question at all about our being their masters. Lumley conveyed that impression, however, without the slightest assumption of dignity. He was all kindness, gentleness, and urbanity, yet treated them with that unassertive firmness which a father exercises—or ought to exercise—towards a child.

“Now then, Salamander,” said Lumley, when he was inside the counter, and the Indians stood in a group on the other side, “tell the principal chief to open his pack.”

Lumley, I may remark, made use of Salamander as an interpreter, until he found that the dialect of those Indians was not very different from that to which he had been accustomed. Then he dispensed with his services, and took up the conversation himself, to the obvious astonishment as well as respect of the Indians, who seemed to think the white chief had actually picked up a new language after listening to it for only half an hour!

The principal chief opened his pack slowly and spread its contents on the counter with care. He did not hurry himself, being a very dignified man. There were beavers, martens, otters, silver-foxes, and many other valuable furs, for which large sums are given in the European markets. To obtain these, however, the Company of Traders had to expend very large sums in transporting goods into those northern wilds, and still larger sums would have to be paid to voyageurs, clerks, and employés generally, as well as risks run and time spent before these furs could be conveyed to market and turned into gold—hence our red chief had to content himself with moderate prices. These prices, moreover, he did not himself put on his furs. Lumley did that for him, according to the tariff used by the fur-traders all over the country, every article being rated at a standard unit of value, styled a “made-beaver” in some parts of the country—a “castore” in other parts. On the counter was marked, with a piece of chalk, the value of each fur—a beaver was valued at so many castores, according to its quality, a fox at so many—and when the sum was added up, the total was made known by a number of goose-quills being presented to the chief, each quill representing a castore. The Indians, being acquainted with this process, did not require to have it explained.

Profoundly did that chief gaze at his bundle of quills on receiving them from Lumley after Salamander had swept his furs into a corner. He was studying, as it were, the credit balance of his bank-account before investing.

“Now then, chief,” asked Lumley, with an urbane expression of countenance, “what shall I give you?”

The chief gazed solemnly round the store with his piercing black eyes, while all the other piercing black eyes around gazed at him expectantly! At last his gaze became riveted on a particular spot. The surrounding black eyes turned to that spot intently, and the chief said:

“Baskisigan.”

“Ah, I thought so—a gun?” said Lumley; “hand one over, Salamander.”

The interpreter went to a box which contained half a dozen of the common cheap articles which were supplied for the trade. Long, single-barrelled affairs they were, the barrels of blue metal, stocks extending to the muzzles and stained red, brass mountings of toy-like flimsiness, and flint-locks; the entire gun being worth something less than a pound sterling. These weapons were capable, nevertheless, of shooting pretty straight, though uncomfortably apt to burst.

One having been handed to the chief he received it with a grasp of almost reverential affection, while Lumley extracted from his funds the requisite number of quills in payment.

“What next?” asked Salamander, and again the solemn gaze went slowly round the store, on the shelves of which our goods were displayed most temptingly. Black eyes riveted once more! What is it?

“A green blanket.”

“Just so. Fetch a four-point one, Max, he’s a big man.”

I took up one of our largest-sized thick green blankets, handed it to the chief, and Lumley abstracted a few more quills from the bundle.

At this point the red-man seemed to get into the swing of the thing, for a white blanket of medium size, and another of very small dimensions, were demanded. These represented wife and infant. After this a tin kettle and a roll of tobacco were purchased. The chief paused here, however, to ponder and count his quills.

“Do you observe,” said Lumley to me, in a low voice, “what a well-balanced mind he has?”

“I can’t say that I do, Lumley.”

“No? Don’t you see; first a gun—self-and-family-preservation being the first law of nature; then, after thus providing for war and hunting, comes repose, d’you see? a big blanket, which immediately suggests similar comfort to the squaw, a smaller blanket; then comes comfort to the baby, a miniature blanket; then, how naturally the squaw and the squawker conduct his mind to food—a tin kettle! after which he feels justified in refreshing himself with a slight luxury—tobacco! But you’ll see that he will soon repress self, with Indian stoicism, and return to essentials.”

Lumley was right for he had barely ceased to speak, when the chief turned and demanded an axe; then fish-hooks; then twine for lines; then awls for boring holes in the bark with which he made his canoes; then powder and shot and pipes. After this, another fit of tenderness came over him, and he bought some bright scarlet and blue cloth—doubtless for the squaw or the baby—and some brilliantly coloured silk thread with needles and variegated beads to ornament the same. Soon his quills dwindled away till at last they disappeared; yet his wants were not fully supplied—would the pale-face chief advance him some goods on credit?

Oh yes—he seemed a good and trustworthy brave—the pale-face chief had no objection to do that!

Accordingly I opened a ledger and inserted the man’s name. It was almost Welsh-like in difficulty of pronunciation, but, unlike a Welshman, I spelt it as pronounced, and set down in order the additional goods he required. When Lumley thought he had given him enough on credit, he firmly closed the account, gave the man a small gratuity of tobacco, powder and shot, etcetera, and bade another chief come forward.

It was slow but interesting work, for, as the Indians grew familiar with the place and our ways, those of them who were loquacious, or possessed of humour, began to chat and comment on the goods, and on the white man’s doings in a way that was very diverting.

After the chief men had traded their furs, the rank and file of the band came on, and, as is the case with all rank and file, there were some indifferent, and a few bad characters among them. It was now that I observed and admired the tact, combined with firmness, of Lumley. He spoke to these Indians with exactly the same respect and suavity that had characterised him when trading with the chiefs. When he saw any one become puzzled or undecided, he suggested or quietly advised. If a man’s eye appeared to twinkle he cut a mild joke with him. If one became too familiar, or seemed disposed to be insolent he took no notice, but turned aside and busied himself in arranging the goods.

At last, however, an incident occurred which called for different treatment. There was among the Indians a long-legged, wiry fellow who had been named Attick, or Reindeer, because he was a celebrated runner. Those who disliked him—and they were numerous—said he was good at running away from his foes. However that might be, he was undoubtedly dexterous in the use of his fingers—and it was through this propensity that we were first introduced to him. It happened thus:

Lumley, whose powers of observation often surprised me, had noticed that Attick looked often and with longing eyes at a very small roll of tobacco which belonged to one of his comrades, and lay on the counter temptingly near at hand. Slowly, and, as it were, inadvertently, he advanced his hand until it touched the tobacco, then, laying hold on it, when the owner was busy with something else, he carried it towards the bosom of his leather hunting-shirt. Before it reached that place of concealment, however, Lumley quickly, yet so quietly that the act was scarce perceived, seized the elbow of the chief and gave him a look. Attick promptly put the tobacco down and looked at Lumley with a scowl, but the pale-face chief was smilingly giving some advice to the man with whom he was trading.

He thought that the man would not attempt anything more of a similar kind, at least at that time, but he was mistaken. He under-estimated the force of covetousness and the power of temptation in a savage. Soon afterwards he saw Attick deftly pass a packet of bright beads, belonging to another comrade, from the counter to his breast, where he let it remain, grasped in his hand. Immediately afterwards the owner of the beads missed them. He turned over his goods hastily, but could not find the packet and looked suspiciously at Salamander, who had been standing near all the time, besides fingering the things occasionally.

“A comrade has stolen it,” said Lumley, in a quiet voice and without looking at any one save the robbed man.

This was received with scowls and strong marks of disapprobation.

“Not so! The interpreter, the pale-face, has stolen it,” returned the Indian fiercely.

Instead of replying, Lumley vaulted lightly over the counter, stood before the astonished Attick, thrust his hand into the bosom of that savage, and, by main force, dragged forth the thieving fist still closed over the missing packet. The Indians were too much taken by surprise at the promptness of the act to speak—they could only glare.

“My friends,” said Lumley, still maintaining, however, something of kindliness in his look of stern gravity, “the Great Master of Life does not love thieving, and no thief will be permitted to enter this store.”

What more he would have said I know not for, swift as lightning, Attick drew his knife and made a plunge at my friend’s heart. Expecting a scuffle, I had also leaped the counter. Lumley caught the wrist of the savage; at the same time he exclaimed, “Open the door, Max.”

I obeyed, expecting to see the Indian kicked out, but I was wrong, for my friend, with a sharp twist turned Attick’s back to his own breast, then, seizing him by both elbows, he lifted him off his feet as if he had been a mere infant, carried him forward a few paces, and set him gently down outside. Then, stepping back, he shut the door.

A roar of laughter from those without showed the light in which they viewed the incident, and the amused looks of some of those in the store told that at least they did not disapprove of the act.

Without paying any regard to these things, however, Lumley returned to his place, and with his usual air of good humour continued to barter with the red-men.

Thus the work of trading went on for three days, and, during that time, there was much fraternising of what I may call our home—Indians with the newcomers, and a great deal, I regret to say, of gambling. We found that this evil prevailed to a great extent among them, insomuch that one or two of them gambled away all that they possessed, and came to us with very penitent looks, asking for a small quantity of goods on credit to enable them to face the winter!

I need scarcely say that our amiable chief complied with these requests, but only on the solemn promise that the goods so advanced should not be risked in gambling, and I have reason to believe that these men were faithful to their promises. This gambling was of the simplest kind, consisting of the method which is known by the name of “odd or even?”

In the evenings the chiefs were encouraged to come into our hall and palaver. They availed themselves of the invitation to come, and sometimes palavered, but more frequently smoked, with owlish solemnity, squatting on the floor with their backs against the wall.

Nevertheless, on these occasions we gained a good deal of information, and Lumley availed himself of the opportunities sometimes to lecture them on the sin of gambling. He always, I observed, laid much more stress on the idea that the Great Master of Life was grieved with His children when they did evil, than that He visited the sin with disagreeable consequences. On one of these occasions an elderly chief surprised us by suddenly putting the question, “Do the pale-faces trade fire-water?”

Every pipe was removed from every lip, and the glittering eyes of expectancy, coupled with the all but total cessation of breathing, told of the intense interest with which they awaited the answer.

“No,” replied Lumley, “we sell none. We do not love fire-water.”

A deep but quiet sigh followed, and the pipes were resumed in silent resignation. And, I must add, I felt devoutly thankful that we did not sell fire-water, when I looked at the strong features and powerful frames of the red-men around me.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Catastrophe, a Letter, and a Surprise.

Autumn at length gradually drew to a close, and we began to make preparations for the long winter that lay before us.

Our saw-mill, having been repaired and improved, had worked so well that we had cut a considerable quantity of planks, as well for the boats which we intended to build as for the houses. It was fortunate that this had been accomplished before the occurrence of an event which put an effectual stop to that branch of our industries. It happened thus:

One afternoon the fine weather which we had been enjoying so long gave place to boisterous winds and deluges of rain, confining us all to the fort and making us feel slightly miserable.

“But we mustn’t grumble, Max,” said Lumley to me, as we looked out of our small windows. “We must take the evil with the good as it comes, and be thankful.”

“Please, I wasn’t grumbling,” said I, sharply.

“No? I thought you were.”

“No, I was not. It must have been internal grumbling by yourself that you heard,” I retorted, sauntering back to the fire, which by that time we had begun to light daily.

“I daresay you’re right, Max; it has often struck me as a curious fact that, when one is cross or grumpy, he is apt to think all the rest of the world is also cross or grumpy. By the way, that reminds me—though I don’t see why it should remind me, seeing that the two things have no connection—that Coppet came to me last night saying he had discovered a slight leak in the dam. We’d better look to it now, as the rain seems to have moderated a little.”

We went out forthwith, and found Coppet already on the spot, gazing at a small rill of water which bubbled up from behind a mass of rock that jutted out from the cliff and formed a support for the beams of our dam.

“Something wrong there, Coppet,” said Lumley, inspecting the place carefully.

“Oui, monsieur—it is true.”

“Can you guess where it comes through?” I asked.

“Vraiment, monsieur, I know not, but surely the dam it is quite strong.”

“Strong!—of course it is, unnecessarily strong,” said I, looking up at its edge, over which the water, rendered muddy by the rains, flowed in a considerable volume. “What think you, Lumley?”

I asked my friend’s opinion somewhat anxiously, because I observed that he seemed to examine the place with unusually grave looks.

“Max,” he said at last, “your engineering is defective. It is true that the beams and stuffs of which the dam is composed could resist all the weight or force of water that can be brought to bear on them—even an untrained eye like mine can see that—but you had not observed that this mass of rock, against which the whole affair rests, has got a crack in it, so that it is partially, if not altogether, detached from the cliff. No doubt it is a large heavy mass, but the strain upon it must be very severe, and its stability depends on its foundations.”

“The foundations seem secure enough,” said I, looking down.

“True, but natural foundations are sometimes deceptive, and that bubbling spring may be quietly washing these away. We must use a little art here. Go, Coppet,” he added, turning to the carpenter, “fetch all the men, and your tools, and as many heavy timbers as you can readily lay hands on. Come, Max, help me to lift this one.”

The decision of Lumley’s manner and the energetic way in which he threw off his coat and set to work, convinced me that he thought danger of some sort was impending. I therefore followed his example, and set to with a will.

We fixed a heavy log in front of the suspected mass of rock, placing its end against the centre of the mass, and sinking the other end into the ground—having previously, however, sunk a strong crossbeam into the ground to bear the pressure of that end.

“This of itself,” said my chief, “will go far to avert evil, but we will adopt your tactics, Max, and, by giving it superabundance of strength, make assurance doubly sure.”

In pursuance of this plan, he ordered the men to plant several ponderous logs in the same position as the first beam, over which other logs were thrown crosswise, and the whole was weighted with heavy stones.

During our operations, which occupied us all till evening, the rain increased tenfold, and at last came down in absolute sheets, flooding our dam to such an extent that it overflowed nearly all round the brim in pretty solid cataracts of dirty water, which brought down branches and leaves and other débris from the higher parts of the stream.

I was gratified to see, however, that our embankment showed no symptoms of weakness, and felt assured that the powerful structure we had just set up was more than sufficient to prevent any rupture in the rock itself. Comforted by these thoughts, Lumley and I returned to the hall in a burst of thunder, lightning, and rain—thoroughly saturated, and in a condition to do ample justice to the sea-biscuit, fried salt-pork, hung whitefish and tea, which Salamander had prepared for supper.

Blondin, being a polite, intelligent fellow as well as our foreman, was privileged to take his meals with us, besides occupying one of our four rooms. In consequence of this we conversed chiefly in the patois French of the country, for the worthy man was not deeply learned in English. Salamander messed with the men in their own house, after preparing and spreading our meals.

“What say you to a game of chess?” said Lumley to me, after the tea-things had been carried away by Blondin.

“By all means,” I replied, going to a corner cupboard, in which we kept miscellaneous articles, and bringing out the chess-board.

This board and its men, by the way, merit passing remark, for they were fashioned by our chief entirely, and very neatly, out of the pith of a bush, the name of which I forget; and, on the voyage, many an hour that might otherwise have been tedious we whiled away with this interesting game. I knew nothing of it when we began, but Lumley taught me the moves, and I soon picked up enough of the game to enable me to fight a fairish battle before being beaten. At first Lumley always won, and was wont to signalise his victory by the expression of a modest hope that the tables would be turned ere long. That hope—whether genuine or pretended—was not long of being gratified, for as my mind by degrees began to grasp the mysteries of chess, I succeeded in winning a game now and then.

On this particular night, however, the tables were turned literally, and in a way that we little expected.

Blondin, being left to himself, had sought the companionship of his pipe, and was dozing over the fire, more than half asleep—at least not more awake than was consistent with the keeping of his pipe between his lips. Ever and anon he was startled into a more wakeful condition by the tremendous blasts which frequently shook the house; but these did not disturb him much, for he had helped to build the house, and knew that it was strong.

We were all indeed pretty well tired by our recent exertions, and rather sleepy, so that the game languished a little. Salamander, having obtained permission to retire, was in bed in his own corner-room, entertaining us with a duet through the nose—if I may call that a duet in which both nostrils played the same air.

“Check!” said Lumley, rousing himself a little, and placing a knight in such a position as to endanger my king.

“Mate!” I exclaimed ruefully.

“Hallo!” cried Blondin, waking up at the familiar word.

“No—not that sort of mate,” said I, with a laugh, “but the—”

I stopped abruptly, for at that moment we heard a sound that sent a thrill to our hearts. It was something between a rend and a crash. We looked at each other in consternation.

“The dam’s going,” exclaimed Lumley.

Another crash, that there was no misunderstanding, proved that it was gone.

We ran towards the back door, but before reaching it, we had an additional proof that was even more convincing than the last. A rush of tumultuous water was heard outside. Next moment the back door was burst inward, and a deluge of water met us. Lumley, who was nearest the door, was swept off his legs, and came against me with such violence that I fell over him. Blondin, who was furthest off, tried to stop us, but also went down, and all three were swept into the lower side of the hall amid a jumble of tables, chairs, billets of wood, stray garments, and chessmen.

The fire had been put out; so had the candle, and we were thus in nearly pitch darkness, when we heard a yell from Salamander. It was followed by a great splash, and we dimly perceived something like a half-naked ghost floundering towards us.

It was Salamander!

“Hold on!” shouted Lumley.

“Dere’s noting to hold on to, monsieur,” cried the interpreter in desperation, as he tripped over something and rose again—gasping.

The rush was over in half a minute, but the great weight of water that had entered held the front door, which opened inwards, so tight, that our hall was converted into a water-tank about three feet deep, while a huge mass of logs and débris outside blocked the opening of the back door.

“Stay, don’t move till I get a light,” cried Lumley, wading to the corner cupboard, where, on an upper shelf, we kept our candles, with flint, steel, and tinder.

While he was striking a light we all stood silent and shivering, but when a candle was with difficulty lighted, I burst into an irresistible fit of laughter for the scene we presented was ludicrous in the extreme. It was not our woe-begone looks which tickled me, so much as the helpless, drowned-rat-like aspect we had all assumed—all except our chief, whose tall, strong figure holding a candle over his dishevelled head looked like the spirit of destruction presiding over a scene of desolation.

A rapping at the front door was the first thing that recalled us to the necessity for action.

“Is it drownded ye all are, Muster Lumley?”

It was the voice of Donald Bane.

“Not quite,” cried Lumley, with a laugh and a shiver. “Come in, Donald.”

“Ay, ay, sur, I would come in if I could, but the door won’t open.”

“Shove hard, Donald.”

“I wull, sur. Here, Shames, lend a hand.”

We heard both the Highlanders put their broad backs against the door and groan in Gaelic as they heaved, but they might as well have tried to lift the house. They caused the door to crack, however.

“Wheesht! What’s that Shames?”

“We’ve splut the toor, Tonald.”

“Never mind; heave again, boys,” cried Lumley.

At that moment poor Salamander, who was groping about with nothing but his shirt on, stumbled over something, and, in trying to recover himself, pitched head first against the door with considerable violence.

This was a climax. The door, although it had withstood the pressure from without, could not resist this additional pressure within. It collapsed and burst outwards suddenly. The great mass of water went forth with the gushing hilarity of a prisoner set free, and, with something like a roar of triumph, carried Salamander like a chip on its crest. He was launched into the bosom of the amazed James Dougall, who incontinently went with the stream, laying hold of and carrying off Donald Bane as he passed.

After a few turns over on the lawn, the three men regained their footing, and made their way back to the house, while the stream, subsiding almost immediately, left us in peace to make the best of what James Dougall called a paad chob!

What had actually occurred was this: the rock that held the main supports of our dam, being detached from the cliff as Lumley had surmised, had been undermined by the unusual floods of the previous week. Even in that condition it might have remained fast, so strong was our artificial buttress, but as the foundation wore away the rock heeled over to one side a little; this deranged the direct action of the buttresses, and in an instant they flew aside. The rock was hurled over, and the whole of our dam was dashed in dire confusion into the bed of the stream. It was this choking of the natural channel which sent the great flood over our lawn, and, as we have seen, created such a hubbub in the hall.

Of course all danger was now past. The roaring torrent soon forced its way into its own bed again, and all we had to do was to repair damages as well as we could, and make ourselves as comfortable for the night as circumstances would admit of.

Fortunately the next day was fine and warm, with brilliant sunshine. Being Sunday we let everything remain just as it was, for Lumley and I were of the same mind in regard to the Sabbath-day, and, from the commencement of our expedition, had as far as possible rested from all week-day labour on that day. Both of us had been trained to do so from infancy.

Well do I remember my dear old father’s last advice to me on this subject. “Punch,” said he, “wherever you go, my boy, ‘remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy.’ You’ll be tempted to do ordinary work, and to go in for ordinary amusement on that day, but don’t do it, my boy—don’t do it. Depend upon it, a blessing always attends the respecter of the Sabbath.”

“But, father,” said I, venturing for the first time in my life to echo what I had often heard said, “is it true, as some people assert, that the Sabbath is a Jewish institution, and no longer binding on Christians? Pardon my venturing to repeat this objection—”

“Objection!” interrupted my father, “why, dear boy, there’s nothing I like better than to hear fair, honest objections, because then I can meet them. How can the Sabbath be a Jewish institution when the commandment begins with ‘remember’? The day to be remembered was instituted at Creation, given to man as a blessed day of rest from toil, and recognised as binding by our Saviour, when He sanctioned works of necessity and mercy on that day.”

I never forgot my father’s advice on this subject, and have experienced mental, physical, and spiritual benefit as the result.

Owing to our belief in the Sabbath, then, we invariably, while travelling, remained in camp on that clay, and found that we not only did not lose, but actually had gained in speed at the end of each week—comparing our rate of progress with that of those who did not rest on Sundays. And I now recall to mind a certain bishop of the Church of England who, while travelling in the great Nor’-west between two well-known stations, made the fastest journey on record, although he regularly remained in camp on the Sabbath-day. On that day, also, after our arrival at Lake Wichikagan, and all through the winter, Lumley made a regular practice of assembling the men and reading a sermon from a book which he had brought for the purpose. And he did not neglect instruction of another kind, to which I shall refer as well as to our winter amusements, in the proper place.

During all this time our larder had been well supplied by Blondin with fresh fish from the lake, and by the Indians with haunches of reindeer and moose, or elk, venison. They also brought us beaver-meat, the tails of which were considered the best portions. Bear’s-meat was offered us, but we did not relish it much, possibly from prejudice; but we would have been glad of it, doubtless, if reduced to short allowance. Of course wild-fowl of all kinds were plentiful, and many of these were shot by Lumley and myself, as well as by our men.

Some of the geese we had at first salted, but, the frost having come, we were by that time able to preserve fish and meat quite fresh for winter use—so that both net and gun were in constant occupation.

One day, while Lumley and I were sitting at dinner—which we usually took about noon—we were agreeably surprised by the appearance of a strange Indian, and still more agreeably surprised by his entering the hall and holding out a packet to Lumley. Having delivered it, the man, who looked wayworn, strode to the fire, sat quietly down and began to smoke a pipe which I had handed to him ready charged.

“Why, what’s this?” exclaimed Lumley, unwrapping the covering of the packet, “not a letter, surely!—yes, I declare it is—and from Macnab too. Come, this is an unlooked-for treat.”

I was quite excited—indeed we both were—for a letter in those regions was about as rare as snow in July.

Lumley opened it hastily and read as follows:—

“My dear Lumley, you will be surprised to get a letter from me, and dated, too, from an unknown post. Yes, my boy, like yourself, I have been transferred from my old home, to this region, which is not more than two hundred miles from your present residence. The governor sent me to establish it soon after you left. I have named it the Mountain House, because there’s a thing the shape and size of a sugar-loaf behind it. So, I’ll hope to look you up during the winter. Before going further let me give you a piece of news—I’ve got my sister out here to stay with me! Just think of that!”

At this point Lumley laid down the letter and stared at me.

“Why, Max, such a thing was never heard of before! If he had got a wife, now, I could have understood it, but a sister!”

“Well, whatever she is to him, she’s a civilised white woman, and that’s a sight worth seeing in those regions. I wonder what she’s like?” said I.

“Like himself, of course. Tall, raw-boned, square-shouldered, red-haired (you know he told us she was red-haired), square-jawed, Roman-nosed—a Macnab female could be nothing else.”

“Come,” said I, “don’t be impolite to Highland females, but go on with the letter.”

Lumley obeyed, but the letter contained little more of interest. We cared not for that, however. We had now a subject capable of keeping us in speculative talk for a week—the mere fact that there was actually a civilised woman—a lady perhaps—at all events a Macnab—within two hundred miles of us!

“No doubt she’s a rugged specimen of the sex,” said Lumley, as we sat beside the fire that night, “no other kind of white female would venture to face this wilderness for the sake of a brother; but she is a white woman, and she is only two hundred miles off—unless our friend is joking—and she’s Macnab’s sister—Jessie, if I remember rightly—

“‘Stalwart young Jessie,

The flower of—’”

“Come, Lumley, that will do—good-night!”

Chapter Sixteen.

The Joys of Camping Out—Important Additions to the Establishment—Serious Matters and Winter Amusements.

At last winter came upon us in earnest. It had been threatening for a considerable time. Sharp frosts had occurred during the nights, and more than once we had on rising found thin ice forming on the lake, though the motion of the running water had as yet prevented our stream from freezing; but towards the end of October there came a day which completely changed the condition and appearance of things.

Every one knows the peculiar, I may say the exhilarating, sensations that are experienced when one looks out from one’s window and beholds the landscape covered completely with the first snows of winter.

Well, those sensations were experienced on the occasion of which I write in somewhat peculiar circumstances. Lumley and I were out hunting at the time: we had been successful; and, having wandered far from the fort, resolved to encamp in the woods, and return home early in the morning.

“I do love to bivouac in the forest,” I said, as we busied ourselves spreading brush-wood on the ground, preparing the kettle, plucking our game, and kindling the fire, “especially at this season of the year, when the sharp nights render the fire so agreeable.”

“Yes,” said Lumley, “and the sharp appetites render food so delightful.”

“To say nothing,” I added, “of the sharp wits that render intercourse so pleasant.”

“Ah, and not to mention,” retorted Lumley, “the dull wits, stirred into unwonted activity, which tone down that intercourse with flashes of weakly humour. Now then, Max, clap on more wood. Don’t spare the firing—there’s plenty of it, so—isn’t it grand to see the thick smoke towering upwards straight and solid like a pillar!”

“Seldom that one experiences a calm so perfect,” said I, glancing upward at the slowly-rising smoke. “Don’t you think it is the proverbial calm before the storm?”

“Don’t know, Max. I’m not weather-wise. Can’t say that I understand much about calms or storms, proverbial or otherwise, and don’t much care.”

“That’s not like your usual philosophical character, Lumley,” said I—“see, the column is still quite perpendicular—”

“Come, Max,” interrupted my friend, “don’t get sentimental till after supper. Go to work, and pluck that bird while I fill the kettle.”

“If anything can drive away sentiment,” I replied, taking up one of the birds which we had shot that day, “the plucking and cleaning of this will do it.”

“On the contrary, man,” returned Lumley, taking up the tin kettle as he spoke, “true sentiment, if you had it, would induce you to moralise on that bird as you plucked it—on the romantic commencement of its career amid the reeds and sedges of the swamps in the great Nor’-west; on the bold flights of its maturer years over the northern wilderness into those mysterious regions round the pole, which man, with all his vaunted power and wisdom, has failed to fathom, and on the sad—I may even say inglorious—termination of its course in a hunter’s pot, to say nothing of a hunter’s stom—”

“Lumley,” said I, interrupting, “do try to hold your tongue, if you can, and go fill your kettle.”

With a laugh he swung off to a spring that bubbled at the foot of a rock hard by, and when he returned I had my bird plucked, singed, split open, and cleaned out. You must understand, reader, that we were not particular. We were wont to grasp the feathers in large handfuls, and such as would not come off easily we singed off.

“You see, Lumley,” said I, when he came back, “I don’t intend that this bird shall end his career in the pot. I’ll roast him.”

“’Tis well, most noble Max, for I wouldn’t let you pot him, even if you wished to. We have only one kettle, and that must be devoted to tea.”

It was not long before the supper was ready. While it was preparing Lumley and I sat chatting by the fire, and gazing in a sort of dreamy delight at the glorious view of land and water which we could see through an opening among the trees in front of us; for, not only was there the rich colouring of autumn everywhere—the greens, yellows, browns, and reds of mosses, grasses, and variegated foliage—but there was a bright golden glow cast over all by the beams of the setting sun.

Ere long all this was forgotten as we lay under the starry sky in profound slumber.

While we slept, the Creator was preparing that wonderful and beautiful change to which I have referred. Clouds gradually overspread the sky—I observed this when, in a half-sleeping state I rose to mend our fire, but thought nothing of it. I did not, however, observe what followed, for sleep had overpowered me again the instant I lay down.

Softly, silently, persistently, and in large flakes, the snow must have fallen during the entire night, for, when we awoke it lay half a foot deep upon us, and when we shook ourselves free and looked forth we found that the whole landscape, far and near, was covered with the same pure white drapery. The uniformity of the scene was broken by the knolls of trees and shrubs and belts of forest which showed powerfully against the white ground, and by the water of the numerous ponds and lakes and streams which, where calm, reflected the bright blue sky, and, where rough, sparkled in the rising sun; while every twig and leaf of bush and tree bore its little fringe or patch of snow, so that we were surrounded by the most beautiful and complicated forms of lacework conceivable of Nature’s own making.

“It is glorious to look at,” said Lumley, after our first burst of enthusiasm, “but it will be troublesome to walk through, I fear.”

We did not, however, find it as troublesome as we had expected; for, although nearly a foot deep, the snow was quite dry, owing to the frost which had set in, and we could drive it aside with comparative ease when we started on our journey homeward.

Arrived at the fort we found our men and the few Indians who had not left us for their hunting-grounds, busy at the nets, or finishing the buildings that were yet incomplete.

We also found that Big Otter had come in, bringing with him his wife, and his niece Waboose, with her mother. The health of the latter had broken down, and Big Otter had brought her to the fort in the hope that the white chief could do something for her.

“I’ll do what I can,” said Lumley, on hearing her case stated, “though I make no pretence to being a medicine-man, but I will do this for you and her:— I will engage you, if you choose, to help Blondin at his fishery, and your wife to make moccasins for us. I’ll also let you have that little hut beside our kitchen to live in. You’ll find it better and warmer than a wigwam, and as there are two rooms in it you won’t be overcrowded.”

Big Otter was delighted with this arrangement, and I took him away at once to show him the hut he was to occupy.

As this was the first time I had met with the unknown Englishman’s widow, and the mother of Waboose, it was with no little interest and curiosity that I regarded her.

She was evidently in very bad health, but I could easily see that when young she must have been a very handsome woman. Besides being tall and well-formed, she had a most expressive countenance and a dignified air, coupled with a look of tender kindness in it, which drew me to her at once. She seemed in many respects much superior—in manners and habits—to the other Indian women of the tribe, though still far below her daughter in that respect, and I could easily perceive that the latter owed her great superiority and refinement of manner to her father, though she might well have derived her gentleness from her mother.

What the illness was that broke that mother down I cannot tell. It resembled consumption in some respects, though without the cough, but she improved in health decidedly at first on getting into her new house, and set to work with zeal to assist in the making of moccasins and other garments. Of course Waboose helped her; and, very soon after this arrival, I began to give her lessons in the English language.

Lumley quizzed me a good deal about this at first, but afterwards he became more serious.

“Now, Max, my boy,” he said to me, one evening when we were alone, in that kindly-serious manner which seemed to come over him whenever he had occasion to find fault with any one, “it is all very well your giving lessons in English to that Indian girl, but what I want to know is, what do you expect to be the upshot of it?”

“Marriage,” said I with prompt decision, “if—if she will have me,” I added with a more modest air.

My friend did not laugh or banter me, as I had expected, but in an earnest tone said:—

“But think, Max, you are only just entering on manhood; you can’t be said to know your own mind yet. Suppose, now, that you were to express an intention to marry Waboose, the Hudson’s Bay Company might object till you had at least finished your apprenticeship.”

“But I would not think of it before that,” said I.

“And then,” continued Lumley, not noticing the interruption, “if you do marry her you can never more return to the civilised world, for she is utterly ignorant of its ways, and would feel so ill at ease there, and look so much out of place, that you would be obliged to take to the woods again, and live and die there—and—what would your father say to that?”

I confess that this reference to my dear father shook me.

“But, Lumley,” said I, “she is not a mere Indian girl, and would not look out of place anywhere. Her father was obviously a gentleman, and has tried, with much success I find, to cultivate a naturally gentle and delicate mind and disposition in his child. Surely, very little is required to make a lady of her—I mean in the sense that society understands by that term—and even if that were not possible, is mere polish to be weighed in the balance against gentleness, sweetness, unselfishness, tenderness, truthfulness, modesty, loving-kindness—to say nothing of beauty—”

A hearty laugh interrupted me here.

“Oh! Max, I admit that polish must go down before such a splendid array of virtues. But,” added my friend, becoming grave again, “is Waboose a Christian?”

“Yes,” I replied, stoutly, “a far, far better Christian than I am, for I find that her father has taught her the truths of the Bible—and you—you see that fruit in her which I fear you don’t see much of in me.”

“Well, we have not had much time to see the fruit yet, but now I must speak to you as your chief. You say you have no thought of marriage till your apprenticeship is up. That is a good while yet. You may change your mind.”

“Never!” said I, with emphasis.

“Well, I respect your honourable feelings, my boy, but it is just possible that even if she were willing (which has yet to be proved) she may change her mind, therefore you must promise me faithfully that in all this teaching of English there shall be no lovemaking. You are bound in honour, Max, to avoid trying to win her affections, or in any way to influence her till—till time, a considerable time—shall have passed.”

“I promise you, Lumley, with all my heart. I think it is ennobling to a man to love a girl because of her pure and sterling qualities irrespective of her looks, and I would count it foul disgrace to do anything to win her unless I saw my way quite clearly to wed her.”

“Which you do not at present, Max?”

“Which I do not at present, Lumley, so I will continue the lessons with the air and manner of a heartless pedagogue!”

This having been arranged between us, the subject was dropped, and not again referred to for many months.

Meanwhile winter advanced with rapid strides. One night an intense frost set in and covered the entire lake, as far at least as we could see, with a sheet of pure ice. It had set fast in a profound calm, and the surface was so smooth that every tree and bush on the outlying islets was reflected as if in water. Indeed, it could scarcely be told that the ice was not water except by going on it.

Being a somewhat expert skater, and having brought my skates with me, I put them on, resolved to enjoy a few hours of what used to be a favourite amusement when I was a boy. Lumley could not skate, to my regret; besides, he had no skates, and none of the men had ever learned the art, so that I was forced to skate alone. And at this time I learned a lesson about solitary amusement which I never afterwards forgot.

“Max,” said Lumley, as I went down to the lake, skates in hand, “while you’re off amusing yourself I’ll go finish the track on the hillside—that will afford amusement enough for me and the men. I’ll give them a holiday, as it is such a splendid day.”

“That’s a new kind of holiday,” said I with a laugh, as I fixed on my skates, “to set them to the finishing of a track!”

The track referred to was a straight wide cutting up the face of the hill at the side of the fort. Lumley had ordered the men to clear it of trees and shrubs, from the hill-top—which extended far behind as well as high above the fort—down to the edge of the lake. It had remained in this unfinished state for some time, and now, being covered with snow, formed a long white-floored avenue to the hill-top.

“I’m sorry you can’t join me,” said I, making a few circles before starting. “It feels so selfish to go off alone.”

“Never mind, old boy, off you go, and see that you don’t get upon weak ice.”

Lumley waved his hand as he spoke, and I shot swiftly away over the glassy lake.

Oh! it was a glorious burst, that first dash over an apparently illimitable sheet of water, for, although small for an American lake, the opposite shore of Wichikagan was so far-off as to appear dim and low, while, in one direction, the sky and water met at the horizon, so that I enjoyed the romantic feeling of, as it were, skating out to sea! The strength of youth thrilled in every nerve and muscle; the vigour of health and life coursed in every vein. I felt, just then, as if exhaustion were impossible. The ice was so smooth that there was no sensation of roughness under foot to tell of a solid support. The swift gliding motion was more like the skimming of the swallow than the skating of a man. The smallest impulse sent me shooting ahead with an ease that almost surprised me. In sensation, as well as in appearance, I was rushing over a surface of water in which the sun was reflected with a brilliancy that quite dazzled me. I became almost wild with delight. Indeed I grew reckless, and gave a sort of leap—with what intent I know not—which caused the back of my head to smite the ice and my body to proceed fifty yards or more on its back, with the legs in the air and a starry constellation corruscating in the brain!

Considerably sobered by this, I arose and cut the figure of eight thoughtfully for five minutes. After this I resumed my rapid pace, which I kept up until the necessity of pausing to recover breath impressed me. Making a wide circle outwards with my left leg in the air and my right hand pointed to the sky in the most approved manner, I gradually caused the circle to diminish until I came to a stand.

Looking back, I saw Fort Wichikagan like a mere speck on the horizon. In the opposite direction the lake still presented a limitless horizon. On either side the distant shores marked, but could hardly be said to bound, the view, while, closer at hand, the islets were reflected in the ice as clearly as if it had been water. I felt as if standing on a liquid ocean. Once more a bounding sense of joyous freedom and strength filled me. The starry corruscations had vanished. The bump on the back of my head had ceased to grieve me. Away I went again like—but words fail me. Imagery and description avail nothing when the indescribable is reached!

After an hour of this enjoyment I took to circling, and, in the exuberance of my feelings, attempted some quite new and complex performances, which resulted in a few more corruscations and bumps. But these were trifles. I heeded them not.

At last, however, I stood still and became thoughtful. We must all become thoughtful sooner or later. A sense of loneliness began to oppress me, and I longed for companionship in my joy. Knowing that this was a useless longing, I cast it aside and resumed my evolutions, rushes, bumps, and corruscations. But it would not do. The longing returned with redoubled violence. After another hour I turned to skate homeward, very much toned down in spirits, and deeply convinced of the truth—in more senses than one—of the words, “It is not good that man should be alone.”

Before leaving this subject I may add that I tried skating again the next day, but again grew weary of it in less than an hour for want of companionship; that I made up my mind, in disgust to try no more; and that, on the day following, sympathetic Nature aided me in my resolve by covering the entire lake with eighteen inches of snow—thus rendering my once favourite exercise impossible.

But, to return. When I drew near to the fort, I observed that several black specks were gliding with lightning speed down the white track on the hillside which Lumley had undertaken to finish. These specks, after descending the steep hill, slid over the level shore and shot far out upon the lake, where some of them seemed to roll over and over. Wondering what this could be, I put on a spurt. Suddenly the truth dawned upon me. My friend Lumley had cleared the slope for the purpose of sledging down it!

“Max,” he had remarked to me, long before, when talking about our men and our plans, “‘All work and no play,’ you know, ‘makes Jack a dull boy;’ so I’ll get up some kind of winter amusement for the lads which will keep them in health and spirits.”

Need I say that my recent cogitations and experience led me to join this riotous crew with redoubled ardour? Taking off my skates hurriedly and climbing up the hill, I leaped on the tail of Big Otter’s toboggan, without invitation, just as he was starting at the top of the snow-slope to follow Lumley. I gave the sled such an impetus that we overtook our chief, and upset him just as he reached the lake, causing him to collide with Donald Bane and James Dougall, who, seated on the same toboggan, were anxiously striving to keep their balance. The result was, that we all resolved ourselves into a conglomerate of toboggans and men, which went shooting and struggling over the smooth lake for fifty yards or upwards at the rate of twelve miles an hour, if not more. This, of course, afforded unutterable delight to the rest of our men, and to Waboose and her mother; as well as to several Indians, who had just arrived. Among these last were Attick and Maqua with his son Mozwa.

It was rough but health-giving, as well as enjoyable, work, and sent us to our respective beds that night in a condition of readiness to fall promptly into a state of absolute oblivion.

Chapter Seventeen.

Describes a Tremendous Visitation—A Feast—A Surprise—And an Attempt at Murder.

I must beg the reader now to leap with me into the middle of winter.

It is New Year’s Day. That festive season of the year is not less marked and honoured in the Great Nor’-west than it is in civilised lands, though there are comparatively few to honour it, and their resources are somewhat meagre. These facts do not however, diminish the hearty zeal of the few—perchance they tend rather to increase it.

Be that as it may, I now convey the reader to an ice-bound forest. Deep snow has buried the frozen ground. Masses of snow weigh down the branches of the leafless trees; and evergreens, which are not leafless, are literally overwhelmed, almost obliterated, by the universal covering. But the scene is by no means dismal. A blue sky overhead and a bright sun and calm frosty air render it pre-eminently cheerful. The ground is undulating, and among these undulations you may see two men and a couple of sledges slowly making their way along.

The sledge in rear is the ordinary provision-sled used by winter travellers in that land; it is hauled by an Indian. The one in front is styled a cariole. It resembles a slipper-bath in form, is covered with yellow parchment, gaily painted, and drawn by four fine wolf-like dogs. The rider in that cariole is so whelmed in furs as to be absolutely invisible. The man who beats the track has a straight, stalwart frame, and from what of his countenance is left exposed by his fur cap and whiskers, one may judge that he is a white man.

Slowly and silently they plod along through the deep snow—the sleigh-bells on the dog’s harness tinkling pleasantly. Ere long they come out upon a lake, where, the snow being beaten pretty hard, they proceed rapidly—the dogs trotting, and the leader, having changed to the rear, holding on to the cariole-line to restrain them.

Towards the afternoon the travellers draw towards the end of the lake, and then a spirit of mischief seems to enter into the wolf-like dogs, for, on turning round a point which reveals a wide reach of hard snow stretching away towards a distant group of buildings more than half buried in drift, they make a sudden bound, overturn the stalwart white man, jerk the tail-line from his grasp, and career away joyously over the ice, causing their bells to send up an exceeding merry and melodious peal.

From certain incomprehensible growls that escape the stalwart white man as he picks himself up, it might be conjectured that he had taken to the Chipewyan tongue; perhaps a Scotsman might have been led by them to recall the regions that lie north of the Grampians.

Lumley and I were sitting in the hall of Fort Wichikagan, awaiting the advent of dinner, when the sound of the sleigh-bells just referred to broke upon our ears. We bounded from our seats as if galvanised, seized our caps and rushed out.

“A cariole!” shouted Lumley.

“Run away!” said I.

As I spoke, the figure of a man was seen rushing round the point in pursuit.

“Macnab!” cried Lumley, with blazing eyes, “I’d know his figure at twenty miles off. I say, Max, the runaway cariole must certainly contain the sister—the carroty-haired Jessie! Hurrah! We must stop it, my boy, else the dogs will run slap into the fort, and dash the fair six-footer against one o’ the houses. Look out, man!”

But Lumley was wrong. Either the dogs had run as much as they desired, or the decided manner in which we faced them caused them to swerve aside, and stop when they came close to us. The swerve had the effect of overturning the cariole gently, and emptying its contents at our feet, and out from the mass of wraps and furs there arose—not a red-headed six-footer, but a young and sprightly girl, with clear dark complexion, a neat, rounded little figure, and a pair of magnificent black eyes, which, at the moment, were opened to their utmost with an expression of intense amazement.

Lumley gazed at this apparition open-mouthed, with a look of blank surprise. I believe that my own visage must also have worn some remarkable expression, for suddenly the girl’s gorgeous eyes half closed, and she burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“Well, this is a surprise!” exclaimed Lumley, on recovering some of his usual self-possession.

“So it would seem,” replied the apparition, still laughing, “for it has robbed you of common politeness. Why don’t you introduce yourself and welcome me? No doubt you are my brother’s friend, Mr Lumley!”

She drew a very small white hand from a very large leather mitten, and held it out.

“Forgive me, Miss Macnab—for of course you can be no other,” said Lumley, advancing promptly and grasping the hand, “but your—your—sudden, and I may almost say magical, appearance has so taken me by surprise, that—that—”

“Yes, yes, I understand, Mr Lumley—that you find it difficult to recover yourself,—why, your friend Mr Maxby has not yet recovered,” said the fair Jessie, turning and holding out her hand to me.

She was right. I had not recovered, but stood there open-mouthed and eyed, bereft of speech, until the necessity for action was thrust upon me. My apologies were, however, cut short by the coming up of her brother, who, while yet a long way off, began to shout in his stentorian tones:—

“Hallo! Lumley, my boy, how are ye? Here we are at last. A happy New Year, Max. Glad to see you once more—all alive and hearty? Eh? More than I expected to find you, Jess, after such a run with these rascally dogs—absolute wolves! But it might have been worse. Give us a shake o’ your fists, my boys, on this happy New Year’s Day.”

By this time our hearty friend was beside us, shaking us both vigorously by the hands, wishing us all manner of good luck, and compliments of the season, and otherwise letting off the steam of his exuberant feelings.

“You’ve introduced yourselves, I see,” he continued; “come, Lumley, give your arm to Jessie, and show us the way to the fort.”

“If Miss Macnab,” began Lumley, advancing, but his speech was here cut short.

“Miss Macnab!” echoed the explosive Peter in a sarcastic shout, “call her Jessie, man! who ever heard of a ‘Miss Macnab’ in the backwoods? When men take to living in the wilderness, it’s time to cast off all the humbuggin’ politenesses o’ civilised life.”

“Pardon me, Macnab,” returned my friend, with more than his usual urbanity, “I differ from you there.”

“Oh, ay, I daresay ye do,” interrupted the other. “It’s been said of Scotsmen that ‘they can aye objec’,’ and I think it’s equally true of Englishmen that they can always differ!”

“Men who live in the wilderness,” continued Lumley, merely answering the interruption with a smile, “ought to be unusually particular about keeping up all the politenesses of civilised life, instead of dropping them, and ought to be inexpressibly thankful when a soft and civilising influence, like Miss Macnab, condescends to visit them with a ray of sunshine from the old country.”

“Bravo, Lumley,” cried Macnab, with a boisterous laugh, “that speech was worthy of an Irishman! Call her what you like, my good fellow, so long as you never call her too late for meals; but come along now and let’s have something to eat, for I’m famishing.”

By this time the Indian with the sled had joined us, so we all went off to the fort in a state of boisterous joy, of which those unfortunates who have never been banished from their fellows for months—or for years—can form no conception. As dinner was opportunely smoking on the table when we entered the hall, our visitor’s hilarity was, if possible, increased. Moreover, we had company that New Year’s Day, for a knife and fork had been laid in the hall for every man at the fort. You see, Lumley was a strict disciplinarian, and, therefore, could afford at special times to relax without loss of dignity and with a great increase of good-will on the part of all under him. At all other times we and the men—excepting our guide—messed apart; but on Christmas and New Year’s Days all distinctions were laid aside, discipline was relaxed, and we acted on the principle of that brotherhood which is based upon the assumption that all men have the same objects in life and the same hopes after death. That morning we had all played football on the ice together, had slidden and tumbled down the snow-slope together, and now we were about to mess together in the hall. Still further, our company was to be increased, and our festive board to be graced, by the presence of Waboose and her mother. Little had we imagined, when all this was planned, that we were to have the addition of our old friend Macnab, and that glorious beam from the sun of civilisation, his sister Jessie!

I will, however, make but brief reference to this festive occasion, and proceed to tell of an event which created an unexpected sensation in our little community, and might have closed our New Year’s Day amusements with a terrible tragedy.

After dinner we circled round the blazing fire and enjoyed ourselves listening to Macnab, who had a happy facility in giving a graphic account of his sledge journey from the Mountain Fort—his recently built trading-post—to Fort Wichikagan, and I observed particularly that the presence of a lady among us had a most wonderful and irresistible influence in softening the tones and the manners of all.

As the evening advanced tea was introduced—we had nothing stronger, and did not, indeed, feel any desire for fire-water. Under the inspiriting influence of this beverage, several of our men were induced to tell stories, which were more or less humorous.

During the meal—at which Lumley insisted that “Miss Macnab” should preside, to the immense disgust of Salamander—I observed that the dark-haired white girl and the fair-haired Indian, drew very closely together. It appeared to me that they had fallen in love with each other at first sight, a fact which afforded me lively satisfaction, though I had no very clear perception as to why it should do so.

Songs naturally followed the cheering cup, and at this point Lumley became unusually bold.

“I wonder,” he said, with a peculiar air of modesty which somewhat puzzled me, “if I may venture to ask Miss Macnab for a song.”

“Ha! ha!” shouted her brother, before she could reply, “you may venture to ask, my boy, but you’ll find it difficult to draw a song out of Jessie. Why, she never could sing a note!”

“I’ve a good mind to sing now, Peter,” said the girl with a laugh, “just to prove that you are a false man.”

“No, no, Jessie, spare me,” returned the Highlander, “but get out your accordion, and—”

“Accordion!” almost shouted Lumley, “do you play the accordion? Have you really got one here?”

It is but right to say, in justification of Lumley’s enthusiasm, that music of any kind was so seldom heard in those wilds, that the mere prospect of hearing good music excited us, for of course our natural thought was that a girl like Jessie Macnab could not perform anything but good music.

As she rose to go for the instrument to Salamander’s room—which had been made over to her—a growling Gaelic exclamation made me aware of the fact that the faces of Donald Bane and James Dougall were beaming with hope, mingled with admiration of their countrywoman. She had naturally paid these men a good deal of attention, and, in addition to her other good qualities, spoke their native tongue fluently. As Dougall afterwards said, “She hes the Gaelic!”

On returning to the hall with the once familiar and well-remembered instrument, I believe every man there felt a tendency to worship her. But who shall describe the effect produced when she began to play, with the utmost facility and with deep feeling, one of the most beautiful of the plaintive Scottish melodies? Bane and Dougall shaded their rugged faces with their rugged hands to hide the tears that could not be restrained. Lumley, whose mind, although untouched by associations, was peculiarly susceptible to sweet sounds, sat entranced. So did Big Otter, who could only glare; because instrument, tune, and performer, were alike new and magical to him. Even Salamander forgot his jealousy and almost collapsed with wonder. As for Dumont, Coppet, and the others—they clasped their hands, opened their eyes and mouths, and simply drank it in.

There was no applause when the air ceased, but a deep sigh from every one seemed to be the indication of a return to ordinary consciousness. Waboose and her mother did not sigh, however. They sat still and gazed in silent wonder. Jessie Macnab, with a slight blush at the unexpected effect, ran her fingers lightly over the keys of her instrument, and then suddenly began to play a Highland reel with tremendous vigour!

If an electric shock had traversed the marrow or our backbones, the result could not have been more surprising.

“Wow! Tougall, man!” exclaimed Bane, starting up and flinging away his chair.

Dougall said nothing, but he uttered a Celtic yell suggestive of war and all its horrors to Big Otter, and, starting up, began the Highland fling opposite to his friend in the most violent manner. As I was not a bad dancer of Scots’ reels myself, and the music had caused me also to boil over, I started up likewise and faced Macnab, who, being equally affected, stood up to me in a moment, and away we went, hammer and tongs, with stamp and whoop and snap of finger—oh! the scene is indescribable. Indeed, I may say that to an ordinary civilised man who never saw it, the scene is inconceivable, so—we will pass on.

While these stirring events were taking place inside the hall, a black-faced, red-painted savage was flattening his ugly nose against a pane of glass outside one of the windows. It was Attick, whom our chief had convicted of stealing about the time of our arrival. That unpleasant savage had never forgiven Lumley, and, being exceedingly vindictive, had resolved to murder him! With this end in view, he had been prowling about the place for several days, having arrived with a band of his tribe who had assembled at Christmas-time to enjoy some of the good cheer which they understood to be going at that season among the pale-faces.

On New Year’s night unknown to his comrades—for it was his intention to do the deed secretly, and leave the imputation upon all—he watched his opportunity, and thought he had found it when, after the dance was over and the guests had retired, he saw Lumley seated by the fire in conversation with the newly-arrived pale-face girl. Macnab and I had gone with the men to their house for some purpose—I forget what—so that the two were left alone.

Attick might easily have opened the door and shot his victim, but the report, he knew, would have roused every one; besides, his absence at the moment and his dirty gun would have betrayed him to his comrades; so, being a strong man, he preferred the scalping-knife, with the use of which he was of course familiar.

Now, it chanced that there hung a small looking-glass over the hall fireplace. In that glass Lumley could see not only himself, but the door and windows of the room behind him, as he sat chatting with Jessie Macnab. Happening to glance into the glass, he observed the flattened nose of Attick on the window-pane with the glaring eyes above it. A tête-à-tête with the fair Jessie was too pleasant, however, to be interrupted by such a trifle; he therefore continued the conversation, though he kept a sharp look-out behind him. Presently he saw the door open—open so gently that it gave forth no sound. Immediately after, a blackened and savage head appeared with a diabolical expression on the countenance. It was followed slowly by a hand in which a gleaming knife was clutched. Lumley now fully understood what was meditated, for he recognised Attick through his war-paint. He did not move, however, for he felt that if he sprang up too soon the savage could easily leap back through the doorway and escape into the dark woods. He therefore laid strong constraint on himself and waited.

Miss Macnab’s back was turned to the savage, but not having the advantage of the glass, she could not see him, and continued her pleasant prattle. Like a dark, noiseless shadow, the Indian advanced, and raised his knife.

“Then you like this wilderness life?” asked Jessie, at that moment.

“Yes, I confess, Miss Macnab, that it has its charms as well as its disagreeables—the utter want of society being the worst of the latter.”

“I should have thought,” said the girl, looking up, “that you—but—but—why do you gaze and frown so fiercely at that—”

She was promptly answered, for Lumley sprang up at the moment with panther-like agility, wheeled round, seized the uplifted arm, and, with a wrench so violent as to break it, he hurled the savage to the ground.

Jessie Macnab sprang up in consternation, but did not give way to that supposed female-in-alarm necessity—a scream. At the same moment Macnab and I entered.

“Hallo! Lumley. What’s all this?” cried Macnab. “Nobody hurt, I hope?”

“I fear the Indian is hurt somewhat,” said our chief, looking down at his enemy, who lay stunned upon the floor. “Go, Max, assemble our men and fetch all the Indians.”

In a few minutes all were assembled in the hall, when Lumley, in a low, stern voice, related what had occurred, appealing to Jessie to corroborate what he said.

“Now,” he added in conclusion, turning to the Indians, “I have no quarrel with you. There lies your comrade. He has forfeited his life to me, but I forgive him. Take him away.”

Lumley said no more, as, in solemn surprise and silence, the Indians lifted up their comrade and bore him out of the hall; but he took good care to make no reference whatever to the looking-glass, and I verily believe that to this day it is believed by the red-men of that region that Lumley has eyes in the back of his head.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Mysterious Packet—Friends depart, and Lumley is caught singing.

The uncertainty of all sublunary things is a truism so trite that I do not mean to insult the reader’s understanding by attempting to prove it. I merely refer to it in order to say that the great Nor’-west is not exempt from that general rule of uncertainty.

At first peace and prosperity attended us, at least in all the main lines of life, with only trivial variations, and we felt disposed to believe that the sunshine would continue to gladden us throughout the whole winter. But such was not to be the case. Soon after the events narrated in the last chapter, clouds began to gather, the peaceful flow of our life was interrupted, and at last a storm burst which filled the inhabitants of our little fort with consternation.

After the attempted murder by Attick on New Year’s Day, the Indians left the fort, taking their wounded friend along with them. No doubt they felt that it would be scarcely reasonable in them to expect to be entertained with the good things of the pale-faces after the dastardly attempt that had been made on our chief’s life. But Attick, who had been wounded more deeply in his feelings than in his body, resolved to be revenged. He was the more urged to this because his savage affections had been fixed on, and no doubt he had been sharp enough to perceive my own regard for the girl, and was jealous enough to believe that I would take advantage of my position and of her residence at the fort to supplant him.

Bad men invariably find like-minded spirits ready to help them in their dark designs. Among the redskins of his tribe Attick found no difficulty in securing the allegiance of one or two men, who were in the habit of looking up to him as their leader, and it was not very long before he found his opportunity—as shall soon be told. When the Macnabs had spent three weeks with us, they set off on the return journey to the Mountain Fort, taking Waboose along with them—for Jessie Macnab had taken so strong a fancy to the fair-haired half-caste that she had prevailed on her to agree to visit the Mountain Fort in company with her mother, from whom she refused to be separated even for a few days.

Before their departure, however, I had a conversation with Waboose, in which I reminded her of the packet about which she had spoken to me on a memorable occasion in the woods. I may remark here in passing that I had conscientiously held to my promise to Lumley, and had carefully abstained from making the slightest effort to gain the girl’s affections, or to show her the state of my own feelings. Indeed, I had rather avoided her as much as possible without appearing rude or unkind. Of course I could not however, help showing my pity for, and sympathy with, her poor invalid mother, and as I was the only one in our little community who possessed the smallest knowledge of medicine or surgery I was forced to visit their hut daily in the capacity of doctor.

“Waboose,” said I, during the conversation above referred to, “you need not be anxious about your mother. I feel assured that her complaint is of such a nature that her general health will be benefited by a trip over the snow—provided she is kept warm and does not travel too far each day. Of course there is no fear of that, with you and Miss Macnab to look after her, and I have given careful directions to Mr Macnab how to treat her.”

“You are very kind,” replied the girl with much earnestness of tone and manner.

“And now, Waboose,” I continued, “you remember saying long ago you would show me the packet that—”

“Yes, it is here,” she said, quickly, taking it out of the folds of a light shawl which covered her shoulders—the gift of Jessie—and handing it to me.

“Thank you. Well, I will examine it carefully this afternoon and give it back to you to-morrow before you start.”

“No, keep it. I can trust you,” she said, with a simple look that somehow depressed me, for it was almost too simple and sisterly to my mind. “Besides,” she added, “it is safer in your hands than mine, and when I come again you will explain to me what it contains.”

Next day the party left us. It consisted of Macnab, who, with his wonted energy of nature, was leader and beater of the track; the sprightly Jessie in a cariole drawn by four dogs; Waboose’s mother in a similar cariole, and the fair Waboose herself, on snow-shoes, for she preferred the mode of travelling to which she had been most accustomed. Two Indians dragging provision-sleds brought up the rear.

It had been arranged that I should convoy the party to their first bivouac in the snow, spend the night with them, and continue to journey with them the second day as far as was consistent with the possibility of returning to the fort that night. Jack Lumley accompanied us at first, but another small party of Indians had come in to stay at the fort at that time, and although he had, I am certain, a very strong desire to go further, with his usual self-sacrificing spirit when duty pointed another way, he turned and left us at the end of a few miles.

I spent the night in the snow-bivouac as arranged, and continued to journey onward with the party next day, until Macnab refused to let me go another step.

“Now, Max,” he said, laughingly, “you must turn here. Why, man, it will be midnight before you get in, good walker though you be. Come, good-bye.”

“Well, well, I suppose it’s better to turn since you seem tired of my company,” said I, turning to Jessie, who stood up in her sleigh to shake hands. “Good-bye, Miss Macnab.”

“Jessie, man, Jessie—none of your Miss Macnabs here, else I’ll tumble you into the snow by way of farewell,” shouted the irrepressible Highlander.

“Very well, good-bye, Jessie,” said I, with a laugh, though my heart was heavy enough. “Good-bye, Waboose—farewell all.”

With a wave of his hand Macnab tramped on ahead, the sleigh-bells rang out merrily and the rest of the party followed.

After they had gone a few yards Waboose turned and waved her hand again. As I looked on her fair face, glowing with health and exercise, her upright, graceful figure in its picturesque costume and her modest mien, I felt that two beams of light had shot from her bright blue eyes and pierced my heart right through and through. It was a double shot—both barrels, if I may say so—well aimed at the centre of the bull’s-eye!

Next moment she was gone—the whole party having dipped over the brow of a snow-drift.

“An Indian! a half-caste!” I exclaimed in a burst of contempt, going off over the plain at five miles an hour, “nothing of the sort. A lady—one of Nature’s ladies—born and br–—no, not bred; no need for breeding where genuine purity, gentleness, tenderness, simplicity, modesty—”

I stuck at this point partly for want of words and partly because my snow-shoes, catching on a twig, sent my feet into the air and stuck my head and shoulders deep into a drift of snow. Though my words were stopped, however, the gush of my enthusiasm flowed steadily on.

“And what can be more worthy of man’s admiration and respectful affection?” I argued, as I recovered my perpendicular, coughed the snow out of my mouth and nose, and rubbed it out of my eyes; “what more worthy of true-hearted devotion than this—this—creature of—of light; this noble child of nature—this Queen of the Wilderness?”

I repeated “This Queen of the Wilderness” for a considerable time afterwards. It seemed to me a happy expression, and I dwelt upon it with much satisfaction as I sped along, sending the fine snow in clouds of white dust from my snow-shoes, and striding over the ground at such a pace that I reached Fort Wichikagan considerably before midnight in spite of Macnab’s prophecy.

I am not naturally prone thus to lay bare the secret workings of my spirit. You will, therefore, I trust, good reader, regard the revelation of these things as a special mark of confidence.

On reaching the fort I observed that a bright light streamed from the hall windows, casting a ruddy glow on the snow-heaps which had been shovelled up on each side of the footpath in front, and giving, if possible, a paler and more ghostly aspect to the surrounding scenery.

I went to one of the windows and, imitating Attick, flattened my nose against a pane. A pain was the immediate result, for, the glass being intensely cold, I was obliged to draw back promptly.

Lumley was seated alone at one side of the fire, in the familiar attitude of a man who meditates profoundly—or sleepily; namely, with his legs stretched straight out in front of him, his hands deep in his trousers-pockets, and his chin sunk on his breast, while his eyes stared fixedly at the flames.

I was about to quit my post of observation when a sudden action of my friend arrested me.

Drawing up his legs, grasping his knees with his hands, turning his eyes to the ceiling with that gaze which implies that planks and roof count for nothing in the way of intercepting the flight of Mind to the realms of Inspiration, Lumley opened his handsome mouth and broke forth into song. He had a magnificently harsh voice. I could distinguish both air and words through the double windows. The song was that which I have already quoted elsewhere—“Lovely young Jessie, the flower of Dunblane.” The deep pathos of his tone was thrilling! It flashed a new thought into my brain. Then I became amazed at my own blind stupidity. I now understood the meaning of that restless activity which had struck me recently as being so uncharacteristic of my sedate friend; that anxiety to have all our food well cooked and nicely served, in one who habitually took food just as it came, and cared nothing for quality or appearance; that unusual effort to keep our hall neat and in order; those sharp reproofs to the astonished Salamander for failure in punctuality at meal-hours; that very slight indication of a more frequent use of the brush and comb, in one whose crisp curls required little aid from such implements.

Under the excitement of my discovery I burst into the room with, “Oh! Lumley, you deceiver!” cutting him short in the very middle of those repeated “lovely young Jessies” which constitute the very pith and marrow of the song.

“Why, Max! back already?” cried my friend, starting up with a slightly-confused look, which confirmed my suspicion, and rattling on at a pace which was plainly meant to carry me past the subject. “How you must have walked, to be sure, unless, indeed, you convoyed them only a short part of the way; but that could not have been the case. It would have been so unlike your gallant nature, Max—eh? Well, and how did they get on? Snow not too soft, I hope? Encampment comfortable? But no fear of that of course, with Peter Macnab as leader. No capsizes?”

“None,” said I, seizing advantage of a slight pause; “everything went as well as possible, and the carioles went admirably—especially Jessie’s.”

I looked at him pointedly as I said this, but he coolly stooped to lift a billet and put it on the fire as he rattled on again.

“Yes? That’s just what I hoped for, though I could not be quite sure of it for she has the old one which I had patched up as well as possible. You see, as Macnab said—and of course I agreed with him—it was only fair that the invalid should have the strongest and easiest-going conveyance. By the way, Max, I’ve heard some news. Do you know that that scoundrel Attick is stirring up the tribes against us?”

“No—is he?” said I, quite forgetting the fair Jessie, at this piece of information.

“Yes, and the rascal, I fear, may do us irreparable damage before we can tame him, for he has considerable influence with the young and fiery spirits among the savages—so Big Otter says. Fortunately his power lies only in the tongue, at present, for it seems I broke his arm the night he tried to murder me; but that will mend in time.”

“Very unfortunate,” said I, “that this should happen at the beginning of our career in this region. We must thwart his plans if we can.”

“Moreover,” continued Lumley, with a sly look, “I am told that he has the presumption to aspire to the hand of Waboose!”

“Indeed!” I exclaimed, as a flame of indignation seemed to shoot through my whole frame; “we must thwart his plans in that direction emphatically.”

“Of course, of course,” said my friend, gravely; “it would never do to let such a sweet girl throw herself away on a savage; besides, she’s such a favourite with Jessie Macnab, you know. It would never do—never.”

I looked at him quickly, but he was gazing abstractedly at the fire. I felt that I was no match for my friend at badinage, and gave it up!

“But what do you think he could do!” I asked with some anxiety, after a few minutes’ thought. “You know that Waboose would as soon think of marrying that bloodthirsty savage as she would think of marrying a—a—”

“A pine-tree or a grizzly bear. Yes, I know,” interrupted Lumley, “he will never get her with her own consent; but you know that savages have a knack of marrying women without their consent and then there is the possibility of his attempting to carry her off—and various other possibilities.”

I saw that my friend was jestingly attempting to test my feelings, but I made no reply at first, though I felt strongly on the subject.

“Well, Lumley,” said I, at length, “your first suggestion I meet with the reply that the consent of parents is not ignored among Indians, and that Waboose’s mother is an Indian of so high-minded and refined a nature—partly acquired, no doubt, from her husband—that she will never consent to give her daughter to such a man; such a brute, I might say, considering what he attempted. As to Waboose herself, her father’s gentle nature in her secures her from such a misfortune; and as to her being carried off—well, I don’t think any savages would be bold enough to try to carry off anything from the grip of Peter Macnab, and when we get her back here we will know how to look after her.”

“It may be so,” said Lumley, with a sigh; “and now, my boy, to change the subject, we must buckle to our winter’s work in right good earnest; I mean what may be styled our philanthropic work; for the other work—firewood-cutting, hunting, store arranging, preparation for the return of Indians in spring, with their furs, and all the other odds and ends of duty—is going along swimmingly; but our classes must be resumed, now that the holidays are over, for we have higher interests to consider than the mere eating that we may live, and living that we may eat.”

“All right,” said I heartily, for I was very glad to help in a species of work which, I felt gave dignity to all our other labours. “I’ll get the slates out and start the men at arithmetic to-morrow evening, from the place where we left off. What will you do? Give them ‘Robinson Crusoe’ over again?”

“No, Max, I won’t do that, not just now at all events. I’ll only finish the story and then begin the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ You observed, no doubt that I had been extending my commentaries on ‘Robinson,’ especially towards the last chapters.”

“Yes—what of that?”

“Well, I am free to confess that that was intentionally done. It was a dodge, my boy, to get them into the habit of expecting, and submitting to, commentary, for I intend to come out strong in that line in my exposition of the Pilgrim—as you shall see. I brought the book with this very end, and the long winter nights, in view. And I mean to take it easy too—spin it out. I won’t bore them with too much at a time.”

“Good, but don’t spin it out too long, Lumley,” said I; “you know when men set their hearts on some magnificent plan or scheme they are apt to become prosy. I suppose you’ll also take the writing class, as before?”

“I suppose I must,” returned my friend, with a sigh, “though it goes against the grain, for I was never very good at penmanship, and we have lost our best scholars too, now that Waboose and her mother are gone.”

“By the way, that reminds me,” said I, “that Waboose gave me the packet which she received from her father not long before he was drowned. Here it is.”

I drew it from my breast-pocket and held it up. “She told me her father had said it was no use her opening it, as she could not read it, but that she was to give it to the first white man whom she could trust; you remember my mentioning that to you? she gave it to me only yesterday, and I have not yet found time to read it.”

“Did she say she could trust you, Max!”

“Of course she did. Why not?”

“Oh, certainly, why not?” repeated my friend, with a peculiar look. “Did she say you might communicate its contents to me?”

“Well, no, she did not,” I replied, feeling rather perplexed. “But I am quite sure that, if she meant to trust me at all, she meant to trust to my discretion in the whole matter; and—Jack Lumley,” I added, getting up and grasping my friend’s hand, “if I cannot trust you I can trust nobody.”

“That will do,” he said, returning the squeeze. “You are safe. Go ahead.”

The packet was wrapped in a piece of birch-bark, and tied with a bit of fibrous root. This covering removed, I found a white cambric handkerchief, inside of which was something hard. It turned out to be the miniature of a handsome man, somewhere between forty and fifty. Beside it was a manuscript in English. On one corner of the kerchief was marked in faded ink the name “Eve.”

Holding out the portrait I said,—“You see. I knew he was a gentleman. This must be her father.”

“No doubt,” replied Lumley—“but what says this letter?”

Unfolding the manuscript I spread it carefully on my knee and began to read.

Chapter Nineteen.

Opening of the Mysterious Packet.

The manuscript was without date or preface, and its contents interested as well as surprised us not a little. It began at once as follows:—

“Whoever receives this packet and letter from my daughter receives a sacred trust which he dare not shake off, and which I solemnly charge him in the sight of God to take up and fulfil. At the moment while I write I am well and strong, and not old. It is my firm intention, if God spares me, to pursue the course which is herein detailed, but I know too well the risk and dangers of the wilderness to feel assured that I shall live to act out my part. I therefore write down here, as briefly as I can, my story and my wishes, and shall give the letter with my miniature to my darling Waboose—whose Christian name is Eve, though she knows it not—with directions not to open it, or let it out of her hands, until she meets with a white man whom she can trust, for well assured am I that the man whom my innocent and wise-hearted Eve can trust—be he old or young—will be a man who cannot and will not refuse the responsibility laid on him. Why I prefer to leave this packet with my daughter, instead of my dear wife, is a matter with which strangers have nothing to do.

“I begin by saying that I have been a great sinner, but thank God, I have found Jesus a great Saviour. Let this suffice. I was never given to open up my mind much, and I won’t begin now—at least, not more than I can help. It is right to say, at the outset, that I have been regularly married by a travelling Wesleyan minister to my dear wife, by whom also Eve and her mother were baptized.

“My fall began in disobedience to my mother. Probably this is the case with most ne’er-do-wells. My name is William Liston. My father was a farmer in a wild part of Colorado. He died when I was a little boy, leaving my beloved mother to carry on the farm. I am their only child. My mother loved and served the Lord Christ. And well do I know that my salvation from an ungovernable temper and persistent self-will is the direct answer to her unceasing prayers.

“I left home, against her will, with a party of backwoodsmen, my heart being set on what I once thought would be the free and jolly life of a hunter in the great American wilderness. I have lived to find the truth of that proverb, ‘All is not gold that glitters,’ and of that word, ‘There is no rest, saith my God, to the wicked.’

“I was eighteen when I left home. Since then I have been a homeless wanderer—unless a shifting tent may be considered home! Long after my quitting home, and while staying with a tribe of Indians at the head waters of the Saskatchewan river, I met an Indian girl, whose gentle, loving nature, and pretty face, were so attractive to me that I married her and joined her tribe. The marriage ceremony was, as I have said, confirmed by a Wesleyan minister, whose faithful words made such an impression on me that I resolved to give up my wild life, and return with my wife and child to my old home. My character, however—which is extremely resolute and decided when following the bent of my inclinations, and exceedingly weak and vacillating when running counter to the same—interfered with my good intentions. The removal of the tribe to a more distant part of the land also tended to delay me, and a still more potent hindrance lay in the objection of my wife—who has been faithful and true to me throughout; God bless her! She could not for a long time, see her way to forsake her people.

“Ever since my meeting with the Wesleyan, my mind has been running more or less on the subject of religion, and I have tried to explain it as far as I could to my wife and child, but have found myself woefully ignorant as well as sinful. At last, not long ago, I procured a New Testament from a trapper, and God in mercy opened my eyes to see and my heart to receive the truth as it is in Jesus. Since then I have had less difficulty in speaking to my wife and child, and have been attempting to teach the latter to read English. The former, whose mother and father died lately, has now no objection to go with me to the land of the pale-faces, and it is my present intention to go to my old home on the return of spring. I have not heard of my poor mother since I left her, though at various times I have written to her. It may be that she is dead. I hope not—I even think not, for she was very young when she married my father, and her constitution was strong. But her hair was beginning to silver even before I forsook her—with sorrow, I fear, on my account. Oh! mother! mother! How unavailing is my bitter regret! What would I not give to kneel once more at your feet and confess my sin! This may perhaps be permitted—but come weal, come woe, blessed be God we shall meet again.

“If my prayer is granted, this paper will never be seen by human eyes. If God sees fit to deny me this, and I should die in the wilderness, then I charge the man to whom my packet is given, to take my wife and daughter to Colorado; and if my mother—Mrs William Liston, of Sunny Creek—be still alive, to present them to her with this written paper and miniature. If, on the other hand, she be dead, then let him buy for them an annuity, or otherwise invest four thousand pounds for their benefit, according to the best of his judgment. How to come by the four thousand pounds I will now explain.

“Away in the beautiful and sequestered valley at the head of Lake Wichikagan there stands a stunted pine, near a rock fallen from the cliff above. The spot is not easily found, but my Eve knows it well. It was a favourite resort of ours when we went picnicking together. There is a small hole or dry cave in the cliff just behind the fallen rock. Two feet underneath the soil there will be found a bag containing a set of diamonds worth the sum I have named, with a smaller bag containing five hundred pounds in gold. It may not be amiss to say that both jewels and money have been honestly come by. The money I dug out of the Californian mines, and bought the jewels in a drunken frolic when in Canada—‘for my future wife,’ as I then boasted. My dear wife has never seen them, nor has Eve. They do not know of their existence. The five hundred pounds in gold is to be retained for himself by the man who accepts this trust to enable him to pay his way and carry it out.

“William Liston.”

It is difficult to express the conflict of feelings that assailed me when I had finished reading this remarkable manuscript. For some time Lumley and I gazed at each other in silence.

“You accept the trust, I suppose?” said my friend at last.

“Of course. How could I do otherwise?”

“But you cannot remain in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company if you do. They would never give you leave of absence for such a purpose.”

“No matter. I will not ask leave of absence. I will resign. My time was up, you know, this year. I will write to the governor by the spring-brigade, and start away for Colorado in summer.”

“But this poor man may have been slightly deranged,” suggested Lumley. “He says that at one time he led a wild life. It is possible that his brain may have been affected, and he only dreams of these jewels and the gold.”

“I think not,” said I, decidedly; “the letter is so calm and simple in style that the idea is absurd; besides, we can soon test it by visiting the valley and the spot referred to. Moreover, even if there were no money, and the poor man were really deranged, he could never have imagined or invented all that about his mother and Colorado if it were not true. Even if we fail to find the jewels and cash I will accept the trust and fulfil it.”

“What! without money?”

“Ay, without money,” said I firmly, though I am bound to confess that I did not at the moment see clearly how the thing was in that case to be done. But I was—and, indeed, still am—of an ardent disposition, and felt sanguine that I should manage to fulfil the obligations of this remarkable trust somehow.

“Well, Max, you and I will visit this valley to-morrow,” said Lumley, rising; “meanwhile we will go to bed.”

Accordingly, next morning, after breakfast Lumley and I slung our snow-shoes over our shoulders on the barrels of our guns,—for the lake was as hard as a sheet of white marble,—and started off to pay a visit to the spot indicated in what I may style poor Liston’s will.

It was a bright bracing day—quite calm, but with keen frost, which tended to increase the feelings of excitement already roused by the object we had in view. As we passed through the lake’s fringe of willows, the tops of which just rose a foot or two above the drifted snow, a great covey of ptarmigan rose with a mighty whirr, and swept along the shore; but we took no heed of these—our minds being bent on other game!

The distance to the upper end of the lake was considerable, and the day was far advanced when we reached it. As we took to the land the covey of ptarmigan, which had preceded us to the place, again rose. This time, however, we were prepared for them. Lumley shot a brace right and left, taking the two last that rose with sportsman-like precision. I confess that I am not a particularly good shot—never was—and have not much of the sportsman’s pride about me. I fired straight into the centre of the dense mass of birds, six of which immediately fell upon the snow.

“What a lot of flukes!” exclaimed my companion, with a laugh, as he recharged.

“Luck before precision, any day!” said I, following his example.

“Ay, Max, but there is this difference, that luck is rather uncertain, whereas precision is always sure.”

“Well, be that as it may,” said I putting on my snow-shoes, for the snow in the wood we were about to enter was deep and soft, “we have enough for a good supper at all events.”

“True, and we shall need a good supper, for we must camp out. There is no chance of our finding this treasure—even if it exists—until we have had a good search, and then it will be too late to return home with comfort, or even safety, for it is difficult on a dark night to distinguish tracks on the hard snow of a lake, as I’ve sometimes found to my cost.”

We set up several other coveys of ptarmigan as we traversed the belt of willows lying between the lake and the woods, and when we entered the latter, several grouse, of a species that takes to trees, fluttered away from us; but we did not molest them, having already more than we could consume swinging at our belts.

We went straight up the valley to what we deemed the most sequestered part of it, and then paused.

“This looks somewhat like the spot, doesn’t it?” said Lumley, glancing round. “Yonder is a cliff with rocks at the base of it.”

“Yes, but too many rocks,” said I; “the paper mentions only one; besides, it refers to a stunted pine, and I see nothing of that sort here.”

“True, it must be higher up the valley. Come along.”

On we plodded, hour after hour, halting often, and examining with care many a secluded spot that seemed to answer more or less the description of the spot for which we searched, but all in vain. Sunset found us as far from our object as ever, and as hungry as hawks. Darkness of course put an end to the search, and, with a feeling of disappointment and weariness that I had not experienced since arriving in that region, I set to work to fell and cut up a tree for fire wood, while Lumley shovelled a hole in the snow at the foot of a pine, and otherwise prepared our encampment.

But youth is remarkably elastic in spirit! No sooner was the fire crackling, the kettle singing, and the delicious odour of roasted ptarmigan tickling our nostrils, than disappointment gave way to hope and weariness to jollity.

“Come, we shall have at it again to-morrow,” said Lumley.

“So we shall,” said I—“mind that kettle. You have an unfortunate capacity for kicking things over.”

“One of the disadvantages of long legs, Max. They’re always in the way. Get out the biscuit now. My ptarmigan is ready. At least, if it isn’t, I can’t wait.”

“Neither can I, Jack. I sometimes wish that it were natural to us to eat things raw. It would be so very convenient and save sh–—a—lot—of—time.”

Hunger and a wrenched-off drumstick checked further utterance!

That night we lay in our snow camp, gazing up at the stars, with our feet to the fire, talking of gold and diamonds with all the eagerness of veritable misers—though it is but justice to myself to add that Eve’s blue eyes outshone, in my imagination, all the diamonds that ever decked the brow of Wealth or Beauty! When at last we slept, our dreams partook of the same glittering ideas—coupled, of course, with much of the monstrous absurdity to which dreams are liable. I had just discovered a gem which was so large that I experienced the utmost difficulty in thrusting it into my coat-pocket, and was busy shovelling small diamonds of the purest water into a wheelbarrow, when a tremendous whack on my nose awoke me.

Starting up with an indignant gasp I found that it was a lump of snow, which had been detached by the heat of our fire from a branch overhead.

“What’s wrong, Max?” growled my companion, who lay curled up in his buffalo robe, like a huge Newfoundland dog. “Bin dreamin’?”

“Yes,” said I, with a loud yawn, “I was dreaming of shovelling up diamonds by the thousand when a lump of snow fell and hit my nose!”

“Str’nge,” sighed Lumley, in the sleepiest voice I ever heard, “so’s I—dr’m’n ’f g’ld’n sass–gs an’ dm’nd rupple-ply.”

“What nonsense are you talking, man? What were you dreaming of?”

“’F gold’n saus’ges an’ dim’nd rolly-p’ly. I say—’s fire out?”

“Nearly.”

“’S very cold. G’t up—mend it, l’ke good f’llow. I’ll help you, d’rectly.”

He finished off with a prolonged snore, so I rose with a slight laugh, mended the fire, warmed myself well, observed in a sleepy way that the night was still bright and calm, and then lay down in a state of semi-consciousness to drop at once into a nest made of golden filigree filled with diamond eggs!

Next morning we rose at daybreak, relighted the fire and had breakfast, after which we resumed our search, but still—without success.

“I fear that my surmise as to the state of poor Liston’s mind is correct,” said Lumley. “We have searched the whole valley, I believe.”

“Nay, not quite,” I returned, “it is much varied in form, and full of out-o’-the-way nooks. Besides, we have not yet discovered the stunted pine, and you know the paper says the spot is difficult to find. As to Liston’s mind I feel quite sure that it was all right, and that the man was a good and true one. The father of Waboose could not have been otherwise.”

I said this somewhat decidedly, for I felt sorely disappointed at our failure, and slightly annoyed at my friend’s unbelief in one whose last writing proved him—at least to my mind—to be genuine and sincere.

“Well, Max,” returned Lumley, with his wonted pleasant look and tone, “it may be that you are right. We will continue our search as long as there seems any chance of success.”

Accordingly, we ranged the valley round, high and low, until we had visited, as we thought, every nook and cranny in it and then, much dispirited, returned home.

One morning, about three months after these events, Lumley came into my bedroom where I was drawing a plan for a new store.

“Max,” said he, sitting down on the bed beside me, “I mean to start this afternoon on a visit to the mountain fort. You know I promised Macnab that I would look him up about this time and fetch Waboose and her mother back.”

“Indeed. When do you start!”

“This afternoon.”

I was not surprised at the suddenness of this announcement. Our chief was eminently a man of action. He seldom talked much about plans, but thought them well out, and when his mind was made up acted without delay.

“You’ll take my letter to the governor and tell Mac to forward it with his spring packet?” said I.

“Yes, that is just what I came to see you about. Is it ready—and are you quite decided about retiring?”

“Quite decided. See, here is the letter. And don’t forget your promise to say nothing to Waboose or anyone else about Liston’s packet.”

“Not a word, my boy.”

That afternoon my friend set off on snow-shoes accompanied by two men.

“Any message, Max?” he said, at parting.

“Of course. My kind regards to everybody.”

“Nothing warmer to anybody?”

“Oh, yes,” I returned quickly, “I forgot you may, if you choose, say something a little more affectionate to Miss Macnab!”

“I will, Max, I will,” he replied, with a loud ringing laugh and a cheery good-bye.

Some time after that an Indian came to the fort bearing a letter from Lumley. It was written, he said, merely because the Indian chanced to be travelling towards Wichikagan, and contained nothing of importance. To my surprise and disappointment it contained no reference whatever to Waboose. On turning over the last page, however, I found a postscript. It ran thus:

“P.S.—By the way, I had almost omitted to mention Eve. My dear boy, I believe you are right. She is one of Nature’s ladies. Jessie has prevailed on her to put on one of her dresses and be her companion, and when they are walking together with their backs towards me, upon my word I have difficulty in deciding which is the more ladylike of the two! And that you will admit, is no small compliment from me. Jessie has been giving her lessons in English, and music and drawing too. Just think of that! She says she is doing it with an end in view. I wonder what that end can be! Jessie is sometimes difficult to understand. She is also remarkably wise and far-sighted. I expect to be home soon—farewell.”

Chapter Twenty.

I come out in a New Light, and have a very Narrow Escape.

During the absence of my friend everything went on at the fort in the usual quiet way, with this difference, that part of our educational course had to be given up, and I had to read the Pilgrim’s Progress instead of my friend, for the men had become so deeply interested in the adventures of Christian that they begged of me to continue the readings.

This I agreed to do, but confined myself simply to reading. I observed, however, that my audience did not seem to appreciate the story as much as before, and was getting somewhat disheartened about it, when one evening, as I was about to begin, Donald Bane said to me—

“If ye please, sur, the other laads an’ me’s been talking over this matter, an’ they want me to say that they would pe fery much obleeged if ye would expound the story as you go along, the same as Muster Lumley did.”

This speech both surprised and embarrassed me, for I had never before attempted anything in the way of exposition. I felt, however, that it would never do for a man in charge of an outpost in the Great Nor’-West to exhibit weakness on any point, whatever he might feel; I therefore resolved to comply.

“Well, Donald Bane,” I said, “it had been my intention to leave the exposition of the allegory to Mr Lumley, but as you all wish me to carry on that part of the reading I will do my best.”

So saying, I plunged at once into the story, and got on much more easily than I had expected; ideas and words flowing into my mind copiously, insomuch that I found it difficult to stop, and on more than one occasion was awakened by a snore from one of the audience, to the fact that I had sent some of them to sleep.

In the midst of this pleasant, and I hope not unprofitable, work, an event occurred which had well-nigh stopped my commentaries on the Pilgrim’s Progress, and put an end to my career altogether.

I had gone out one morning with my gun to procure a few fresh ptarmigan, accompanied by Big Otter. Our trusty Indian was beginning by that time to understand the English language, but he would not condescend to speak it. This, however, was of slight importance, as I had learned to jabber fluently in the native tongue.

We speedily half-filled the large game-bag which the Indian carried.

“I think we’ll go into the thicker woods now,” said I, “and try for some tree grouse by way of variety.”

Big Otter gave a mild grunt of assent. He was not naturally given to much talking, and, being amiable, was always ready to conform to any plan without discussion, unless expressly asked. Indeed, even when expressly asked, it was not always possible to get a satisfactory answer out of him.

“Do you think we should go up the Dark Valley, or over the Rocky Knoll,” said I, referring to two well-known spots a considerable distance from the fort.

“The pale-face chief knows best.”

“Yes, but the pale-face asks what the red-face thinks,” said I, somewhat amused by the answer.

“He thinks that there are grouse in the Dark Valley, and also in the lands towards the setting sun over the Rocky Knoll.”

“If I were to ask you, Big Otter, which of the two directions you would like to take, what would you reply?”

“I would reply, ‘The direction that best pleases the pale-face chief.’”

“Now, Big Otter,” said I, firmly, for I was determined to get an answer out of him, “in which of the two paths are we most likely to find the greatest number of birds?”

“Assuredly in the path which shall be chosen by the pale-face. Is he not a great hunter? Does he not know the land?”

I gave in with a short laugh, and, turning, led the way over the Rocky Knoll into the dense forest at the back of the fort. Passing through a belt of this, we came upon more open ground, where the trees grew in clumps, with willow-covered spaces between. Beyond that we re-entered the thick woods, and at once set up a covey of the birds we were in search of. There were six of them, and they all perched on a neighbouring tree.

Now it is sometimes the case that the birds of which I write are so tame that they will sit still on a tree till they are all shot, one by one, if only the hunter is careful to fire at the lowest bird first, and so proceed upwards. If he should kill the top bird first, its fluttering fall disturbs the rest, causing them to take wing. Fully aware of this fact, Big Otter and I fired alternate shots, and in a few seconds brought down the whole covey. This quite filled one of our bags.

“You may take it home, Big Otter,” said I, “and tell them not to be alarmed if I don’t return till to-morrow. Perhaps I shall camp out.”

With his usual quiet grunt of acquiescence my red-skinned companion shouldered the full bag, and left me. I then struck into the thick woods, with the general bearings of which I was well acquainted, and soon after came across the fresh tracks of a deer, which I followed up hotly.

I am naturally a keen sportsman, and apt to forget both time and distance when pursuing game. As to distance, however, a backwoods hunter who intends to encamp on the spot where night finds him, does not need to concern himself much about that. I therefore plodded on, hour after hour, until the waning light told of the approach of darkness, and convinced me that further pursuit would be useless.

Looking round me then, for a suitable spot on which to make my encampment, I experienced almost a shock of surprise, not unmingled with alarm, on making the discovery that I had forgotten to bring my fire-bag!

To some people the serious nature of this may not at first be apparent. But they may appreciate the situation in some degree when I tell them that on that occasion I suddenly found myself about twenty miles from home, fatigued, hungry, with the night descending over the wilderness, the thermometer about thirty-five below zero, of Fahrenheit’s scale, with the snow for my bed, and without that all important flint, steel and tinder, wherewith to procure fire for the cooking of my food and the warming of my frame!

It is true I had my gun, which was a flint one, so that by rubbing some slightly moistened gunpowder on a piece of rag, which I tore from my shirt for the purpose, and snapping the lock over it there was a possibility of a spark catching, but unfortunately the flint was a much worn one which I had chipped away to such an extent during the day, to improve its fire-producing powers, that only the merest glimmer of a spark was evolved after many snappings, and it was so feeble as to be quite unable to catch hold of my extemporised tinder. After prolonged and fruitless efforts the intense cold began to chill me, and being well aware of the great danger of getting benumbed, or of falling into that torpid state of indifference to life, coupled with intense desire for rest which precedes death from cold, I made up my mind at once, tired and hungry though I was, to turn round and walk straight back to the fort.

I knew myself to be quite capable of walking forty miles on snow-shoes in ordinary circumstances. My being tired and the darkness of night, were against me, but what of that? it would only require me to brace myself to a severer task than usual!

I had not gone many miles, however, on the return journey, when a doubt occurred as to whether I was taking the right direction. In the confidence of my knowledge of the country I had carelessly left my old track, which was indeed rather a devious one, and had struck what I believed to be a straight line for the fort. It was by that time too late to retrace my steps and too dark to distinguish the features of the landscape. I stopped for a minute to think, and as I did so the profound oppressive silence of the night, the weird pallid aspect of the scarce visible snow, and the dark pines around me, which were only a shade or two darker than the black sky above, together with the ever-increasing cold, made such an impression on my mind that the prayer, “God help me!” burst almost involuntarily from my lips.

Feeling that delay surely meant death, I started off again with redoubled energy, and this impulse of determination, along with the exercise, increased my temperature somewhat, so that hope became strong again, and with it muscular energy.

Suddenly I came upon a snow-shoe track. I went down on my knees to examine it, but the light was insufficient to make it out clearly. What would I not have given for a match at that moment! However, as the size of the shoe-print seemed to my feeling the same with that of the shoe I wore, I concluded that it must certainly be my own track out from home—all the more that it ran almost parallel with the line I was following.

Getting upon it then, I stepped out with much greater ease and with a lighter heart.

After a time the track led me to a slightly open space where the light was better. I thought that objects seemed familiar to me as I looked round. Advancing, I came on a spot where the snow was much trodden down. There was a bank of snow near. I went towards it while a terrible suspicion flashed into my mind. Yes, it was the very spot on which I had been sitting hours before, while I was making fruitless efforts to obtain a light from the flint of my gun! I had been doing that of which I had often read and heard, walking unwittingly in a circle, and had actually come back to the spot from which I set out.

What my feelings were on making this discovery it is scarcely possible to describe. My first act was to look up and exclaim as before, “God help me!” But there was nothing impulsive or involuntary in the prayer this time. I fully realised the extent of my danger, and, believing that the hour had come when nothing could save my life but the direct interposition of my Creator, I turned to Him with all the fervour of my heart.

At the same time I am bound to confess that my faith was very weak, and my soul felt that solemn alarm which probably the bravest feel at the approach of death, when that approach is sudden and very unexpected.

Nevertheless, I am thankful to say that my powers of judgment and of action did not forsake me. I knew that it would be folly to attempt to follow my track back again through the intricacies of the forest in so dark a night, especially now that the track was partly mingled and confused with that which I had made in joining it. I also knew that to give way to despair, and lie down without a fire or food, would be to seal my own doom. Only one course remained, and that was to keep constantly moving until the return of day should enable me to distinguish surrounding objects more clearly.

I went to work therefore without delay, but before doing so once again solemnly and earnestly committed my soul and body to the care of God. And, truly, the circumstances of my case intensified that prayer. I felt as if I had never really prayed in earnest in my life before that night.

Then, laying aside my gun, blanket and cooking utensils, so as to commence my task as light as possible, I went to the most open space of ground I could find, and there described a large circle with my snow-shoes on. This was the track on which I resolved to perform a feat of endurance. To walk all night without intermission, without rest, so as to keep up my animal heat was the effort on the success of which depended the issue of life or death.

I began with that vigour which is born of hopeful determination to succeed or die. But, as time wore on, the increasing weakness and exhaustion began to render me less capable of enduring the intense cold. Having my wallet on my back I took out some biscuit and pemmican and ate it as I walked. This revived me a good deal, nevertheless I restrained myself, feeling convinced that nothing but steady, quiet perseverance would carry me through. Soon thirst began to torment me, yet I did not dare to eat snow, as that would have merely injured the inside of my mouth, and frozen the skin of my lips. This feeling did not however last long. It was followed by a powerful sense of drowsiness.

This I knew to be the fatal premonitory symptom, and strove against it with all my power. The better to resist it I began to talk aloud to myself.

“Come now, my boy, you mustn’t give way to that. It is death, you know. Hold up! Be a man! Act as Lumley would have acted in similar circumstances. Dear Lumley! How he would run to help me if he only knew!”

Suddenly the words, “In Me is thy help,” seemed to sound in my very ears. I stopped to listen, and was partly roused, but soon hurried on again.

“Yes, yes,” I exclaimed aloud, “I know the text well,” but the words had scarcely left my lips when I stumbled and fell. Owing to my sinking powers I had failed to keep the centre of the track; my right snow-shoe had caught on the edge of it and tumbled me into the soft snow.

How shall I describe the delicious feeling of profound rest that ensued when I found myself prone and motionless? Equally impossible is it to describe the agonising struggles that I made to induce my unwilling spirit to rouse my listless body. Those who have striven in semi-consciousness to throw off the awful lethargy of nightmare may have some conception of my feelings. I knew, even then, that it was the critical moment—the beginning of the end. In a burst of anxiety I began to pray—to shout with all my strength—for deliverance. The effort and the strange sound of my own voice roused me.

I staggered to my feet and was able to continue my walk. Being somewhat brighter than I had been before the tumble, I perceived that the circular track was by that time beaten hard enough to bear me up without snow-shoes, so I put them off and walked with much more ease.

From this point however my mind became so confused that I can give no reliable account of what followed. I was conscious at various periods during that dreadful night of becoming alive to several incidents and states of mind. I recollect falling more than once, as I had fallen before, and of experiencing, more than once, that painful struggle against what I may style mental and physical inertia. I remember breaking out frequently into loud importunate prayer, and being impressed with a feeling of reviving energy at such times. Sometimes a text of Scripture seemed to flash before my eyes and disappear. On these occasions I made terrible efforts to grasp the text, and have an indistinct sensation of increased strength resulting from the mere efforts, but most of the texts faded as quickly as they came, with the exception of one—“God is our Hope.” Somehow I seemed to lay firm hold of that, and to feel conscious of holding it, even when sense was slipping away, but of the blanks between those conditions I know nothing. They may have been long or they may have been short—I cannot tell. All remains on my memory now like the unsubstantial fragments of a hideous dream.

The first thing after that which impressed itself on me with anything like the distinctness of reality was the sound of a crackling fire, accompanied with the sensation of warmth in my throat. Slowly opening my eyes I became aware of the fact that I was lying in front of a blazing fire, surrounded by Big Otter, Blondin, and Dougall, who stood gazing at me with anxious looks, while Henri Coppet knelt at my side, attempting to pour some warm tea down my throat.

“Dere now, monsieur,” said Coppet, who was rather fond of airing his English, especially when excited, “Yoos kom too ver queek. Ony drink. Ha! dere be noting like tea.”

“Wow! man, mind what yer aboot. Ye’ll scald him,” said Dougall, anxiously.

“You hole yoos tongue,” replied the carpenter contemptuously, “me knows w’at mees do. Don’ wants no Scoshmans for tell me. Voilà! Monsieur have swaller un peu!”

This was true. I had not only swallowed, but nearly choked with a tendency to laugh at the lugubrious expression of my friends’ faces.

“Where am I?” said I, on recovering a little, “What has happened?”

“Oo ay, Muster Maxby,” answered Dougall, with his wonted nasal drawl; “somethin’ hess happened, but it’s no sae pad as what might hev happened, whatever.”

As this did not tend to clear my mind much, and as I knew from experience that the worthy Celt refused to be hurried in his communications, I turned an inquiring look on Blondin, who at once said in French—

“Monsieur has been lost and nearly frozen, and Monsieur would surely have been quite frozen if James Dougall had not discovered that Monsieur had left his fire-bag at home, by mistake no doubt; we at once set out to search for Monsieur, and we found him with his head in the snow and his feet in the air. At first we thought that Monsieur was dead, but happily he was not, so we kindled a fire and rubbed Monsieur, and gave him hot tea, which has revived him. Voilà! Perhaps Monsieur will take a little more hot tea?”

While Blondin was speaking, the whole scene of the previous day and of the terrible night rushed in upon my brain like a flood, and I thanked God fervently for my deliverance, while I complied with the man’s suggestion and sipped some more tea.

It revived me much, but on attempting to rise I found myself so weak that I fell back helplessly with a deep sigh.

“Ye’ve no need to trouble yoursel’, Muster Maxby,” said Dougall, “we’ve brought the new dowg-sleigh for ’ee.”

Looking in the direction in which he pointed, I observed not far-off the splendid new dog-sleigh which we had spent much time in making and painting that winter. Our fine team of four semi-wolf dogs, gay with embroidered harness as they lay curled up on the snow, were attached to it.

“I suspect I should have died but for your thoughtful care, Dougall,” I said, gratefully, as the good fellow assisted to place me in the vehicle and wrap the buffalo robes around me.

“Hoots! Muster Maxby,” was the remonstrative reply.

Big Otter placed himself in front of the cortège to beat the track. The dogs followed him with the sleigh-bells ringing merrily. Blondin took hold of the tail-line, and the others brought up the rear.

Thus comfortably, with a bright sun shining in the blue sky, I returned to Fort Wichikagan.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Buffalo Hunt Followed by a Palaver, an Arrival, and a Traitor-Chase.

We must turn away now, for a short time, to another, though not far distant, part of the Great Nor’-West.

It is a more open country than that immediately around Fort Wichikagan, and lies to the south of it. Here and there long stretches of prairie cut up the wilderness, giving to the landscape a soft and park-like appearance. The scenery is further diversified by various lakelets which swarm with water-fowl, for the season has changed, early spring having already swept away the white mantle of winter, and spread the green robes of Nature over the land. It is such a region as a millionaire might select in which to build a palace, but no millionaire has yet beheld the lovely spot. With unlimited wealth at his command he still confines himself to the smoke and dust of civilisation, leaving the free air and the brilliant beauty of the wilderness to the wild-fowl and the penniless hunter, and the wandering savage!

In the midst of one of the stretches of rolling prairie-land, great herds of buffalo are scattered in groups, browsing with all the air of security peculiar to domestic cattle. Happily their memories are short. They seem prone to enjoy the present, forgetful of the past and regardless of the future—happily, I say, for those humpy and hairy creatures are not unacquainted with man’s devices—the sudden surprise, the twang of the red-man’s bow and the crack of the hunter’s rifle.

It was the forenoon of a splendid day, when this peaceful scene was broken in upon by obstreperous, fighting, peace-destroying man. A little cloud of dust on the horizon was the first indication of his approach, and a very antique buffalo-bull was first among the thousands of innocents to observe the cloud. It stirred the memory of other days, no doubt within his capacious bosom, and probably sent a thrill through his huge frame, which, terminating naturally in his tail, caused that appendage to vibrate and curl slightly upwards. At the same time he emitted softly a low rumble, which might have served for the bass of a cathedral organ.

Most of the cows near the patriarch looked up in evident surprise, as though to say, “What in all the world do you mean by that?” But the patriarch took no notice of them. He kept his wicked little eyes fixed intently on the cloud of dust, twitching his tail nervously, and rumbling cathedral-organically. If I might venture to guess at the mental operations of that patriarch, I should say that he was growling to himself, “Is that you again, you galloping, spitfiring, two-legged, yelling monsters?” or some such bovine expression.

By degrees the cloud came nearer and enlarged. Simultaneously the groups of buffaloes drew together and began to gaze—perchance to remember! The patriarch became excited, wriggled his tail, which was ridiculously small for his body, pawed the ground, trotted hither and thither, and commenced playing on all the deeper notes of his organ.

At last there could be no doubt. The two-legged monsters came on, mounted on four-legged brutes, which began to trot as the distance between them diminished. This was enough. The patriarch tossed his haunches to the sky, all but wriggled off his tail, gave utterance to a bursting bellow, and went scouring over the plains like a gigantic wild pig. The entire buffalo host performing a similar toss and wriggle, followed close on his heels.

At this the redskins put their steeds to the gallop, but did not at once overtake their prey. Clumsy though their gait was, the buffaloes were swift and strong, causing the whole plain to resound under their mighty tread. Indian steeds, however, are wiry and enduring. By slow degrees they lessened the distance between them—both pursued and pursuers lengthening out their ranks as the “fittest” came to the front. Thundering on, they approached one of the large clumps of woodland with which the plain was covered, as with islets. The patriarch led to the left of it. The savages, sweeping aside, took to the right.

The sudden disappearance of the pursuers seemed to surprise the patriarch, who slackened his pace a little, and, lifting his shaggy head, looked right and left inquiringly. “Was it all a dream!” he thought—no doubt.

If he thought it was, he received in a few minutes a rude awakening, for the redskins came sweeping round the other end of the clump of trees, yelling like fiends, brandishing their weapons and urging their steeds to the uttermost.

To snort, bellow, turn off at a tangent, and scurry along faster than ever, was the work of a moment, but it was too late! The savages were in the midst of the snorting host. Bows were bent and guns were levelled. The latter were smooth-bores, cheap, and more or less inaccurate, but that mattered not.

Where the range was only two or three yards, guns and bows were true enough for the end in view. At such work even bad shots met their reward. Arrows sank to the feathers; bullets penetrated to the heart or shattered the bones. Ere long numerous black lumps on the prairie told of death to the quadrupeds and success to the bipeds.

But I do not drag the reader here merely to tell of savage sport and butchery. The Indian was only following his vocation—working for his food.

That same evening two of the Indians stood on a hillock, a little apart from their camp where smoking fires and roasting meat and marrow-bones, and ravenously-feeding men and women, and gorging little boys and girls, formed a scene that was interesting though not refined. One of the Indians referred to was Big Otter. The other was Muskrat, the old chief of his tribe.

“Does my father not know?” said Big Otter, deferentially, “that Attick plans mischief against the pale-faces of Wichikagan?”

“No, Big Otter,” returned the old chief with a scowl; “Muskrat does not know that, but he hears, and if it is true he will have Attick flayed alive, and his skin dressed to make moccasins for our young squaws.”

“It is true,” rejoined Big Otter, sternly. “His plan is to attack the fort by night, kill the pale-faces, and carry off the goods.”

“Attick is a fool!” said Muskrat, contemptuously. “Does he not know that no more goods would evermore be sent into our lands if we did that, and also that the pale-faces always hunt murderers to death? No; if that had been possible, or wise, Muskrat would have done it himself long ago.”

After this candid statement he stared solemnly at his companion, as though to say, “What think ye of that, my brave?”

Apparently my brave did not think much of it one way or other, for he only looked indifferent and said, “Waugh!”

“Big Otter’s ears are sharp,” continued Muskrat. “How did he come to hear of Attick’s intentions?”

The younger Indian paused thoughtfully before replying.

“Waboose told me,” he said.

“Does the daughter of Weeum the Good hold communion with evil spirits?” asked the old chief, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows.

“Not willingly, but evil spirits force themselves upon the daughter of Weeum the Good. My father knows that Attick is presumptuous. He wishes to mate Waboose.”

“Yes, I knew he was presumptuous, but I did not know he was so great a fool,” replied the old chief scornfully.

“My father knows,” continued Big Otter, “that when the pale-face chief went and brought Waboose back to Fort Wichikagan, Attick was staying there in his wigwam by the lake. The big chief of the pale-faces, who fears nothing, had forgiven him. Attick went to Waboose, and offered to take her to his wigwam; but the daughter of Weeum the Good turned away from him. Attick is proud, and he is fierce. He told Waboose that he would kill all the pale-faces. Although a fool, he does not boast. Waboose knew that he was in earnest. She went to the pale-face Muxbee (by which name Big Otter styled my humble self), and told him all, for she has set her heart on Muxbee.”

“Did she tell you so?” asked Muskrat, sharply.

“No; but the blue eyes of Waboose tell tales. They are like a kettle with holes in the bottom—they cannot hold secrets. They spoke to Attick as well as to me, and he became jealous. He swore he would take the scalp of Muxbee. One day, soon after the lake opened, Muxbee asked Waboose to go with him in a canoe to the valley at the head of lake Wichikagan. Attick followed in another canoe, but kept far behind. They did not know it was Attick. Waboose found it out afterwards. Muxbee did not talk to Waboose of love. The ways of the pale-faces are strange. Once I thought that Muxbee liked Waboose, and that, perhaps, he might wed with her, and stay with us as the Good Weeum did, but I doubt it now. He only asked her to take him to the stunted pine where her father was so fond of going with her. When there he went looking here and there about the rocks, and found a splendid thing—I know not what—but Waboose told me it shone and sparkled like the stars. Beside it was a bag of the yellow round things that the pale-faces love so much. He told her he had expected to find these things, but she must not ask him questions just then—he would tell her afterwards. I suppose he is a great medicine-man, and holds intercourse with the spirit-world.” Big Otter paused thoughtfully a few seconds, and then continued:—

“When he was putting these things in his breast, Waboose caught sight of Attick among the bushes, and pointed him out. Muxbee sprang up and levelled his gun with the two pipes at him, but did not fire. Attick fled and they saw him no more.”

“Did Waboose tell Big Otter all this?” asked the old chief.

“Yes. Waboose has no secrets from her mother’s brother.”

“And why has Big Otter left the pale-faces, and brought Waboose away from them?” asked Muskrat.

“Because he fears for the pale-faces, that Attick will kill them and carry off Waboose. By bringing Waboose here with us we draw Attick along with us away from the pale-faces, and as long as Waboose is in our camp she is safe. Attick dare not harm her.”

A gleam of intelligence lit up the swarthy features of the old chief as he said “Waugh!” with much satisfaction.

But both he and Big Otter were wrong in their calculations. So far, indeed, the latter was right. The presence of Waboose in the camp effectually drew Attick after them, and thus removed danger from the inhabitants of Fort Wichikagan, but they were wrong when they thought their camp a place of safety for the poor girl.

“Did Muxbee not care when Big Otter carried Waboose away?” asked the old man.

“He did not know she was going, and I did not tell her she was not to return. I took her away with her mother when Muxbee was out hunting. I told the big pale-face chief that I must go with my tribe to hunt the buffalo in the south, and that they must go with me. He was very unwilling to let them go at first but I was resolved, and Waboose is a good obedient girl.”

That night two events occurred in the redskin camp which caused a good deal of surprise and commotion.

The first was the sudden disappearance of Waboose and her mother. They had been gone some time, of course, before any one thought of suspecting flight. The moment that suspicion was aroused, however, Big Otter went straight to the wigwam of Attick. It was deserted! He knew well the bad and weak men of the tribe who were led or swayed by Attick. Hurrying to their tents he found that these also had fled. This was enough.

“Masqua,” he said to the first Indian he chanced to meet at the moment of quitting the last wigwam, “Attick has carried off Waboose. Assemble some of the young men. Choose only the strong, and those whose horses are swift. Go yourself with your son Mozwa—gallop round the camp till you find in which direction they have gone—then return to me at the council tent and wait.”

Masqua understood the value of prompt obedience. Without a word of reply he turned and bounded away.

Big Otter hurried to the council tent, where old Muskrat was already surrounded by his chiefs. There was less than usual of the grave deliberation of North American Indians in that meeting, for the case was urgent. Nevertheless, there was no bustle, for each bronzed warrior knew that the young men would require a little time to hunt up the trail of the fugitives, mingled as it must be with the innumerable footprints of man and beast in the neighbourhood of a camp; and, until that trail was found, they might as well deliberate calmly—especially as all the men met at the council armed, and ready to vault on the steeds which were already pawing the earth outside. These horses were restrained by youths who longed for the time when they too might be styled braves, and meet in council.

“Is all prepared?” asked the old chief, as Big Otter entered the tent.

“The young men are out,” was the curt reply.

“Good. The night is dark, but my warriors have sharp eyes, and the moon will rise soon. No effort must be spared. The daughter of Weeum the Good must be brought back. It is not necessary to bring back Attick or his men. Their scalps will do as well.”

“Waugh!” pronounced with much emphasis showed that the old man’s words were not only understood, but thoroughly appreciated.

At this moment occurred the second event which I have said was the cause of surprise in the camp that night, if not of commotion. While the old chief was yet speaking, his words were checked by the sound of horses’ hoofs beating heavily on the prairie.

“The young men,” said Muskrat; “they have been swift to find the trail.”

“Young men in haste bringing news do not trot,” said Big Otter.

“Waugh!” assented the council.

“There are but two riders,” murmured the chief, listening intently to the pattering sounds, which rapidly grew louder.

He was right, for, a few seconds later, two horsemen were seen to trot into the camp, and make straight for the council fire. Some of the Indians had turned out with arms ready as they approached, but on hearing a word or two from one of the riders, they quietly let them pass.

Pulling up sharply, one of the strangers leaped to the ground, flung his reins to the other, and entered the council tent where he was received with looks of surprise, and with the ejaculation from Big Otter of the single word “Muxbee!”

Yes, good reader, that stranger was none other than myself, and my companion was Salamander. To account for our sudden appearance I must explain.

On returning to Fort Wichikagan four days after Big Otter had left, and hearing what had occurred, I told Lumley I would follow in pursuit and fetch Waboose back. He remonstrated, of course, but in vain.

“You know that a sacred trust has been imposed upon me,” said I, earnestly, “and I have resolved to fulfil it. The manner in which I should set about it has perplexed me sorely, I confess, but this sudden departure relieves me, at all events, from uncertainty as to my present course of duty. If Waboose goes off with the tribe to no one knows where, she may never be found again. You are aware that she is still ignorant of the contents of the packet, and the value of the found treasure. I have kept her so, temporarily, by your advice. If I had told her and her kindred, she would not probably have gone away, but it is too late to regret that, now. By going off at once I may overtake the tribe. Three days’ journey on foot will bring me to Indians who are rich in horses. Once well mounted I can push on, and will easily overtake them if you will lend me Salamander to aid in following up the trail.”

“But what of the service?” asked Lumley, with a sad smile, for he saw I was resolved. “You are not yet free.”

“True, but you know that Spooner is already on his way here to replace me, my resignation having been accepted. In a week, or two at farthest, he will arrive, when I shall be absolutely free to go where I please. Meanwhile, to prevent even a shadow of impropriety, I ask your majesty for a fortnight’s leave of absence to go a-hunting. Surely you won’t refuse so small a favour? I will be sure to find Waboose, and bring her back by that time.”

“Well, Max, my boy, I won’t refuse. Go, and God go with you. I shall expect to see you again in two weeks, if not sooner.”

“Unless, of course, circumstances render my return so soon impossible.”

“Of course, of course,” said Lumley.

Thus we parted, and thus it was that Salamander and I found ourselves at last in the Indian camp. The pursuit, however, had been much longer than I had expected. More than the stipulated fortnight had already passed.

But to return from this digression. After we had looked at each other silently for a few seconds in the council tent, as already described, I advanced to Big Otter and held out my hand. I then shook hands with the old chief, sat down beside him, and expressed a hope that I did not intrude.

“We palaver about the disappearance of Waboose,” said the old chief.

“Disappearance! Waboose!” I exclaimed, turning abruptly to Big Otter.

“Attick has fled,” said the Indian, sternly, “carrying Waboose and her mother along with him.”

“And you sit here idly talking,” I exclaimed, almost fiercely, as I sprang up.

Before I could take action of any kind, the young Indian, Mozwa, entered the tent abruptly, and said a few words to Muskrat. At the same moment the councillors rose.

“We go in pursuit,” whispered Big Otter in my ear. “Mount, and join us.”

Almost bewildered, but feeling perfect confidence in my Indian friend, I ran out, and vaulted into the saddle. Eager and quick though I was, the redskins were mounted as soon as myself. No one seemed to give orders, but with one accord they put their horses to the gallop, and swept out of the camp. The last words of the old chief as we darted off, were—

“Bring her back, my braves, and don’t forget the scalps of Attick and his men!”

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Chase, the Capture, and the Revelation.

A stern chase is usually a long one. There are not many proverbs the truth of which comes more powerfully home than this—at least to those who have had the misfortune to engage in many such chases. To make a slant at a fugitive, so as to cut him off, or to make a short cut and head him, is pleasant if you be strong in wind and limb, but to creep up right astern, inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard, and to overcome him at last by sheer superiority and perseverance, is a disheartening task.

That was the task we undertook the night we left the Indian camp, and went off at full gallop over the rolling prairie in pursuit of the scoundrel Attick and his crew.

But Indians are by nature persevering, and, for myself, I was roused to the highest pitch of indignation and anxiety. Salamander and I had ridden far and fast that day, besides which we had eaten only a mouthful of pemmican and biscuit since breakfast; nevertheless, under the excitement of the moment our weariness vanished, our hunger fled, and we engaged in the pursuit with all the ardour of the youngest brave among them.

Fortunately I had secured two exceptionally fine horses, so that they were quite able to compete with the inferior, though fresher, horses of the Indians.

“How long is it since you discovered that they were gone?” said I, as I galloped alongside of Big Otter.

“Not more than an hour,” he replied.

“Do you think they had a long start before that?”

“I cannot tell. Perhaps two hours, perhaps four. Certainly not five, for they were seen in camp when the sun was high.”

I was greatly relieved to learn that they had not got a longer start of us, and very thankful that I had come up in time to join the pursuers. I was calming down somewhat under the influence of these thoughts, when I had a sudden feeling of being shot from a cannon into the air. This was succeeded by a sensation of having my nose converted into a ploughshare, and that was instantly followed by oblivion!

In the uncertain light my steed had put his foot in a badger hole—that was all, but it sufficed to check the pace of the whole party!

On recovering I found my head on Salamander’s knee. I felt dreamy and indifferent. “What has happened?” I asked, in English.

Our interpreter, who had a tendency to answer in whatever language he was addressed—whether English, French, or Indian—replied—

“Yoos bin a-most busted, sar!”

Suddenly the true state of the case flashed upon me. Langour fled. I leaped up, and scrambled somehow into the saddle.

“Have I been long insensible, Salamander?” I asked, as we resumed our headlong pace.

“On’y what time I kin count twinty, sar.”

Rejoiced to find that no longer time had been lost, I galloped along contentedly, and in silence, though with a rather confused feeling in my brain, and a sensation of being possessed of six noses rolled into one.

Although no one, as I have said, seemed to lead the party when we started, I soon found that Big Otter was really our chief. He rode ahead of us, and more than once pulled up to dismount and examine the trail. On these occasions the rest of the party halted without orders, and awaited his decision. Once we were completely thrown off the scent. The fugitives had taken to a wooded tract of country, and it required our utmost caution not to lose the trail.

Presently we came to a small stream and crossed it, but the trail ended abruptly here. We were not surprised, being well aware of the common Indian device of wading in a stream, which holds no footprints, so as to throw pursuers out. Dividing our force, one party went up stream, the other down, but although eager, sharp, and practised eyes examined the banks, they could not discover the spot where the fugitives had again taken to dry land. Returning to the place where we had divided, Big Otter again examined the trail with minute care, going down on his knees to turn over the blades of grass and examine the footprints.

“Strange,” said I, impatiently, “that so simple a device should baffle us.”

As I spoke, the chief arose, and, dark though it was, I could see a gleam of intelligence on his swarthy visage.

“Attick thinks he is wise,” he said, in a low voice, “but he has no more brains than a rabbit. He was from childhood an idiot.”

Having paid his tribesman this compliment, he remounted, and, to my surprise, went straight back the way we had come.

“What means this!” I asked, unable to restrain my impatience.

“Attick has doubled back, that is all. If there had been more light we should easily have seen that. We shall soon find the place where the trail breaks off again.”

The Indian was right. On clearing the wooded land we found that the moon was up, and we followed the trail easily. Coming to a hillock in the open ground, the top of which was covered with thick and stunted bushes, we rode into them and there experienced much difficulty in picking our way.

Suddenly Big Otter turned at a right angle from the line we had been hitherto pursuing, and, putting his horse to the gallop, held on with the decision of one who knows he is on the right road.

As the prairie was open, and the moon growing brighter, we had now no difficulty in following up the fugitives, and pressed on as fast as our horses could go.

Daylight came and found us still galloping; but as there was no sign of those whom we pursued, and as our horses were getting tired, we halted at a small stream for a short rest and breakfast.

“They must be well mounted,” said I, as we sat on the banks of the stream appeasing our hunger with masses of dried buffalo meat, while the horses munched the grass near us.

“Attick is always well mounted,” replied Big Otter; “but his men may not be so well off, and women are difficult to urge on when they are unwilling.”

“Then you have no doubt that we shall overtake them?” I asked.

“We must overtake them,” was the laconic reply. I felt somewhat comforted by the decision of the Indian’s tone, and a good deal more so by his ordering his warriors to remount before half an hour had passed. He did not however, press on as hard as before, fearing, no doubt that the horses would break down.

I felt assured that Attick would not dare to halt until he believed himself almost beyond pursuit; and, as the chase therefore bade fair to be a very long one, it seemed wise thus to spare the horses.

About noon, however, we passed through a strip of woodland, and, on coming out at the other side, observed a party of horsemen on the distant horizon.

“Waugh!” exclaimed Big Otter, shaking the reins of his steed and going off at racing speed. We soon began to overhaul the cavalcade, and then perceived that they were doing their utmost to get away from us.

“It is Attick and his party—is it not?” I asked, excitedly.

“It is Attick,” was the brief reply.

Another belt of woodland lay a little to the right on the horizon. The fugitives headed for it. We urged our horses to their utmost speed and soon dashed through the belt of wood, expecting to see the fugitives on the plain beyond. What was our surprise, then, to find them assembled in a group, calmly tying up their horses, and kindling a fire as if for the purpose of cooking their mid-day meal. As most of the men had laid aside their guns, and we outnumbered them by two to one, we checked our headlong course, and trotted quietly up to them.

To my great joy I saw, as we approached, that the girl who stooped to kindle the fire was Waboose. Her mother sat on a bank near her, looking very pale and worn.

Attick, who still carried his gun in the hollow of his left arm, expressed well-feigned surprise at seeing us.

“Big Otter seems to be on the war-path,” he said, “but I have seen no enemies.”

“Big Otter’s enemy stands before him,” returned our leader, sternly. “Attick has been very foolish. Why did he run away with the daughter of Weeum the Good?”

“Attick scorns to run away with a squaw. Waboose agreed to go with him on the hunt. There she is: ask her.”

This was a bold stroke of the wily savage. Instead of flying from us, he pretended to have been merely hurrying after a band of buffalo, which was said to be moving southward, and that he had halted in the chase for a short rest and food. This plan he had hastily adopted, on perceiving that it was impossible to escape us, having previously warned Waboose that he would shoot her dead if she did not corroborate what he said. But Attick was incapable of believing that fearless heroism could dwell in the breast of a woman, and little knew the courage of the daughter of Weeum the Good. He mistook her silence and her downcast eyes for indications of submission, and did not doubt that the delicate-looking and shrinking girl was of much the same spirit as the other women of his tribe.

Great, then, was his astonishment when he saw the Saxon blood in her veins rush to her fair brow, while she gazed at him steadily with her large blue eyes, and said—

“The tongue of Attick is forked. He lies when he says that the daughter of Weeum agreed to follow him. He knows that he carried her from the camp by force against her will.”

Attick had thrown forward and cocked his gun, but happily the unexpected nature of the girl’s reply, and the indignant gaze of her eyes, caused an involuntary hesitation. This did not afford time for any one to seize the intending murderer, but it enabled me hastily to point my rifle at the villain’s head and fire. I have elsewhere said that my shooting powers were not remarkable; I missed the man altogether, but fortunately the bullet which was meant for his brain found its billet in the stock of his gun, and blew the lock to atoms, thus rendering the weapon useless.

With a fierce shout he dropped the gun, drew his scalping-knife, and sprang towards Waboose, or—as I had by that time found a pleasure in mentally styling her—Eve Liston.

Of course every man of our party sprang forward, but it fell to Salamander to effect the rescue, for that light-hearted and light-limbed individual chanced to be nearest to the savage when I fired at him, and, ere the knife was well drawn, had leaped upon his back with the agility of a panther. At the same moment Big Otter flung his tomahawk at him. The weapon was well, though hastily, aimed. It struck the savage full on the forehead, and felled him to the earth.

The rest of Attick’s party made no attempt to rescue him. Like all bad men, they were false to each other in the hour of need. They quietly submitted to be disarmed and led away.

We had to encamp early that evening, because the unwonted and severe exercise to which Waboose’s mother had been exposed had rendered her quite unfit to travel further without rest. Attick, who had soon recovered sufficiently to be able to walk, was bound, along with his men, and put under a guard. Then the encampment was made and the fires kindled. While this was being done I led Waboose aside to a little knoll, from which we could see a beautiful country of mingled woodland and prairie, stretching far away to the westward, where the sun had just descended amid clouds of amber and crimson.

“Is it not glorious!” I exclaimed. “Should we not be grateful to the Great Spirit who has given us such a splendid home?”

Waboose looked at me. “Yes, it is glorious,” she said—“and I am grateful; but it is strange that you should use the very same words that were so often on the lips of my father just before he—”

She stopped abruptly.

“Just before he went home, Eve,” I interposed; “no need to say died. Your father is not dead, but sleepeth. You shall meet him again. But it is not very strange that men should use the same words when they are animated by the same love to the Great Spirit.”

The girl raised her large eyes with a perplexed, inquiring look.

“What troubles you, Eve?” I asked.

“Eve!” she repeated, almost anxiously. “Twice you have called me by a name that father sometimes used, though not often, and when he used it he always spoke low and very tenderly.”

I felt somewhat perplexed as to how I should reply, and finally took refuge in another question.

“Tell me, Waboose,” said I, “did your father ever tell you his own name?”

“Of course he did,” she answered, with a look of surprise—“you know well it was Weeum.”

“Yes, William,” said I; “but—”

“No—Weeum,” she said, correcting me. “Once or twice I have heard him say Willum, but all our people call him Weeum.”

“Had he no other name?” I asked.

“No. Why should he have another? Is not one enough?”

“You never heard of Liston?”

“Liston?—No, never.”

“Waboose,” said I, with sudden earnestness, “I am going to tell you something that will probably surprise you, and I will show you something that may give you pleasure—or pain—I know not which. You remember, that when I found the curious ornaments near to the stunted pine-tree, I asked you not to question me at that time about the packet you gave to me long ago. Well, the time has come when I ought to tell you all about it. But, first, look at this.”

I had taken from my pocket, while speaking to her, the miniature of her father, which I now handed to her. She fixed her eyes on it with a startled look, then sprang up with an exclamation, at the same time drawing one hand across her eyes, as if to clear away some mists that dimmed them. Eagerly she gazed again, with parted lips and heaving bosom, then burst into a passionate flood of tears, pressing the miniature alternately to her lips and to her heart.

I stood helplessly gazing at her—anxious to comfort but unable.

“Oh! why, why,” she cried, suddenly dropping the miniature, “why do you mock me with this? It is so little, yet so like. It looks alive, but it is dead. It is nothing—a mockery!”

The poor girl caught it up, however, and began to kiss and caress it again.

Some time elapsed before her passionate grief was sufficiently subdued to permit of her listening to me. When it was nearly exhausted, and found vent only in an occasional sob, I took her hand gently and said—

“Give me the picture now, Waboose. I will wrap it up again, for I have much to say.”

Then, unfolding the last writing of the poor fellow whom the Indians had styled Weeum the Good, I slowly translated it into the Indian language. It was not an easy task; for, besides feeling that it stirred the heart of the listener with powerful emotions, I had great difficulty in taking my eyes off her changeful face, so as to read the manuscript.

“Now, Eve Liston—for that is your real name,” said I, when I had finished, “what do you think ought to be done?”

The girl did not reply at once, but sat so long with her hands clasped tightly on her lap, and her eyes fixed wistfully on the ground, that I had to repeat the question.

“What is to be done?” she replied, simply; “of course, what father wished to be done.”

“And are you ready to go with me to the far south to see your father’s mother? Can you trust me to protect you?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, with a straightforward look that almost disconcerted me; “have you not protected me well already?”

“And are you willing, Eve, to leave your tribe and go off alone with me?”

“Alone!” she repeated, with a look of surprise; “oh! no—not alone. Mother must go too, and also Big Otter.”

Once more I felt somewhat confused, for, to say truth, I had totally forgotten her mother and Big Otter for the moment.

“Well now, Eve—for I intend to call you by that name in future, except when in the presence of your people—I must talk this matter over with your mother and Big Otter. I have some fear that the latter may object to go with us.”

“He will not object,” said Waboose, quietly. “He loved my father, and always obeyed him.”

“Very good. So much the better. Now, as to the valuable jewels—the ornaments, I mean.”

“Have you got them here!” asked Eve.

“Yes. Knowing the risk I shall run of losing them or having them stolen from me, I have had a belt made which fits round my waist under my clothes, in which the jewels and the money are placed. If I can manage to get them and you safely conveyed to Colorado, all will be well, but it is a long, long journey, Eve, and—”

I was interrupted at this point by Big Otter, who came to tell us that supper was ready, and that, as the region in which they were encamped was sometimes visited by hostile Indians, as well as by white trappers—many of whom were great scoundrels—it would be prudent to keep within the circle of sentinels after dark.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Attacked by Bandits—A Sad Death and a Sudden Rescue.

It was well that we had been warned not to go beyond the camp, for there happened at that time to be abroad on the prairies a band of miscreants who would certainly have shot whoever they had caught straying. The band was composed of white men—that class of white men who, throwing off all moral and social restraints, give themselves up to the practice of every species of iniquity, fearing neither God nor man. They were, in short, a band of robbers and cut-throats, whose special business at that time was hunting buffalo, but who were not averse to sell their services to any nation that chanced to be at war, or to practice simple robbery when opportunity offered.

These men held the opinion that Indians were “vermin,” to exterminate which was commendable. When, therefore, they discovered our camp by the light of the fires, they rode towards it with the utmost caution, taking advantage of every bush and knoll until our sentinels observed them. Then they rushed upon us like a hurricane, sending a volley of bullets before them.

Several of our men fell, mortally wounded. Our sentinels ran in, and a wild attempt at defence was made; but it was in vain, we had been taken completely by surprise, and, as the only chance of safety, our party scattered in all directions, each man making for the nearest woods.

Only Big Otter, Salamander, and I remained beside the camp-fires, resolved to defend our helpless females or die with them. This brought about a most unexpected turn of affairs, for the villains were so eager to hunt and kill the flying Indians, that every man went in hot pursuit of a fugitive, leaving us for the moment absolutely alone!

We were not slow in taking advantage of this. Although at the onset some of our terrified horses broke their fastenings and galloped away, others remained quiet. Among these last I observed, were my own horse and that of Salamander, which I have already said were splendid animals.

Scarcely believing our good fortune, we all bounded towards these. In a moment I had mounted. Eve seized my hand, put her foot on my toe, and, with a light spring, seated herself behind me. Big Otter, vaulting on Salamander’s steed, swung Eve’s mother up behind him.

“Catch another horse—there are plenty good enough for a light weight like you, Salamander,” said I, as I put my horse to its utmost speed.

Salamander was not slow to obey, but had scarcely mounted when a loud halloo told that our action had been observed. I did not look back. One consuming idea filled my mind, and that was to save Eve Liston. That the miscreants who now thundered after us would show us no mercy I felt well assured, and plied the heavy thong I carried with all my might. The noble steed did not require that. It strained every muscle to the uttermost.

I felt cheered to observe that Big Otter kept well up with me, and could hear that Salamander was not far behind.

We now felt that our only hope, under God, lay in the superiority of our horses, and for some time we listened to the pattering of the hoofs behind us with intense anxiety. Soon I began to fancy that we were distancing them, and ere long we became sure of this, at least as to the most of our pursuers, but there was one who kept drawing closer and closer.

Presently a shot was fired and a bullet whizzed close past my head.

At that moment Big Otter reined up so violently as to throw his horse almost on its haunches. I checked my speed but did not rein up. Looking back, I saw my Indian friend wheel round, raise his gun to his shoulder and fire. The moon was bright, and I could see that the man who had been closing with us dropped to the ground. Whether he was killed or only wounded we did not wait to ascertain, but dashed on again as fast as ever. We soon drew rein, however, on observing that the fall of our pursuer had checked his companions. On reaching him they halted, dismounted, and finally gave up the chase. We soon left them out of sight behind us, but still we held on at a hand-gallop, resolved to put as much distance as possible between us before encamping.

During all this exciting chase Waboose’s mother had clung to her stalwart support with the uncomplaining patience of Indian women; but we were deeply concerned to find on halting that she was too much exhausted to dismount and that blood was trickling from her lips. Indeed, she would have fallen to the ground if Big Otter had not caught her in his arms.

“Are you wounded, mother?” exclaimed Eve, going down on her knees, seizing one of the poor woman’s hands and kissing it tenderly.

“No, Waboose, but I think there is something wrong here.” She pressed her breast gently and coughed up some blood.

“She is quite worn out,” said I. “Come, Big Otter, let us carry her to a more comfortable place, and make a fire. A cup of tea will soon revive her.”

I spoke cheerily, with a view to comfort Eve, but I confess that great anxiety filled me when I looked at the poor woman’s wan face and emaciated frame. The blood, too, appeared to me a fatal symptom, though I had but a hazy idea of everything relating to disease.

The place we had selected for our encampment was a dense mass of forest which covered the prairie in that part to an extent of about two square miles. Near the outer margin of this patch there was a curious steep mound which rose so high that from the top of it one could see over the surrounding trees. It rose somewhat in the form of a cone with a flat space at the apex of not more than twenty feet in diameter. On the outer rim of this apex was a fringe of rocks and low bushes. It was, in fact, a natural fortress, which seemed so suitable for us in our circumstances that we at once set about making our camp on the top of it. We took care, however, to kindle our fire in the lowest-lying and densest thicket we could find at the foot of the mound. We also made the fire as small and free from smoke as possible, for fear of attracting any one to the spot.

While I was busy down in the dell preparing the tea, Salamander having been left to take care of the camp on the mound, Big Otter came to me. I was alarmed by the solemn expression of his face.

“Nothing wrong, I hope?” said I, anxiously.

“The wife of Weeum the Good is dying,” said the Indian, mournfully.

“Oh! say not so,” I exclaimed, “how dreadful to poor Waboose if this were to happen just now! You must be mistaken.”

“Big Otter may be mistaken. He is not a medicine-man, but he saw a young girl of his tribe with the same look and the same flow of blood from the mouth, and she died.”

“God forbid!” I exclaimed, as I took up the kettle in which the tea was being made. “See, it is ready, I will take it to her. It may at least revive her.”

I hurried to the top of the mound, where poor Eve sat by the couch of brush we had spread, holding her mother’s hand and gazing into her face with painful anxiety. She looked up hastily as I approached, and held up a finger.

“Does she sleep?” I asked, in a low voice, as I seated myself beside the couch and set down the kettle.

“Yes—I think so—but—”

She stopped, for at the moment her mother opened her eyes, and looked wistfully round.

“Weeum!” she murmured, in a faint voice. “I thought I heard him speak.”

“No, dear mother,” said Eve, beginning to weep silently. “Your spirit was in the land of dreams.”

“See,” said I, pouring some hot tea into a cup and stirring it. “I have brought you some of the pale-faces’ sweet-water. I always carry a little of it about with me when I go hunting, and had some in my wallet when we started on this wild race. Was it not fortunate? Come, take a little, it will strengthen you, mother.”

It was the first time I had called her mother, and I did so from a feeling of tenderness, for she seemed to me at the time certainly to be dying; but she misunderstood my meaning, for she looked at me with pleased surprise, and then laughed very softly as she glanced at Eve. I perceived, however, from the innocent look of inquiry returned by the latter, that she did not understand her.

After taking some of the tea, the poor woman revived, and I whispered to her daughter,— “Don’t you think it might please her to see the little picture?”

“Perhaps. I am not sure. Yes, give it to me. I will show it, but say nothing about my father’s writing or wishes. I have not yet been able to speak to her.”

To our disappointment she could make nothing of the portrait. Perhaps the moonlight was insufficient, though very bright, but it is more probable that her sight was even then failing.

“What is that?” said Eve, with a startled look, pointing at something behind me.

I turned sharply round, and beheld a column of bright flame shooting high up into the night-air. An exclamation of bitter chagrin escaped me, for I knew well what it was. After I had got the fire kindled down in the thicket on our arrival, I had noticed that I had laid it close to the roots of a dead fir-tree, the branches of which were covered to the top with a species of dried moss. At the time I knew that there was danger in this, but as our fire was to be very small, and to be extinguished the moment we were done with it, I had allowed it to remain rather than be at the trouble of shifting and rekindling it. I afterwards found that Big Otter had left the fire in charge of Salamander, and gone to shift the position of the horses; and Salamander had left it to fetch water from a neighbouring spring. Thus left to itself, the fire took advantage of the chance to blaze up; the moss on the dead tree had caught fire, and the instantaneous result was a blaze that told of our whereabouts to whoever might be on the look-out within ten or fifteen miles of us in every direction.

Immediately afterwards Big Otter and Salamander came leaping into our fortress.

“What is to be done now?” I asked, in a tone of deep mortification.

“I would say mount and fly,” replied the Indian, “if it were not for her.” He pointed to the dying woman as he spoke.

“It is quite out of the question,” said I. “She cannot be moved.”

“The pale-face talks wisdom,” said Big Otter. “We must put the place in a state of defence, and watch instead of sleep.”

A deep sigh from Salamander told that the proposed mode of spending the night was most unsatisfactory.

Having no other resource left, however, we at once set about our task.

A number of large loose stones lay about on the little plateau that crowned our mound. These we rolled close to the edge of it, and ranging them in line with those that were already there, formed a sort of breastwork all round. Our three guns we had of course brought with us, as well as ammunition, and as mine was a double-barrelled fowling-piece we had thus four shots at command at any moment. The weapons being already charged, we placed ourselves at three points of our circle and prepared for a weary watch.

The blaze of the burning fir-tree soon went out, and there were fortunately no other dead trees at hand to be kindled by it. The moon had also become obscured with clouds, so that we were left in comparative darkness. The dead silence which it was needful to maintain, and the occasional murmur of the dying woman rendered our position eerie and sad in the extreme.

At such times, when danger threatens and everything that is calculated to solemnise surrounds one, thought is apt to be very busy; and often, in such circumstances, the mind is more prone to be occupied with distant scenes and persons than with those near at hand. Ere long the sick woman appeared to have fallen asleep, and her daughter was seated in perfect silence by her side. No sound whatever fell upon my listening ear, for the night was intensely calm, and in spite of my efforts to resist it, my thoughts strayed away to the home in “the old country”; to scenes of boyhood, and to the kind old father, who used, as a term of endearment, to call me “Punch.”

A slight motion on the part of Salamander recalled me, and, by way of rousing myself to the necessity of present watchfulness, I examined the priming of my gun. Then it occurred to me that a bullet, if fired at a foe in the dark, would be very unlikely to hit; I, therefore, drew both charges, and loaded with buckshot instead. You see, thought I, there is no absolute necessity to kill any one. All I can possibly wish to do is to disable, and big shot is more likely to do that without killing, than bullets.

While thus engaged the clouds rolled off the moon, and I saw my companions clearly, sitting like statues at their posts. In a few minutes I heard the sweet, low voice of Eve. She was speaking to her mother. As I sat there and observed her fair hair and skin, and recalled (for I could not just then see) her blue eyes, I found it difficult to believe that there was even a drop of Indian blood in her veins. “Not that I object to Indian blood,” I said to myself, mentally, in self-justification, “by no means. Indians are God’s creatures as well as white men, and many of them are a great deal better creatures than many white men, but—”

At this point my mental remarks ceased, for I observed, to my surprise, that Eve opened a small book, and from the continuous tone of her voice, I knew that she was reading.

“It must be the Testament,” thought I, “which poor Liston mentioned in his manuscript as having been obtained from a hunter.”

The voice became more distinct as she proceeded, and I could make out that she read the English slowly and with great difficulty, and then translated it into Indian to her mother.

“God so loved the world,” she read with peculiar emphasis, and paused, as if wishing to impress the blessed truth, “that He gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life.”

She closed the book at this point and I observed that she bent over the sick woman a long time.

Suddenly there arose on the still night-air a low wail, so deep—so suggestive of a breaking heart, that I sprang up and leaped to the girl’s side.

There was no occasion to ask what had occurred. The mother lay there dead, with the jaw dropped and the glazing eyes staring at the sky. Kneeling down I gently closed the eyes, and with a napkin bound up the face. Big Otter glided towards us, followed by Salamander. One glance sufficed. They cast a look of pity at the orphan, who, with her face on her knees, sobbed as if her heart would break. Then, without a word, they glided back to their posts. I turned to Eve and took her hand.

“Dear girl,” I began—but she checked me.

“Go,” she said, “danger may be near; your post is unguarded.”

Raising her hand to my lips I left her without a word, and resumed my watch. Again profound silence reigned around, broken only now and then by an irrepressible sob from Eve.

Some hours afterwards—I knew not how many, for I had been half asleep—Big Otter came to me.

“We may not stay here,” he said. “Come, I need your help.”

Without reply I rose and followed. It was still very dark. He went to where the body of the Indian woman lay. It was cold and stiff by that time. In passing I noticed that poor Eve acted as sentinel for Big Otter—occupied his post and held his gun.

I found that a shallow grave had been hollowed out close to where the corpse lay.

Understanding at once the purpose for which I had been called, I kneeled at the head while the Indian kneeled at the feet. Grasping the shoulders carefully I waited for a word or look from Big Otter, but instead he turned his head to one side and uttered the single word,—“Come!”

Eve glided instantly towards us, went down on her knees, and printed a long passionate kiss on the cold forehead. Then the Indian looked at me, and we lifted the body into the grave. Eve spread a blanket carefully over it, and at once left us to resume her post at the breastwork, while we covered in the grave with earth and dead leaves.

We had barely accomplished this duty when a loud report rudely broke the silence of the night, and a rushing of feet was heard at the foot of the mound. Leaping to my post, I instantly fired one of the barrels of my gun. Several fierce cries followed, showing that the buckshot had taken effect, and from the nature of the cries we at once perceived that our assailants were white men. I purposely reserved my second barrel, for my comrades, having also fired, were swiftly reloading, and, therefore, defenceless.

It was well that I did so, for two men, who had not been in the first rush, now came up the mound at a run. Aiming right between them, I fired and shot them both. They fell with hideous cries, and, rolling head over heels down the steep ascent, went crashing into the bushes.

“They are the men from whom we have just escaped,” said I to Big Otter; but my Indian friend was so elated by the success of my shot and withal so excited by the fray, that instead of answering, he gave vent to a terrific war-whoop in true Indian style.

The attacking party had come on in front from the direction of the plains. To my consternation, Big Otter’s war cry was replied to in our rear. Turning quickly, I saw the dark forms of several savages running up the slope of our fortress. These, like the white men, had been attracted to us by our column of fire. I was going to send a charge of buckshot amongst them, when my Indian friend stopped me.

“Let them come,” he said, quickly. “They and the white men are sworn foes. Be ready to follow me.”

This last was said to all of us, for we had instinctively drawn to the centre of our plateau with the idea of fighting back to back with the foes who surrounded us. Again we heard the white men charging up the front of our little hill, but, before they reached the top, a dozen savages had leaped into our enclosure.

“Help! against the pale-face dogs,” cried Big Otter, pointing his gun, and firing at them as they came up.

A wild war-whoop rang out from the Indians, who were only too ready to accept the invitation to fight the pale-faces. A defiant cheer burst in reply from the white men, who were equally eager for the fray.

“Come!” whispered Big Otter at this point.

We had no difficulty in slipping away at the rear unperceived amid the din and smoke, and ran to where our horses had been tied. Mounting, like squirrels, we went off like the wind in the direction of the open prairie, and soon left our little fortress far behind us, with the redskins and the pale-faces fighting on the top of it like wild cats!

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Power of Sleep—Plans discussed and a Far Journey resolved on.

It was broad daylight when we once again drew rein, and then we were all so overcome with sleep and exhaustion, after the prolonged watching and excitement of the night, that we could scarcely sit on our horses.

Eve, who sat behind me, grasping my waist with both arms, swayed so heavily once or twice, as nearly to throw me down.

“We must stop,” said I to Big Otter, who was close beside me.

“Yes,” replied the Indian; but his tone told that he was barely awake.

“If you doosn’t me drop,” said Salamander. The worthy interpreter seemed to think English the easiest language in the circumstances.

“Oh! I’m so sleepy,” said poor Eve, whose grief helped to increase her exhaustion.

“Come, we will camp in this thicket!” said Big Otter, turning his horse in the direction of a long strip of bush that lay a few hundred yards to our right.

On reaching it, we penetrated, almost mechanically, to the thickest part of it, dismounted, and fastened our horses to the trees. Turning instantly, to assist Eve in making a couch of leaves, I found that she had lain down where she had dismounted, and was already fast asleep.

“Here, Salamander, lend a hand to lift her,” I said, looking round; but Salamander was also in the land of Nod, flat on his back, with his eyes shut, and his mouth open.

Turning to Big Otter, I found that he was standing staring at me with an expression of such awful solemnity that I was partially roused with a feeling of alarm.

“Hallo!” I exclaimed, “what has happened?—speak, man!”

But Big Otter only gazed more intensely than ever, swayed slightly to and fro, and gave a sort of wink, or rather a slap together of both eyes. Then I understood that the wretched man was only glaring like an owl in the sunshine, in his tremendous efforts to keep awake. He assisted me, however, to lift Eve to a more comfortable position, and while he was in the act of laying her fair head gently on a pillow of moss, I observed that he sank down and instantly fell into a profound slumber; but even in that hour of mingled danger and exhaustion, the Indian did not neglect to hold his gun to his breast with a firm grasp. I also had enough wit left to keep my double-barrel in my hand, and was in the act of examining the locks, seated at Eve’s feet, where my own senses forsook me.

We lay there, perfectly silent and motionless, during the whole of that day, for it was not until the sun was descending towards the western horizon that we awoke. I happened to be the first to move. Rising softly, so as not to disturb the others, I went to search for water, and was fortunate enough to find a small pool, which, though not very clear, was nevertheless sufficiently good to slake our thirst. Sitting down beside the pool, I lifted my heart and voice in thanksgiving to God for having thus far delivered and guided us.

While thus engaged a slight rustling in the bushes caused me to spring up. It was caused by Big Otter, who had followed me.

“What does the pale-face think?” he asked, sitting down beside me.

“He thinks that the Great Master of Life has delivered us from our enemies. He is good,” said I, being still influenced by the devotional feeling which had been broken in upon.

For a few moments the Indian did not reply, but continued to look thoughtfully at the ground. At length he spoke.

“Was the Great Master of Life good when He let Waboose’s mother die in the midst of war and weakness? Was He good to Waboose when He left her fatherless and motherless?”

“Yes, He was good,” I answered, confidently. “He took the mother of Waboose home to dwell with Himself and with her father Weeum. And men and women, you know, cannot be taken to the happy land without leaving their children behind them—fatherless and motherless.”

Big Otter did not reply, but I saw by his grave look that he was not satisfied. After a brief pause he resumed,—“Was the Great Master of Life good to the wicked pale-faces, when He allowed the red-men to slay them in their sins?”

“Yes,” I returned, “He was good, because the Great Master of Life cannot be otherwise than good. He has made our brains capable of understanding that, and our hearts capable of resting on it. But He is our Father. Children do not understand all that a father does. Big Otter has touched on a great mystery. But what we know not now we shall know hereafter. Only let the red-man be sure of this, that whatever we come to know in the hereafter will tend more and more to prove that the Great Master of Life is good.”

For a long time the Indian remained silent, and I could not tell by the expression of his grave face whether my reasoning weighed with him or not; I therefore offered up a brief prayer that the Spirit of God might open his eyes—as well as my own—to see, and our hearts to receive, the truth, whatever that might be. Then I said,—“The thoughts of Big Otter are deep, what do they lead to?”

“No,” he replied, “his thoughts are not deep, but they are confused, for he has heard his pale-face brother call Waboose, Eve. How did he come to know that name? It was only used by Weeum, and seldom by him—never by any one else.”

It struck me that now was as suitable a time as might present itself to let the Indian know about the contents of the packet, so I said,—“Listen, Big Otter, I have something important to tell.”

From this point I went on, and, in as few words as possible, related all that the reader knows about the packet, and the wishes of poor William Liston. I also showed him the miniature, at which he gazed with visible but suppressed emotion.

“Now,” said I, in conclusion, “what do you think we should do?”

“What Weeum wished must be done,” he replied simply but firmly.

“You were fond of Weeum?” I said.

“Yes, Big Otter loved him like a brother.”

“Don’t you think,” said I, after some minutes’ thought, “that it is our duty first to return to the camp of your tribe, and also that I should send Salamander back to Fort Wichikagan to tell where I have gone, and for what purpose? For Salamander is not free like myself. He is still a servant of the fur-traders.”

“No, that is not your duty,” said the Indian decidedly. “Your duty is to obey the commands of Weeum! My tribe will not die of grief because Waboose does not return. As for Salamander—send him where you please. He is nobody—nothing!”

Although not quite agreeing with Big Otter in his contemptuous estimate of the value of Salamander, I believed that I could get along quite well without him; and therefore resolved to send him back—first to the Indian camp to tell of our safety and intentions, and then to the fort with an explanatory letter to Lumley, who, I knew full well, would be filled with great anxiety on my account, as well as with uncertainty as to how he should act, destitute as he was of the slightest clue to my fate or my whereabouts.

“And you, my friend,” I said, “what will your movements be?”

“Big Otter will go and help you to obey the commands of Weeum,” he replied. “There is no wife, no child, waiting for him to return. He must be a father to Waboose. Muxbee will be her brother. The trail to Colorado is long. Big Otter has been there. He has been a solitary wanderer all his life, and knows the wilderness well. He has crossed the great mountains where the snow lies deep even in summer. He can be a guide, and knows many of the mountain tribes as well as the tribes of the prairie—Waugh!”

“Well, my friend,” said I, grasping the Indian’s strong hand, “I need not tell you that your decision gives me joy, and I shall be only too glad to travel with you in the capacity of a son; for, you know, if you are to be a father to Waboose, and I am to be her brother, that makes you my father—don’t you see?”

The grave Indian smiled faintly at this touch of pleasantry, and then rose.

“We have nothing to eat,” he said, as we returned to the place where we had slept, “and we cannot hunt in the night. Is your bag empty?”

“No,” said I, glancing at the contents of my wallet, “there is enough of biscuit and pemmican to give us a light meal.”

“That will do,” he returned; “we need rest more than food just now.”

This was indeed true; for, notwithstanding that I had slept so soundly during that day, I still felt a strong disinclination to rouse myself to action, and an intense desire to lie down again. These feelings being shared by my companions, it was resolved to spend the night where we were, but we took good care to kindle no fire to betray us a second time. We roused Eve and Salamander to take some food, after which we all lay down, and, ere long, were again sound asleep.

This double allowance of rest had the most beneficial effect upon our frames. We did not awake till an early hour the following morning, and felt so much refreshed as to be ready and anxious to set off on our journey, without the delay of breakfasting. This was fortunate, for the scraps that remained in my wallet would only have sufficed for one meal to a man of ordinary appetite; and, as it was important to expedite Salamander on his return journey, these had to be given to him. Poor fellow! he was much cast down on hearing of my decision in regard to him.

“But, sar,” he said, with a sorrowful countenance, “w’at for I no go vith you?”

“Because you are still a servant of the Fur Company, and not entitled to break your engagement. Besides, it is desirable that Big Otter’s people should know why he and Waboose have left them, and where they have gone; and if you explain matters correctly they will be quite satisfied, for they all respect the memory of Weeum the Good. Moreover, it is important that Mr Lumley should know what has prevented my return, both to relieve his mind, and prevent his sending out to search for me.”

“But sar,” objected Salamander, “w’at if me meets vid de vite scoundrils?”

“You must fight them, or run away from them.”

“Vell, me kin fight but me kin more joyfulerly run avay. But,” he continued, still objecting, “me got no grub.”

“Here is enough for one day,” I said, giving him all I possessed, “if you spin it out. To-morrow you can roast and eat your moccasins, and the third day you can starve. Surely that’s not hard on a strong young fellow like you; and if you push on fast enough you’ll reach the camp of the redskins early on the third day.”

Salamander sighed, but made no further objection, and half an hour later he left us.

As we now possessed only two horses, it naturally fell to my lot, being a light weight compared with Big Otter, to take Eve up behind me.

“We must get a horse for Waboose,” said the Indian, as we galloped over the prairie that day. “There is a tribe of Blackfoot Indians not far from here who have good horses, and understand the value of gold, for some of them have been to the settlements of the pale-faces. You tell me that you have gold?”

“Yes, I found a bag of five hundred gold pieces with the diamonds in Weeum’s packet.”

Big Otter looked at me inquiringly, but did not speak, yet I guessed his thoughts; for, though I had shown him Liston’s letter and the miniature, I had not shown him the gold or the jewels, and he must have wondered where I carried them; for he knew, of course, that they were necessarily somewhat bulky and were not in my wallet, which I had emptied more than once in his presence. I therefore explained to him:—

“You know, perhaps, that gold is heavy, and five hundred pieces are bulky and troublesome to carry; so I have had a piece of cloth made with a hole in the middle of it for my head to go through; one end of it hangs over my breast under my shirt, like a breastplate, and one end hangs over my back, and on each of these plates there are rows of little pockets, each pocket the size of a gold piece. Thus, you see, the gold does not feel heavy, being equally distributed, and it does not show, as it would if carried in a heap—besides, it forms a sort of armour—though I fear it would not resist a rifle-bullet!”

“Waugh!” exclaimed Big Otter, with an intelligent look.

“As to the diamonds, they are not bulky. I have concealed them in an under-belt round my waist.”

As Big Otter had predicted, we came to a large village of Blackfoot Indians two days afterwards, and were received with cordial friendship by the inhabitants, who knew my Indian well. He had visited them during his wanderings many a time, and once, at a very critical period in their history, had rendered important service to the tribe, besides saving the life of their chief.

A new tent was set aside for our use, and a small one pitched close to it for Waboose, whose dignified yet modest bearing made a profound impression on those children of the wilderness. They recognised, no doubt that Indian blood flowed in her veins, but that rather increased their respect for her, as it gave them, so to speak, a right to claim kinship with a girl who was obviously one of Nature’s aristocracy, besides possessing much of that refinement which the red-men had come to recognise as a characteristic of some of the best of the pale-faces.

Indeed, I myself found, now that I had frequent opportunities of conversing with Eve Liston, that the man who had been affectionately styled Weeum the Good by the Indians, had stored his child’s mind with much varied secular knowledge, such as Indians never possess, besides instilling into her the elevating and refining precepts of Christianity. Being of a poetical turn of mind, he had also repeated to Eve many long and beautiful pieces from our best poets, so that on more than one occasion the girl had aptly quoted several well-known passages—to my inexpressible amazement.

“I wonder,” said I, when we three were seated in our tent that night, refreshing ourselves with a choice morsel of baked buffalo-hump, with which the hospitable Blackfeet had supplied us, “how it comes to pass that Indians, who are usually rather fond of gifts, absolutely refuse to accept anything for the fine horse they have given to Waboose?”

“Perhaps,” said Eve, with a little smile, in which the extreme corners of her pretty mouth had the peculiar tendency to turn down instead of up—“perhaps it is because they are grateful. Indians are not altogether destitute of that feeling.”

“True, Eve, true; it must be that. Will you tell us, Big Otter, how you managed to make these fellows so grateful?”

“I saved the chief’s life,” returned the Indian, curtly.

“Yes; but how, and when?”

“Four summers have passed since then. I was returning from a trip to the Rocky Mountains when it happened. Many bad pale-faces were in the mountains at that time. They were idle bad men from many lands, who hated work and loved to fight. One of them had been killed by a Sioux Indian. They all banded together and swore that they would shoot every Indian they came across. They killed many—some even who were friendly to the white men. They did not ask to what tribe they belonged. They were ‘redskin varmints,’ that was enough!

“The Strong Elk, whose hospitality we enjoy to-night, was chief of the Blackfeet. I was on my way to visit him, when, one evening, I came upon the camp of the pale-faces. I knew that sometimes they were not friendly to the red-man, so I waited till dark, and then crept forward and listened. Their chief was loud-voiced and boastful. He boasted of how many Indians he had killed. I could have shot him where I lay and then escaped easily, but I spared him, for I wished to listen. They talked much of the Strong Elk. I understood very little. The language of the pale-face is difficult to understand, but I came to know that in two hours, when the moon should sink, they would attack him.

“I waited to hear no more. I ran like the hunted buffalo. I came to Strong Elk and told him. It was too late to move the camp, but we put it in a state of defence. When the pale-faces came, we were ready. Arrows, thick as the snowflakes in winter, met them when they came on, and many of them bit the dust. Some ran away. Some, who were brave, still came on and leaped our barricades. They fought like fiends. Their boastful chief saw Strong Elk and rushed at him. They grappled and fell. The pale-face had a keen knife. It was raised to strike. One moment more, and the Blackfoot chief had been in the happy hunting-grounds with his fathers, when the gun of Big Otter came down on the skull of the boastful one. It was enough. Strong Elk was saved—and he is grateful; waugh!”

“Well, he has reason to be!” said I, much impressed by the modest way in which the story was told. “And now,” I added, “since we have got a capital horse, and the journey before us is long, don’t you think we should start to-morrow!”

“Yes, to-morrow—and it is time for Waboose to rest. She is strong, but she has had much to weary her, and her grief is deep.”

With a kindly acknowledgment of the Indian’s thoughtful care of her, Eve rose and went to her tent. Big Otter lighted his pipe, and I lay down to meditate; but almost before I had time to think, my head drooped and I was in the land of forgetfulness.

It is not my purpose, good reader, to carry you step by step over the long, varied, and somewhat painful journey that intervened between us and Colorado at that time. It was interesting—deeply so—for we passed through some of the most beautiful as well as wildest scenery of the North American wilderness. We kept far to the westward, near the base of the Rocky Mountains, so as to avoid the haunts of civilised men. But space will not permit of more than a brief reference to this long journey.

I can only say that on arriving at a village belonging to a remote tribe of Indians, who were well-known to my guide, it was arranged that Big Otter and Waboose should stay with them, while I should go to the cities of the pale-faces and endeavour to convert my diamonds into cash. Happening to have a friend in Chicago I went there, and through his agency effected the sale of the diamonds, which produced a little over the sum mentioned by William Liston in his paper. This I took with me in the convenient form of bills on well-known mercantile firms in the region to which I was bound, and, having wrapped them in a piece of oiled silk and sewed them inside of the breastplate that contained my gold, I set off with a light heart, though somewhat weighted shoulders, to return to my friends in the Far West.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Tells of a Wonderful Meeting and a Frustrated Foe.

I must change the scene now, and advance the courteous reader considerably in regard to time as well as place on the journey which we have pursued so long together.

It is one of those scenes of romantic beauty on the extreme frontiers of civilisation, where the rifle has not even yet given place to the plough; where the pioneer husbandman and the painted warrior often meet—the one to look with patronising superiority on the savage, whom he means to benefit; the other to gaze curiously at the pale-face, and to wonder, somewhat indignantly, when and where his encroachments are to cease.

Woodlands and prairies, breezy uplands and grassy bottoms, alternate in such picturesque confusion, and such lovely colours co-mingle, that a painter—had one been there—must have deemed the place at all events the vestibule of paradise.

There is a small hamlet on the slope of a hill, with a broad river winding in front, a few hundred yards from the hamlet, which opens out into a lake. On the margin of this lake lie a few boats. On the surface of it float a few more boats, with one or two birch-bark canoes. Some of these are moving to and fro; the occupants of others, which appear to be stationary, are engaged in fishing. There is the sound of an anvil somewhere, and the lowing of cattle, and the voices of children, and the barking of dogs at play, and the occasional crack of a gun. It is an eminently peaceful as well as beautiful backwood scene.

To a particular spot in this landscape we would direct attention. It is a frame-house, or cottage, which, if not built according to the most approved rules of architecture, is at least neat, clean, comfortable-looking, and what one might style pretty. It is a “clap-boarded” house, painted white, with an edging of brown which harmonises well with the green shrubbery around. There is a verandah in front, a door in the middle, two windows on either side, and no upper storey; but there are attics with dormer windows, which are suggestive of snug sleeping-rooms of irregular shape, with low ceilings and hat-crushing doorways.

This cottage stands on the apex of a little hill which overlooks the hamlet, commands the river and the lake, as well as an extensive view of a sparsely settled district beyond, where the frontier farmer and the primeval forest are evidently having a lively time of it together. In short the cottage on the hill has a decidedly comfortable come-up-quick-and-enjoy-yourself air which is quite charming.

On a certain fine afternoon in autumn Eve Liston, alias Waboose, Big Otter and I, rode slowly up the winding path which led to this cottage. We had been directed to it by the postmaster of the hamlet,—a man who, if he had been condemned to subsist solely on the proceeds of the village post-office, would have been compelled to give up the ghost, or the post, in a week.

“We must be careful, Eve, how we break it to her,” said I, as we neared the top.

Arrived at the summit of the hill we found a rustic table, also a rustic seat on which was seated a comely matron engaged in the very commonplace work of darning socks. She cast on us a sharp and remarkably penetrating glance as we approached. Doubtless our appearance was peculiar, for a pretty maiden in savage costume, a somewhat ragged white man, and a gigantic savage, all mounted on magnificent steeds and looking travel-stained and worn after a journey of many weeks, was not probably an everyday sight, even in those regions.

Dismounting and advancing to act as spokesman, while my companions sat motionless and silent in their saddles, I pulled off my cap.

“I have been directed to this house as the abode of Mrs Liston,” said I with a tremor of anxiety, for I knew that the comely matron before me could not be she whom I sought, and feared there might be some mistake.

“You have been directed aright, sir. May I ask who it is that desires to see her?”

“My name is Maxby,” said I, quickly, for I was becoming nervously impatient. “I am quite a stranger to Mrs Liston, but I would see her, because I bring her news—news of importance—in fact a message from her long-lost son.”

“From Willie Liston?” exclaimed the lady, starting up, and seizing my arm, while she gazed into my face with a look of wild surprise. “Is he—but it cannot be—impossible—he must be—”

“He is dead,” said I, in a low, sad voice, as she hesitated.

“Yes,” she returned, clasping her hands but without any of the wild look in her eyes now. “We have mourned him as dead for many, many years. Stay, I will call his—but—perhaps—sometimes it is kindness to conceal. If there is anything sad to tell, might it not be well to leave his poor mother in ignorance? She is old and—”

“No, madam,” I interrupted, “that may not be. I have a message from him to his mother.”

“A message! Then you knew him?”

“No; I never saw him.”

“Strange! You have a message from him, yet never saw him. Can you not give me the message, to convey it to her? She is getting frail and a shock might be serious. I am William Liston’s cousin, and have come to take care of my aunt, and manage her farm.”

“The message, by Mr Liston’s wish,” said I, “was to be delivered by me to his mother. I will be very careful to deliver it gently.”

“Well, I will bring her to you. She usually comes out about this time to enjoy the sunset. I will trust to your discretion; but bear in remembrance that she is not strong. Forgive me,” she added, turning to my companions, “this surprise has made me forget my duty. Will your friends dismount?”

Eve at once dismounted, and shook the hand which the lady extended; but Big Otter sat quite still, like a grand equestrian statue, while the lady entered the house.

I saw that the poor girl was much agitated, but, true to her Indian training, she laid powerful constraint on herself.

In a few minutes an old lady with the sweetest face and most benignant aspect I ever saw, came out of the cottage and advanced to the rustic seat. Before sitting down she looked at us with a pleasant smile, and said,—“You are heartily welcome. We are always glad to see strangers in these distant parts.”

While speaking she tremblingly pulled out, and put on, a pair of spectacles to enable her to have a clearer view of her visitors. The scene that immediately followed took me very much by surprise, and completely frustrated all my wise plans of caution.

She looked at me first and nodded pleasantly. Then she looked at Eve, who was gazing at her with an intense and indescribable expression. Suddenly the old lady’s eyes opened to their widest. A death-like pallor overspread her old face. She opened her arms wide, bent forward a little towards Eve, and gasped,—“Come to me—Willie!”

Never was invitation more swiftly accepted. Eve bounded towards her and caught her in her arms just in time to prevent her falling.

The poor old mother! For years she had prayed and longed for her lost Willie, though she never once regarded him as “lost.” “Is not the promise sure?” she was wont to say, “Ask and ye shall receive.” Even when she believed that the erring son was dead she did not cease to pray for him—because he might be alive. Latterly, however, her tone of resignation proved that she had nearly, if not quite, given up all hope of seeing him again in this life, yet she never ceased to think of him as “not lost, but gone before.” And now, when at last his very image came back to her in the form of a woman, she had no more doubt as to who stood before her than she had of her own identity. She knew it was Willie’s child—one glance sufficed to convince her of that—but it was only Willie—the long-lost Willie—that she thought of, as she pressed the weeping girl with feeble fervour to her old and loving heart.

During the time that this scene was enacting, Big Otter remained still motionless on his horse, without moving a muscle of his grave countenance. Was he heartless, or was his heart a stone? An observer might readily have thought so, but his conduct when the old lady at last relaxed her hold of Eve, proved that, Indian like, he was only putting stern restraint on himself.

Dismounting with something of the deliberate and stately air of one who is resolved not to commit himself, the Indian strode towards Mrs Liston, and, tenderly grasping one of her hands in both of his, said,—“Weeum!”

Truly there is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and in some cases that step is an exceeding short one. It seemed so to me now, as I beheld the tall Indian stooping to gaze with intense earnestness into the tear-besprinkled face of the little old lady, who gazed with equally intense amazement into his huge, dark visage.

“What does he mean by Weeum?” she asked, with an appealing look at me.

“Weeum,” I replied, “is the Indian way of pronouncing William. Your late son, dear madam, was much beloved and respected by the tribe of Indians with whom he dwelt, and was known to them only by the name of William, or Weeum. This man was his most intimate and loving friend and brother-in-law.”

The poor old lady was deeply affected while I spoke, for of course my words confirmed at last, her long resisted fear that Willie was indeed no longer of this world.

Big Otter waited a few seconds, still holding her hand, and then, turning to me, said in his native tongue,—“Tell the pale-face mother that the sister of Big Otter was the wife of Weeum; that Big Otter loved Weeum better than a brother, and that Weeum loved Big Otter more than any man of his tribe. Every one loved Weeum the Good. He was so kind, and so brave! At first he was very fierce, but afterwards that passed away, and when Waboose began to grow tall and wise, Weeum turned soft like a woman. He spoke often to the red-men about the Great Master of Life, and he taught Big Otter to love the Great Master of Life and the name of Jesus. Often Weeum talked of going to the far south to see one whom he called a dear old one. We did not understand him then. Big Otter understands him now. So shall it be in the great hereafter—things that are dark now shall be light then. But Weeum could not leave his wife and child, and we would not let him take them away. Sometimes Weeum spoke mysteries. One day he said to me, ‘Brother, I must go to the far south to see the dear old one. I will take my wife and child, and will return to you again—if the great Master of Life allows. If, however, I die or am killed, Waboose will reveal all that is in Weeum’s heart. She cannot reveal it now. She will not even understand until a good pale-face visits your tribe.’ Weeum said no more. He left the mind of Big Otter dark. It is no longer dark. It is now clear as the sun at noon. The ‘good pale-face’ is here (pointing to me as he spoke), and the ‘dear old one’ is before me.”

He paused a moment at this point, and then, with an evident effort to suppress emotion, added,—“Weeum was drowned, soon after the day he spoke to me, while trying to save life. Since then there has been no sun in the sky for Big Otter.”

The poor old mother listened to this speech with intense interest and deepening emotion, but I could see that the tears which flowed over the wrinkled cheeks were tears of gladness rather than of sorrow. It could scarcely at that time come as news to her that her son was dead, but it did come as a gladsome surprise that her wilful Willie had not only found the Saviour himself—or, rather, been found of Him—but that he had spent his latter days in striving to bring others to that great Source of blessedness.

Being too much overcome to speak, she submitted to be led away into the cottage by the comely matron, who had been a keen and sympathetic observer of all that passed. Of course Eve accompanied them, for Weeum’s mother refused to let go her hand, even for a moment, and Big Otter and I were left outside alone.

“Come,” said I, vaulting into my saddle, “you and I will go and have a gallop, my friend, and see the land, for I mean to dwell here and would strongly advise you to do the same.”

“Waugh!” exclaimed the Indian, as he leaped on the back of his steed, and followed me.

“You see,” said I, as we rode along, followed by the admiring gaze of the village children—for, accustomed though they were to savages, they had never seen so grand an Indian as Big Otter on so magnificent a horse—“you see, they will require some time to clear up matters in the cottage, for Eve’s English, good though it be, is not perfect, and all their minds will naturally be a little confused at first. You did me good service to-day, my friend.”

“How? The speech of Muxbee is mysterious.”

“Don’t you see,” I replied, “that the speech you made to old Mrs Liston, broke the ice as it were, and told her nearly all that I had to tell. And if you knew how many anxious hours I have spent in thinking how I should best break the sad news to the poor old mother, you would better understand how grateful I am to you.”

“The speech of Muxbee is still full of mystery. What does he mean by breaking news? When Big Otter has got news to tell, he tells it. When people have got something to hear, why should they not hear it at once?”

I felt that there are some things which some minds cannot understand; so, instead of answering, changed the subject.

“See,” said I, pointing to a part of the uncleared bush into which we had ridden, “there are two redskins. One is about to let fly an arrow. Hold on—we may disturb his aim!”

My companion looked, and with a start threw forward the muzzle of his gun.

Little did I think, riding as we then were in a semi-civilised region—what the aim was that I was so anxious not to disturb.

I was suddenly and rudely enlightened when I heard the twang of the bow, and saw the arrow flying straight towards me. It was too late to leap aside, or dodge it. Full on the centre of my chest the shaft struck me. I experienced something of the shock that one feels when death is suddenly and very unexpectedly brought near. I have a distinct recollection of the solemn impression made by the belief that my last hour had come, yet I did not fall. I saw that the savage was hastily fitting another arrow to the bow, but was so stunned by surprise that I made no effort to save myself. Happily Big Otter had his wits about him. He fired before the arrow winged its flight, and shot the Indian dead.

The other savage at once turned and fled, but my companion gave chase and overtook him in a few seconds. Seeing that he could not escape he turned round, flung down his weapons in token of submission, and stood sullenly before his captor.

Big Otter at once leaped off his steed, seized the man, bound his arms behind him with a thong, and led him to the spot where the dead man was lying on his face.

Meanwhile, I had discovered that the arrow which should have pierced my heart had been stopped by one of the gold pieces which formed my breastplate! It had, indeed, pierced the coin, but had only entered my flesh about a quarter of an inch! Thanking God for the wonderful deliverance, I plucked it out, and, casting it away, rode up to the place where the dead man lay. My companion had turned him over, and to my great surprise, revealed the face of my old foe, Attick!

“Waugh!” exclaimed Big Otter, turning to the captured savage. “Are there not deer enough in the woods, and buffalo enough on the plains, that the red-man should take to testing his arrows on pale-faces?”

“I did not shoot,” was the stern reply.

“True, but you were the companion, perhaps the friend, of the dead man.”

“I was not his friend,” replied the savage, more sullenly than ever.

“Then how came you to be with him when making this cowardly attack?” I asked, in a tone which was meant to conciliate.

The tone had the desired effect. The savage explained that about three weeks previously he had, while in danger of being killed by a grizzly bear which he had wounded, been rescued by Attick, who told him that he was in pursuit of a foe who had injured him deeply, and whom he meant to hunt to death. Out of gratitude the Indian had consented to follow him—believing his story to be true. Attick explained that he had followed his foe from the far north, day by day, week by week, month by month, seeking an opportunity to slay him; but so careful a watch had been kept by his foe and the Indian and woman who travelled with him that he had not up to that time found an opportunity. Attick and his new ally had then dogged us to Sunny Creek—the village at which we had arrived—and, finding that we no longer feared danger from hostile Indians, and had relaxed our vigilance, they had made up their minds to stay there patiently till the deed could be accomplished. That day, while consulting about the matter in the woods, we had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared before them, and Attick had discharged his arrow.

“But” concluded the savage, with a perplexed look, “the pale-face cannot be killed. Arrows cannot pierce him.”

“You are right,” said I, suddenly coming to a decision in regard to the man. “Neither bullet nor arrow can kill me till my work is done, and the Great Master of Life permits me to die. Go—and be more careful whom you follow in future.”

I cut the thong that bound him, as I spoke, and set him free.

Without a word, though with an irresistible look of surprise, the savage turned, picked up his weapons and strode majestically into the bush.

“My brother is not wise,” remarked Big Otter.

“That may be so,” said I, “but it grieves me that the blood of one Indian has been shed on my account, and I don’t want to let the authorities here have the chance of shedding that of another. Come, we must let them know what has happened.”

So saying I turned and rode off. We went direct to the authorities above-mentioned, told who we were and what we had done, guided a party of men to the scene of the intended murder; and then, while the stars were beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, returned to see what was going on in the little cottage on the hill at Sunny Creek.

Chapter Twenty Six.

One of the Difficulties of Correspondence enlarged on—Coming Events, etcetera.

About six weeks after the events narrated in the last chapter, I seated myself before a desk in a charming attic-room in the cottage—no need to say what cottage—and began to pen a letter.

I was in an exceedingly happy frame of mind. The weather was agreeable; neither too hot nor too cold; circumstances around me were conducive to quiet contemplation, and my brain was quite clear, nevertheless I experienced unusual difficulty in the composition of that letter. I began it at least half-a-dozen times, and as many times threw my pen down, tore it up and began another. At last I received a summons to dinner, and had then got only half-way through my letter.

Our dinner-party consisted of old Mrs Liston, her comely niece, Mrs Temple, who by the way was a widow, Eve Liston, and myself. Big Otter, unable to endure the restraints of civilisation, had gone on a hunting expedition for a few days, by way of relief!

“You is very stupid, surely, to take three hours to write one letter,” remarked Eve, with that peculiar smile to which I have before referred.

“Eve,” said I, somewhat sternly, “you will never learn English properly if you do not attend to my instructions. You is plural, though I am singular, and if you address me thus you must say you are not you is.”

“You are right in saying you are singular,” interposed Aunt Temple, who was rather sharp witted, and had intensely black eyes. Eve had called her “aunt” by mistake at first, and now stuck to it.

“I don’t think there is another man in the district,” continued the matron, “who would take so long to write a short letter. You said it was going to be short didn’t you?”

“Yes—short and sweet; though I doubt if the dear old man will think it so at first. But he’ll change his mind when he gets here.”

“No doubt we will convert him,” said Aunt Temple.

“Eve will, at all events,” said I.

There was not much more said at that dinner which calls for record. I will therefore return to the attic-room and the letter.

After at least another hour of effort, I succeeded in finishing my task, though not entirely to my satisfaction. As the letter was of considerable importance and interest—at least to those concerned—I now lay it before the reader. It ran thus:—

“My Dear Father,

“I scarcely know how to tell you—or how to begin, for I fear that you will not only be very much surprised, but perhaps, displeased by what I have to write. But let me assure you, dear father, that I cannot help it! It almost seems as if the thing had been arranged for me, and as if I had had no say in the matter. The fact is that I have left the service of the Fur-Traders, and am engaged to be married to a dear beautiful half-caste girl (quite a lady, however, I assure you), and have made up my mind to become a farmer in one of the wildest parts of Colorado! There—I’ve made a clean breast of it, and if that does not take away your breath, nothing will! But I write in all humility, dearest father. Do not fancy that, having taken the bit in my teeth, I tell you all this defiantly. Very far from it. Had it been possible, nothing would have gratified me more than to have consulted you, and asked your approval and blessing, but with three thousand miles of ocean, and I know not how many hundred miles of land between us, that you know, was out of the question; besides, it could not have altered matters, for the thing is fixed.

“My Eve’s mother was an Indian. A very superior woman, indeed, let me hasten to say, and an exceptionally amiable one. Her father was an English gentleman named William Liston—son of a clergyman, and a highly educated man. He was wild and wilful in his youth, and married an Indian, but afterwards became a really good man, and, being naturally refined and with amiable feelings, spent his life in doing good to the people with whom he had cast his lot, and perished in saving the life of his wife. Eve evidently takes after him.

“As to my Eve herself—”

I will spare the reader what I said about Eve herself! Suffice it to say that after an enthusiastic account of her mental and physical qualities, in which, however, I carefully refrained from exaggeration, and giving a brief outline of my recent experiences, I wound up with,—“And now, dear father, forgive me if I have done wrong in all this, and make up your mind to come out here and live with us, or take a farm of your own near to us. You know there is nothing to tie you to the old country; you were always fond of the idea of emigrating to the backwoods; your small income will go twice as far here as there, if properly laid out, and you’ll live twice as long. Come, dear dad, if you love me. I can’t get married till you come. Ever believe me, your affectionate son—George Maxby.”

Reader, shall we visit the dear old man in his dingy little house in old England while he peruses the foregoing letter? Yes, let us go. It is worth while travelling between four and five thousand miles to see him read it. Perhaps, if you are a critical reader, you may ask, “But how came you to know how the old gentleman received the letter?” Well, although the question is impertinent, I will answer it.

I have a small cousin of about ten years of age. She dwells with my father, and is an exceedingly sharp and precocious little girl. She chanced to be in the parlour waiting for my father—who was rather given to being late for breakfast—when my letter arrived. The familiar domestic cat was also waiting for him. It had mounted the table and sat glaring at the butter and cream, but, being aware that stealing was wrong, or that the presence of Cousin Maggie was prohibitive, it practised self-denial. Finding a story-book, my cousin sat down on the window seat behind the curtain and became absorbed—so much absorbed that she failed to notice the entrance of my father; failed to hear his—“Ha! a letter from Punch at last!”—and was only roused to outward events by the crash which ensued when my father smote the table with his fist and exclaimed, “im-possible!” The cups and saucers almost sprang into the air. The cat did so completely, and retired in horror to the furthest corner of the room. Recovering itself, however, it soon returned to its familiar post of observation on the table. Not so Cousin Maggie, who, observing that she was unperceived, and feeling somewhat shocked as well as curious, sat quite still, with her mouth, eyes, and especially her ears, wide-open.

From Maggie then—long afterwards—I learned the details.

My father sat down after smiting the table, gasped once or twice; pulled off and wiped his spectacles; put them on again, and, laying strong constraint on himself, read the whole through, aloud, and without a word of comment till he reached the end, when he ejaculated—“in-con-ceivable!” laid the letter down, and, looking up, glared at the cat. As that creature took no notice of him he incontinently flung his napkin at it, and swept it off the table. Then he gave vent to a prolonged “wh–sh!” burst into a fiendish laugh, and gave a slap to his thigh that shattered the cat’s peace of mind for the remainder of that morning, after which he re-opened the letter, spread it carefully out on the table, and, in the most intensely cynical tones, began a disjointed commentary on it as follows:—

“Your ‘dear father,’ indeed! That’s the first piece of humbug in your precious letter. Very ‘dear’ I am to you, no doubt. And you—you—a chit—a mere boy (he forgot that several years had elapsed since I left him). Oh! no—I’m neither surprised nor displeased—not at all. The state of my mind is not to be expressed by such phraseology—by no means! And you were always such a smooth-faced, quiet little beggar that—well—no matter. ‘Couldn’t help it!’ indeed. H’m. ‘Quite a lady!’ Oh! of course. Necessarily so, when you condescended to fall in love with her! ‘Humility!’ well! ‘Given up the service,’ too! ‘Colorado!’ ‘One of the wildest parts’—as if a tame part wouldn’t have done just as well! A ‘farmer!’ Much you know about farming! You don’t tell all this ‘defiantly.’ Oh! no, certainly not, but if you don’t do it defiantly, I have misunderstood the meaning of the word self-will till I am bald. Why didn’t you ‘consult’ me, then? Much you care for my blessing—and ‘the thing is fixed!’”

Exasperation was too much developed at this point to permit of blowing off steam in the form of sarcastic remark. My poor father hit the table with such force that the cream spurted out of its pot over the cloth—and my father didn’t care! The cat cared, however, when, at a later period, it had the cleaning up of that little matter all to itself! This last explosion caused so much noise—my cousin told me—as to attract the attention of my father’s only domestic, who bounced into the room and asked, “did ’e ring.” To which my father returned such a thundering “No!” that the domestic fled precipitately, followed by the cat—rampant.

“Your ‘Eve!’ indeed,” said my father, resuming the sarcastic vein. “‘Mother an Indian’—a Hottentot, I suppose, or something of that sort—short skirt of peacock feathers; no upper part worth mentioning, flat nose and lips, and smeared all over with fat, I dare say. Charming mother-in-law. Calculated to create some impression on English society. No wonder you’ve chosen the wilds of Colorado! Ah, now, as to ‘my Eve herself’—just let us have it strong, my boy—h’m, ‘sweet’—yes, yes—‘amiable,’ exactly, ‘fair hair and blue eyes’—ha, you expect me to swallow that! oh, ‘graceful,’ ha! ‘perfection,’ undoubtedly. ‘Forgive’ you! No—boy, I’ll never forgive you. You’re the most arrant ass—idiot—but this caps all—‘come out here and live with us!’ They’ll give me one quarter of the wigwam, I suppose—curtained off with birch-bark, perhaps, or deerskin. ‘Your affectionate’—dolt! wh–why—what do you glare like that for?”

This last question was put to my small cousin, who, in the horror of her belief that my father had gone mad, had agitated the window-curtain and revealed herself!

My poor dear father! I can imagine the scene well, and would not have detailed it so minutely here if—but enough. I must not forecast.

The afternoon on which this letter was despatched Big Otter returned to Sunny Creek cottage with a haunch of fat venison on his lusty shoulders.

He found us all grouped round the rustic table in front of the door, enjoying a cup of fragrant tea, and admiring the view. Eve was sitting on a low stool at the feet of Mrs Liston, engaged in ornamenting a bright blue fire-bag with bead and quill work of the most gorgeous colouring and elegant design. The design, of course, was her own. Mrs Liston was knitting small squares of open cotton-work, of a stitch so large that wooden needles about the size of a goose-quill were necessary. It was the only work that the poor old lady’s weak eyesight and trembling hands could accomplish, and the simple stitch required little exercise of mind or muscle. When Mrs Liston completed a square she rolled it away. When sixteen squares were finished, she sewed them together and formed a strip about eight feet long and six inches broad. When sixteen such strips were completed, she sewed them all together and thus produced a bed-quilt. Quilts of this sort she presented periodically, with much ceremony and demonstration of regard, to her most intimate friends. In that region the old lady had not many intimate friends, but then it luckily took much time to produce a quilt.

The quilt then in hand—at that time near its completion—was for Eve.

“Thank you so much for your venison,” said Mrs Liston, as the hunter, with an air of native dignity, laid the haunch at her feet. “Take it to the kitchen, dear,” she added to Mrs Temple, who was pouring out the tea.

“It has just come in time,” said Mrs Temple, with a pleasant nod to Big Otter; “we had quite run out of fresh meat, and your friend Muxbee is such a lazy boy that he never touches a gun. In fact I don’t know how to get him out of the house even for an hour.”

As this was said in English, Big Otter did not understand it, but when he saw the speaker stoop to pick up the venison, he stepped quickly forward and anticipated her. “Thank you, carry it this way,” said Aunt Temple (as I had begun to style her), leading the Indian to the pantry in rear of the cottage.

“Well, Big Otter,” said I, when they returned, “now do you find the country round here in regard to game?”

“There is much game,” he answered.

“Then you’ll make up your mind to pitch your wigwam here, I hope, and make it your home.”

“No, Big Otter’s heart is in his own land in the far north. He will go back to it.”

“What! and forsake Waboose?” said Eve, looking up from her work with an expression of real concern.

With a gratified air the Indian replied, “Big Otter will return.”

“Soon!” I asked.

“Not very long.”

“When do you start?”

“Before yon sun rises again,” said Big Otter, pointing to the westward, where the heavens above, and the heavens reflected in the lake below, were suffused with a golden glow.

“Then I shall have to spend the most of the night writing,” said I, “for I cannot let you go without a long letter to my friend Lumley, and a shorter one to Macnab. I have set my heart on getting them both to leave the service, and come here to settle alongside of me.”

“You see, your friend Muxbee,” said Aunt Temple, using the Indian’s pronunciation of my name, “is like the fox which lost his tail. He wishes all other foxes to cut off their tails so as to resemble him.”

“Am I to translate that?” I asked.

“If you can and will.”

Having done so, I continued,—“But seriously, Big Otter, I hope you will try to persuade them to come here. Give them a glowing account of the country and the climate, and say I’ll not marry till they come to dance at my wedding. I would not wait for that however, if it were not that Eve thinks she is a little too young yet, and besides, she has set her heart on my father being present. I’ll explain all that in my letters, of course, but do you press it on them.”

“And be sure you tell the dark-haired pale-face,” said Eve, “that Waboose expects her to come. Give these from her friend Fairhair—she was fond of calling me Fairhair.”

Eve rose as she spoke, and produced a pair of beautiful moccasins, which had been made and richly ornamented by her own hands. At the same time she presented the fire-bag to the Indian, adding that she was glad to have had it so nearly ready when he arrived.

“For whom are these pretty things, my dear?” asked Mrs Liston.

“The fire-bag, mother, is for Big Otter, and the moccasins is—”

“Are, Eve—are—plural you know.”

“Is,” replied Eve, with emphasis, “for my dear friend, Jessie, the black-haired pale-face.”

“Well done, Waboose!” exclaimed Aunt Temple. “I’m glad to see that you improve under my tuition.”

“You can’t spoil her,” I retorted, quietly.

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs Liston, “send a message from me to your dark-haired pale-face that I shall begin a quilt for her next week.”

“I hope she will come to receive it,” said Aunt Temple. “Tell her that, Muxbee, with my love, and add that I hope we shall be good friends when we meet. Though I doubt it, for I can’t bear Highlanders—they’re so dreadfully enthusiastic.”

“How much of that message am I to send?” I asked.

“As much as you please. I can trust to your discretion.”

That evening I retired to my snug little attic-room earlier than usual, and, spreading out a large sheet of narrow-ruled foolscap paper before me, began a letter to my old chum on the banks of lake Wichikagan. I had much to relate, for much had happened since I had sent off the brief note by Salamander, and I found it difficult to check my pen when once it had got into the flow of description and the rush of reminiscence and the gush of reiterative affection. I had covered the whole of the first sheet of narrow-ruled foolscap, and got well into the second sheet—which I had selected unruled, that I might write still more narrowly—when I heard a gentle tap at the door.

I knew the tap well—sprang up and opened the door. Eve stood there, looking as modest and beautiful and elegant as ever—which is saying a good deal, for, in deference to Mrs Liston’s prejudices, she had exchanged her old graceful tunic reaching to a little below the knee, and her pretty bead-wrought leggings, and other picturesque accompaniments of Indian life, for the long dress of civilisation. However, I consoled myself with the fact that nothing could spoil her, and recalled with satisfaction the words (I don’t quite remember them), which refer to a rose smelling equally sweet under any other name.

“Prayers,” said Eve.

Lest any one should feel perplexed by the brevity of her announcement, I may mention that dear old Mrs Liston’s habit was to recognise her “Best Benefactor” night and morning by having worship in the household, and invariably conducted it herself in her soft, slightly tremulous, but still musical voice.

As we descended the stairs, Eve said,—“You must sit beside me to-night, Geo’ge. When you sit opposite you gaze too much and make me uncomfortable.”

“Certainly, dear one,” said I. “But pray don’t call me Geo’ge—say Geo–r–ge. There’s an r in it, you know.”

“Yes, Geo–o–o–r–r–r–r–ge!”

“Eve,” I whispered, as we sat on the sofa together, while Mrs Liston was wiping her spectacles, “I’ve been earnestly considering that last attempt of yours, and I think upon the whole, that ‘Geo’ge’ is better.”

Chapter Twenty Seven.

A Peculiar Wedding and a Wonderful Walk.

Turn we once again to the great wilderness, and if we do so with half the zest felt by Big Otter when he set forth on his journey, we will certainly enjoy the trip, you and I, whoever you be.

But we must take the journey at a bound.

It is Christmas-time once more. Lake Wichikagan has put on its top-coat of the purest Carrara marble. The roof of the little fort once again resembles a French cake overloaded with creamy sugar. The pines are black by contrast. The willows are smothered, all save the tops where the snow-flakey ptarmigan find food and shelter. Smoke rises from the various chimneys, showing that the dwellers in that remote outpost are enjoying themselves as of old. The volumes of smoke also suggest Christmas puddings.

Let us look in upon our old friends. In the men’s house great preparation for something or other is going on, for each man is doing his best with soap, water, razor, brush, and garments, to make himself spruce. Salamander is there, before a circular looking-glass three inches in diameter in the lid of a soap-box, making a complicated mess of a neck-tie in futile attempts to produce the sailor’s knot. Blondin is there, before a similar glass, carefully scraping the bristles round a frostbite on his chin with a blunt razor. Henri Coppet, having already dressed, is smoking his pipe and quizzing Marcelle Dumont—who is also shaving—one of his chief jokes being an offer to give Dumont’s razor a turn on the grindstone. Donald Bane is stooping over a tin basin on a chair, with his hair and face soap-sudded and his eyes tight shut, which fact being observed by his friend Dougall, induces that worthy to cry,—“Tonal’, man—look here. Did iver man or wuman see the likes o’ that!”

The invitation is so irresistible to Donald that he half involuntarily exclaims, “Wow, man, Shames—what is’t?” and opens his eyes to find that Shames is laughing at him, and that soap does not improve sight. The old chief, Muskrat, is also there, having been invited along with Masqua and his son Mozwa, with their respective squaws, to the great event that is pending, and, to judge from the intense gravity—not to say owlish solemnity—of these redskins, they are much edified by the proceedings of the men.

In the hall preparations are also being carried on for something of some sort. Macnab is there, with his coat off, mounted on a chair, which he had previously set upon a rickety table, hammering away at a festoon of pine-branches with which one end of the room is being decorated. Spooner is also there, weaving boughs into rude garlands of gigantic size. The dark-haired pale-face, Jessie, is there too, helping Spooner—who might almost be called Spooney, he looks so imbecile and sweet. Jack Lumley is likewise there. He is calm, collected, suave, as usual, and is aiding Macnab.

It was a doubly auspicious day, for it was not only Christmas, but, a wedding-day.

“It seems like a dream,” cried Macnab, stopping his noisy hammer in order to look round and comment with his noisy voice, “to think, Jessie, that you should refuse at least a dozen sturdy Highlanders north o’ the Grampians, and come out to the backwoods at last to marry an Englishman.”

“I wish you would attend to what you are doing, brother,” said Jessie, blushing very much.

“She might have done worse,” remarked Spooner, who happened to be an Englishman.

Lumley said nothing, but a pleased smile flickered for a minute on his lips, while Macnab resumed his hammering with redoubled zest to a chuckling accompaniment.

“It would be nothing,” he resumed, turning round again and lowering his hammer, “if you hadn’t always protested that you would never marry, but—oh, Jessie, I wonder at a girl who has always been so firm in sticking to her resolves, turning out so fickle. I really never thought that the family of Macnab could be brought so low through one of its female members.”

“I know one of its male members,” said Lumley, in a warning voice, “who will be brought still lower if he keeps dancing about so on that rickety—there—I told you so!”

As he spoke, Peter Macnab missed his footing and came down on the table with a crash so tremendous that the crazy article of furniture became something like what Easterns style a split-camel—its feeble legs spread outwards, and its body came flat to the ground.

Sprawling for a moment Macnab rose dishevelled from a mass of pine-branches and looked surprised.

“Not hurt, I hope,” said Lumley, laughing, while Jessie looked anxious for a moment.

“I—I think not. No—evidently not. Yes, Jessie, my dear, you may regard this as a sort of practical illustration of the value of submission. If that table had resisted me I had been hurt, probably. Giving way as it did—I’m all right.”

“Your illustration is not a happy one,” said Lumley, “for your own safety was purchased at the cost of the table. If you had taken the lesson home, and said that ‘pride goes before a fall,’ it would have been more to the purpose.”

“Perhaps so,” returned Macnab, assisting to clear away the split table: “my pride is at its lowest ebb now, anyhow, for not only does Jessie Macnab become Mrs Lumley within an hour, but I am constrained to perform the marriage ceremony myself, as well as give her away.”

The Highlander here referred to the fact that, for the convenience of those numerous individuals whose lives were spent in the Great Nor’-west, far removed at that time from clergymen, churches, and other civilised institutions, the commissioned gentlemen in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company were legally empowered to perform the marriage ceremony.

Of course Jessie regretted much the impossibility of procuring a minister of any denomination to officiate in that remote corner of the earth, and had pleaded for delay in order that they might go home and get married there; but Lumley pointed out firstly, that there was not the remotest chance of his obtaining leave of absence for years to come; secondly, that the marriage tie, as tied by her brothers would be as legally binding as if managed by an Archbishop of Canterbury or a moderator of the Scottish General Assembly; and thirdly, that as he was filled with as deep a reverence for the Church as herself, he would have the rite re-performed, (“ceremonially, observe, Jessie, not really, for that will be done to-day,”) on the first possible opportunity.

If Jessie had been hard to convince, Lumley would not have ended that little discourse with “thirdly.” As it was, Jessie gave in, and the marriage was celebrated in the decorated hall, with voyageurs, and hunters, and fur-traders as witnesses. Macnab proved himself a worthy minister, for he read the marriage-service from the Church of England prayer-book with an earnest and slightly tremulous tone which betrayed the emotion of his heart. And if ever a true prayer, by churchman or layman, mounted to the Throne, that prayer was the fervent, “God bless you, Jessie!” to which the Highlander gave vent, as he pressed the bride to his heart when the ceremony was over.

There were some peculiarities about this wedding in the wilderness which call for special notice. In the first place, the wedding-feast, though held shortly after mid-day, was regarded as a dinner—not as a breakfast. It was rather more real, too, than civilised feasts of the kind. Those who sat down to it were hungry. They meant feeding, as was remarked by Salamander when more “venison steaks” were called for. Then there was no champagne or strong drink of any kind. Teetotalism—with or without principle—was the order of the day, but they had gallons of tea, and they consumed them, too; and these stalwart Nor’westers afterwards became as uproarious on that inspiring beverage as if they had all been drunk. There was this peculiarity, however, in their uproar, that it was reasonable, hearty, good-humoured; did not degenerate into shameful imbecility, or shameless impropriety, nor did it end in stupid incapacity. It subsided gradually into pleasant exhaustion, and terminated in profound refreshing slumber.

Before that point was reached, however, much had to be done. Games had to be undertaken as long as the daylight lasted—chief among which were tobogganing down the snow-slope, and football on the ice. Then, after dark, the Hall was lighted up with an extra supply of candles round the room—though the powerful blaze of the mighty wood fire in the open chimney rendered these almost unnecessary, and another feast was instituted under the name of supper, though it commenced at the early hour of six o’clock.

At this feast there was some speechifying—partly humorous and partly touching—and it remains a disputed point to this day whether the touching was more humorous or the humorous more touching. I therefore refrain from perplexing the reader with the speeches in detail. Only part of one speech will I refer to, as it may be said to have had a sort of prophetic bearing on our tale. It fell from the lips of Lumley.

“My friends,” he said, with that grave yet pleasant urbanity which I have before said was so natural to him, “there is only one regret which I will venture to express on this happy day, and it is this, that some of those who were wont to enliven us with their presence at Fort Wichikagan, are not with us to-night. I really do not think there would be a single element wanting in the joy which it has pleased a loving God to send me, if I could only have had my dear young friend, George Maxby, to be my best man—”

He had to pause a few moments at this point, because of noisy demonstrations of assent.

“And I am quite sure,” he continued, “that it would have afforded as much satisfaction to you as it would to my dear wife and me, if we could only have had our sedate friend, Big Otter—”

Again he had to pause, for the shouting with which this name was received not only made the rafters ring, but caused the very candles on the walls to wink.

“If we could only have had Big Otter,” repeated Lumley, “to dance at our wedding. But it is of no use to sigh after the impossible. The days of miracles are over, and—”

As he spoke the hall door slowly opened, and a sight appeared which not only bereft the speaker of speech, but for a few minutes absolutely petrified all the rest of the company. It was the face and figure of a man—tall, gaunt and worn.

Now, good reader, as Lumley said (without very good authority!) the days of miracles are over, yet I venture to think that many events in this life do so much resemble miracles that we could not distinguish them from such unless the keys to their solution were given to us.

I give you the key to the supposed miracle now in hand, by asking you to accompany me deep into the wild-woods, and backward in time to about an hour before noon of the day preceding Christmas. It is a tangled shady spot to which I draw attention, the snow-floor of which is over-arched by dark pine-branches and surrounded by walls of willows and other shrubs. There is a somewhat open circular space in the centre of the spot, into which an Indian on snow-shoes strode at the hour mentioned. Even his most intimate friends might have failed at a first glance to recognise Big Otter, for he was at the time very near the close of a long, hard, wearisome journey, during the course of which he had experienced both danger and privation. Latterly he had conceived an idea, which he had striven with all his powers—and they were not small—to carry out. It was neither more nor less than to arrive in time to spend Christmas Day with his friends at Fort Wichikagan.

But to accomplish this feat, commencing at the time he conceived it, required that the Indian should travel without fail upwards of forty miles every day. This, on snow-shoes, could only be done by a very Hercules, and that only for a few days at a stretch. Big Otter knew his powers of endurance, and had carried out his resolve nearly to completion, when a storm arose so fierce, with temperature so bitterly cold, that he could not force against it, and thus lost the greater part of a day. Still, the thing was not impossible, and, as the difficulties multiplied, our Indian’s resolve to conquer increased.

In this state of mind, and much worn and fagged in body, with soiled and rent garments that told of weeks upon weeks of toil, he entered the circle, or open space before referred to, and, coming to a stand, rested the butt of his gun on one of his snowshoes, heaved a deep sigh, and looked round, as if undecided how to act.

But Big Otter’s periods of indecision never lasted long. Being naturally of a sociable turn of mind he partially revealed his mental condition by low mutterings which I take leave to translate.

“Yes, I can do it. The pale-faces are pleasant men; pleasanter at Christmas-time than at other times. They love song, and Big Otter loves to hear song, though he does not love to do it. Men do not love to try what they cannot do. The pale-faces have much food, too, on Christmas Day, and much good-will. Big Otter loves both the good-will and the food, especially that round thing they are so fond of—plum-puddinn they call it. They dance much also. Dancing gives not much joy, though Big Otter can do some of it—but plum-puddinn is glorious! Waugh! I will do it!”

Having communed with himself thus far, the Indian leaned his gun against a tree, flung down his provision-bag, took off his snow-shoes, cleared away the snow, kindled a fire, spread his bed of pine-brush and his blanket above it—and, in short went through the usual process of encamping. It was early in the day to encamp, but there was only one way in which our Indian could hope to partake of the plum-puddinn, and that was to walk a little over fifty miles at one stretch. That distance still lay between him and Fort Wichikagan, and it had to be traversed within fourteen and fifteen hours—including rests and food.

To prepare himself for the feat Big Otter drew from his wallet an enormous mass of venison which he roasted and consumed. Then he filled a small portable kettle with snow, which, with the aid of a fierce fire, he soon converted into tea. You see our Indian was becoming civilised by intercourse with pale-faces, and rather luxurious, for he carried tea and sugar on this journey. He did not deem butter a necessity, but could afford to dispense with that, because of having the remains of a rogan, or birch basket, of bear’s grease (unscented, of course!) which he had reserved at the end of his fall hunt.

The meal, or rather the gorging, over, Big Otter rolled himself head and feet in a blanket, pillowed his head on the provision-wallet, and suddenly went to sleep.

Hour after hour passed, but not the slightest motion was perceptible in that recumbent figure save the slow regular rise and fall of the deep chest. The short-lived sun of winter soon passed its zenith and began to decline towards its early couch in the west, but still the sleeper lay motionless like a log. At last the shades of early evening began to fall, and then Big Otter awoke. He rose at once, stretched himself with a sort of awful energy, rolled up his blanket, put on his snow-shoes, caught up wallet and gun, and set off on his journey.

To see a strong man stride over the land on snowshoes is a grand sight at any time, but to see Big Otter do it on this occasion would have been worth a long journey. With his huge and weighty frame and his mighty stride he made nothing of small obstacles, and was but little affected by things that might have retarded ordinary mortals. Small bushes went down before him like grass, larger ones he turned aside, and thick ones he went crashing through like an African elephant through jungle, while the fine frosted snow went flying from his snow-shoes right and left. There was no hesitancy or wavering as to direction or pace. The land he was acquainted with, every inch. Reserve force, he knew, lay stored in every muscle, and he was prepared to draw it all out when fatigue should tell him that revenue was expended and only capital remained.

As the sun went down the moon rose up. He had counted on this and on the fact that the land was comparatively open. Yet it was not monotonous. Now he was crossing a stretch of prairie at top speed, anon driving through a patch of woodland. Here he went striding over the surface of a frozen river, or breasting the slope of a small hill. As the night wore on he tightened his belt but did not halt to do so. Once or twice he came to a good-sized lake where all impediments vanished. Off went the snowshoes and away he went over the marble surface at a slow trot—slow in appearance, though in reality quicker than the fastest walk.

Then the moon went down and the grey light of morning—Christmas morning—dawned. Still the red-man held on his way unchanged—apparently unchangeable. When the sun was high, he stopped suddenly beside a fallen tree, cleared the snow off it, and sat down to eat. He did not sit long, and the breakfast was a cold one.

In a few minutes the journey was resumed. The Indian was drawing largely on his capital now, but, looking at him, you could not have told it. By a little after six o’clock that evening the feat was accomplished, and, as I have said, Big Otter presented himself at a critical moment to the wonder-stricken eyes of the wedding guests.

“Did they make much of him?” you ask. I should think they did! “Did they feed him?” Of course they did—stuffed him to repletion—set him down before the massive ruins of the plum-puddinn, and would not let him rise till the last morsel was gone! Moreover, when Big Otter discovered that he had arrived at Fort Wichikagan, not only on Christmas Day, but on Chief Lumley’s wedding-day, his spirit was so rejoiced that his strength came back again unimpaired, like Sampson’s, and he danced that night with the pale-faces, till the small hours of the morning, to the strains of a pig-in-its-agonies fiddle, during which process he consumed several buckets of hot tea. He went to rest at last on a buffalo robe in a corner of the hall in a state of complete exhaustion and perfect felicity.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Wilderness again—New Plans mooted—Treacherous Ice, and a Brave Rescue.

The well-known disinclination of time and tide to wait for any man holds good in the wilderness of the Great Nor’-west, as elsewhere.

Notwithstanding the momentous events which took place at Fort Wichikagan and in Colorado, as detailed in preceding chapters, the winter passed away as usual, spring returned, and the voice of the grey-goose and plover began once more to gladden the heart of exiled man.

Jack Lumley sat on a rustic chair in front of the Hall, gazing with wistful eyes at the still ice-covered lake, and occasionally consulting an open letter in his hand with frowning looks of meditation. The sweet voice of Jessie Lumley came from the interior of the Hall, trilling a tuneful Highland air, which, sweeping over the lawn and lake, mingled with the discords of the plover and geese, thus producing a species of wild-wood harmony.

Peter Macnab—who, since the memorable day when the table became a split-camel under his weight, had been to the Mountain Fort and got back again to Wichikagan—came up, sat down on a bench beside his brother-in-law, and said,—“Shall I become a prophet?”

“Perhaps you’d better not, Macnab. It is not safe to sail under false colours, or pretend to powers which one does not possess.”

“But what if I feel a sort of inspiration which convinces me that I do possess prophetic powers, at least to some extent?”

“Then explode and relieve yourself by all means,” said Lumley.

“You have read that letter,” resumed Macnab, “at least fifty times, if you have read it once.”

“If you had said that I had read it a hundred and fifty times,” returned Lumley, “you would have been still under the mark.”

“Just so. And you have meditated over it, and dreamed about it, and talked it over with your wife at least as many times—if not more.”

“Your claim to rank among the prophets is indisputable, Macnab—at least as regards the past. What have you got to say about the future?”

“The future is as clear to me, my boy, as yonder sun, which gleams in the pools that stud the ice on Lake Wichikagan.”

“I am afraid, brother-in-law,” returned Lumley, with a pitiful smile, “that your intellects are sinking to a par with those of the geese which fly over the pools referred to.”

“Listen!” resumed the Highlander, with a serious air that was unusual in him. “I read the future thus. You have already, as I am aware, sent in your resignation. Well, you will not only quit the service of the HBC, but you will go and join your friend Maxby in Colorado; you will become a farmer; and, worst of all, you will take my dear sister with you.”

“In some respects,” said Lumley, also becoming serious, “you are right. I have made up my mind that, God willing, I shall quit the service—not that I find fault with it, very much the reverse; but it is too much of a life of exile and solitude to my dear Jessie. I will also go to Colorado and join Maxby, but I won’t take your sister from you. I will take you with me, brother-in-law, if you will consent to go, and we shall all live together. What say you?”

Macnab shook his head, sadly.

“You forget my boy, that your case is very different from mine. You have only just reached the end of your second term of service, and are still a youth. Whereas, I am a commissioned officer of the Fur Trade, with a fairish income, besides being an elderly man, and not very keen to throw all up and begin life over again.”

There was much in what Macnab said, yet not so much but that Lumley set himself, with all his powers of suasion and suavity, to induce his brother-in-law to change his mind. But Lumley had yet to learn that no power of Saxon logic, or personal influence, can move the will of a man from beyond the Grampian range who has once made up his mind.

When all was said, Macnab still shook his head, and smiled regretfully.

“It’s of no use wasting your breath, my boy,—but tell me, is Jessie anxious for this change?”

“She is anxious. She naturally pines for female society—though she did not say so until I urged her solemnly to tell me all her mind. And she is right. It is not good for woman, any more than for man, to be alone, and when I am away on these long expeditions—taking the furs to the depot, searching out the Indians, hunting, etcetera,—she is left unavoidably alone. I have felt this very strongly, and that was why, as you know, I had made up my mind during the winter, and written to the governor and council that, as my time had expired, I meant to retire this spring.”

“Yes, boy, I know,” returned Macnab. “I foresaw all this even long before you began to move in the matter, and I also took steps with a view to contingencies. You know that I am entitled to a year’s furlough this spring. Well, I wrote during the winter to say that I intended to avail myself of it. Now, then, this is what I intend to do. When you retire, and go off to the States, I will go with you on leave of absence. We won’t lose time by the way, for you may depend on it that Maxby will not delay his wedding longer than he can help. Fortunately, his old father won’t be able to wind up his affairs in England, and set off to Colorado quite as quickly as the son expects, so that will help to delay matters; and thus, though we can hardly expect to be in time for the wedding, we will at least be time enough to claim a revival and extension of the festivities. Then, you know, Big Otter—”

“Aye, what of him?” asked Lumley, seeing that Macnab paused.

“Well, I think we may prevail on him to go with us, as our guide, till we reach the civilised world, after which, we can take him in charge—turn the tables as it were—and guide him to Sunny Creek.”

“Yes—or send him on in advance of us, through the wood in a straight line, like the swallow, to announce our approach.”

At this point, Jessie, who had been busy with the household bread, came to the door with a face radiant from the combined effect of hard work and happiness.

“What is the subject of all this earnest conversation, Jack?” she asked, pulling down the sleeves that had been tucked up above her elbows.

“Ask your brother, Jess,” said Lumley, rising. “I shall have time before supper to pay a visit to Big Otter on a matter of some importance.”

He passed into the house to take up his gun and powder-horn, while Jessie sat down on the rustic chair, and her brother returned to the subject that had been interrupted.

Now there occurred that afternoon an event which might have put a final and fatal termination to the plans which had just been so eagerly discussed.

I have said that spring was so far advanced at that time, that pools of water were formed on the ice of Lake Wichikagan. The heat which caused these had also the effect of softening the snow in the woods, so as to render walking in snow-shoes very laborious. As walking without them, however, was impossible, Lumley had no other course left than to put them on and plod away heavily through the deep and pasty snow.

Big Otter at that time occupied the important position of hunter to the establishment. He supplied it with fresh meat and dwelt in a small wigwam, about six miles distant from the fort, on the borders of a little lake—little at least for that region, but measuring somewhat over three miles in diameter. He also, for his own advantage and recreation, carried on the business of a trapper, and had that winter supplied many a silver fox and marten to the fur-stores at Wichikagan.

When Lumley set out to visit the chief he knew that there was a possibility of his being out after deer, but in that case he meant to await his arrival, at least until nightfall, and then he could leave a hieroglyphic message, which the Indian would understand, requiring his immediate presence at the fort. In any case Lumley thought nothing of a twelve-mile walk, even though the snow was soft and deep.

Nothing worthy of notice occurred until he reached the lake above-mentioned, on the borders of which he halted. Looking across the bay, on the other side of which the hunter’s wigwam stood, he could discern among the pines and willows the orange-coloured birch-bark of which it was made, but no wreath of blue smoke told of the presence of the hunter.

“H’m! not at home!” muttered Lumley, who then proceeded to debate with himself the propriety of venturing to cross the bay on the ice.

Now, it must be told that ice on the North American lakes becomes exceedingly dangerous at a certain period of spring, for, retaining much of its winter solidity of appearance, and, indeed, much of its winter thickness, it tempts men to venture on it when, in reality, it has become honeycombed and “rotten.” Ice of this kind—no matter how thick it be,—is prone to give way without any of those friendly cracks and rends and other warnings peculiar to the new ice of autumn, and, instead of giving way in angular cakes, it suddenly slides down, letting a man through to the water, by opening a hole not much larger than himself. Of course Lumley was well aware of this danger—hence the debate with himself, or rather with his judgment.

“It looks solid enough,” said Lumley.

“Looks are deceptive,” said his judgment.

“Then, it’s rather early yet for the ice to have become quite rotten,” said Lumley.

“So everyone goes on saying, every spring, till some unfortunate loses his life, and teaches others wisdom,” said judgment; “besides, you’re a heavy man.”

“And it is a tremendous long way round by the shore—nearly four times the distance,” murmured Lumley.

“What of that in comparison with the risk you run,” remarked judgment, growing impatient.

“I’ll venture it!” said the man, sternly.

“You’re a fool!” cried the other, getting angry.

It is surprising with what equanimity a man will stand insulting language from himself! With something like a contemptuous smile on his lips, Lumley took off his snow-shoes and set off to cross the bay.

As he had anticipated, he found it as firm as a rock. The surface, indeed, had a dark wet look about it, and there were various pools here and there which he carefully avoided; but there was no other indication of danger until he had got three-quarters of the way across. Then, without an instant’s warning, the mass of ice on which he stood dropped below him like a trap-door and left him struggling in a compound of ice and water!

The first shock of the cold water on his robust frame was to give it a feeling of unusual strength. With a sharp shout, caused by the cold rather than alarm, he laid both hands on the edge of the ice, and, springing like an acrobat out of the water to his waist, fell with his chest on the still sound ice; but it was not long sound. His convulsive grip and heavy weight broke it off, and down he sank again, over head and ears.

It is not easy to convince a very powerful man that he may become helpless. Lumley rose, and, with another Herculean grip, laid hold of the edge of the ice. His mind had not yet fully admitted that he was in absolute danger. He had only been recklessly vigorous at the first attempt to get out—that was all—now, he would exercise caution.

With the coolness that was natural to him—increased, perhaps, by the coolness of the water—he again laid his hands on the edge of the ice, but he did not try to scramble upon it. He had been a practised gymnast at school. Many a time had he got into a boat from deep water while bathing, and he knew that in such an effort one is hampered by the tendency one’s legs have to get under the boat and prevent action—even as, at that moment, his legs were attempting to go under the ice. Adopting, therefore, his old plan and keeping his hands on the edge of the ice, he first of all paddled backwards with his legs until he got himself into a quite perpendicular position, so that when he should make the spring there would be no fear of retarding his action by scraping against the ice with his chest. While in this position he let himself sink to the very lips—nay, even lower—and then, acting with arms and legs at the same moment, he shot himself full half his length out of the water.

The whole process was well calculated, for, by sinking so deeply before the spring, he thus made use of the buoyancy of water, and rendered less pressure with his hands on the ice needful. But, although he thus avoided breaking the ice at first he could not by any device lessen the weight of his fall upon it. Again the treacherous mass gave way, and once more he sank into the cold lake.

Cold, far more than exertion, tells on a man in such circumstances. A feeling of exhaustion, such as poor Lumley had never felt before, came over him.

“God help me!” he gasped, with the fervour that comes over men when in the hour of their extremity.

Death seemed at last evidently to confront him, and with the energy of a brave man he grappled and fought him. Again and again he tried the faithless ice, each time trying to recall some device in athletics which might help him, but always with the same result. Then, still clinging to life convulsively, he prayed fervently and tried to meet his fate like a man. This effort is probably more easy on the battle-field, with the vital powers unexhausted, and the passions strong. It was not so easy in the lone wilderness, with no comrade’s voice to cheer, with the cold gradually benumbing all the vital powers, and with life slipping slowly away like an unbelievable dream!

The desire to live came over him so strongly at times, that again and yet again, he struggled back from the gates of the dark valley by the mere power of his will and renewed his fruitless efforts; and when at last despair took possession of him, from the depths of his capacious chest he gave vent to that:—

“Bubbling cry

Of some strong swimmer in his agony!”

Sleeping soundly in his wigwam, Big Otter heard the cry.

Our Indian was not the man to start up and stare, and wonder, and wait for a repetition of any cry. Like the deer which he had so often roused, he leaped up, bounded through the doorway of his tent, and grasped gun and snow-shoes. One glance sufficed to show him the not far distant hole in the ice. Dropping the gun he thrust his feet into the snowshoes, and went off over the ice at racing speed. The snow-shoes did not impede him much, and they rendered the run over the ice less dangerous. Probably Lumley would not have broken through if he had used his snow-shoes, because of the larger surface of ice which they would have covered.

To come within a few yards of the hole, slide to the edge of it on his chest, with both snow-shoes spread out under that, by way of diffusing his weight over as much surface as possible, was the work of only a few minutes. But by that time the perishing man was almost incapable of helping himself. The great difficulty that the rescuer experienced was to rouse Lumley once more to action, for the torpor that precedes death had already set in, and to get on his knees on the edge of the ice, so as to have power to raise his friend, would only have resulted in the loss of his own life as well. To make sure that he should not let go his hold and slip, Big Otter tied the end of his long worsted belt round his friend’s right wrist.

“Now,” he said, earnestly, “try once more.”

“Too late—too late! God bless you, Big—” He stopped, and his eyes closed!

“No!” cried the Indian, vehemently, giving the perishing man’s head a violent shake—then, putting his mouth close to his ear, added in a deep tone—“Not too late for the Master of Life to save. Think! The dark-haired pale-face waits for you.”

This was a judicious touch. The energy which could not be aroused by any consideration of self was electrified by the thought of the waiting wife. Lumley made one more desperate effort and once again cried to God for help. Both acts contributed to the desired end, and were themselves an answer to the prayer of faith. Mysterious connection! Hope revived, and the vital fluid received a fresh impulse. In the strength of it Lumley raised himself so far out of the water that the Indian was able to drag half his body on the ice, but the legs still hung down. Creeping back a few feet, the Indian, still lying flat on his face, cut a hole in the ice with his hatchet into which he stuck his toe, and seized hold of the end of his worsted belt.

“That’s right,” said his friend, faintly—“wait.”

Big Otter knew that full consciousness had returned. He waited while Lumley, gently paddling with his legs, got them into a horizontal position.

“Now!” cried Lumley.

The Indian pulled—softly at first, then vigorously, and Lumley slid fairly on the ice. The rest, though still dangerous, was easy. In a few minutes more the red-man had the pale-face stripped beside a rousing fire in the wigwam—and thus he brought him back to life from the very gates of death.

“You have saved me, my good friend,” said Lumley, when he began to recover.

“The Great Master of Life saved you,” returned the Indian. “He made use of me—for which I thank him.”

It was not until late on the following day that Lumley felt strong enough to return to the fort, and relate what had occurred. Then the plans for the future were laid before Big Otter, and, to the satisfaction of all parties, he agreed at once to fall in with them.

“But,” said he, “Big Otter will not stay. He loves the great wilderness too well to be content to live among the wooden wigwams of the pale-faces.”

“Well, we won’t bother ourselves on that point just now,” said Macnab, “and so, as that’s comfortably settled, I’ll pack up and away back to my mountain fort to get ready for a trip, with you and Lumley and Jessie, to Colorado.”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Last.

Once more I change the scene, from the wild regions of the north to the little less wild lands of Colorado.

On a certain bright forenoon in Autumn I stood in the doorway of Sunny Creek Cottage watching a clumsy vehicle as it laboured slowly up the hill. I was alone that day, old Mrs Liston, Eve, and “Aunt Temple” having gone off in the waggon for a long drive to visit a relative with hunting proclivities, who had built himself a log-hut in a ravine of the neighbouring mountains, that he might be in closer proximity to the bears and deer.

With some curiosity I approached the lumbering machine to assist the occupant, who seemed unable, or too impatient, to open the door. It was a stiff door, and swung open with a jerk which caused the occupant’s hat to fall off, and reveal a bald head.

“Father!” I gasped.

“Punch, my boy!”

The dear old man tripped in his haste to get down, plunged into my bosom, threw his arms round my neck to save himself, and almost bore me to the ground. Neither of us being demonstrative in our affections, this unpremeditated, not to say unintentional, embrace I felt to be quite touching. My father obviously resolved to make the most of his opportunities, for he gave me a thoroughly exhaustive hug before releasing me.

“I—I—didn’t m–mean,” said my father, blazing with excitement, and gasping with a mingled tendency to laugh and weep, “didn’t mean to come it quite so strong, P–Punch, my boy, b–but you’ll make allowance for a momentary weakness. I’m getting an old man, Punch. What makes you grin so, you backwoods koonisquat?”

The last sentence, with its opprobrious epithet (coined on the spot), was addressed with sudden asperity to the driver of the clumsy vehicle, who was seated on his box, with mouth expanded from ear to ear.

“Wall, stranger, if you will insist on knowin’,” said he, “It’s sympathy that makes me grin. I do like to see human natur’ out of its go-to-meetin’ togs, with its saddle off, an’ no bridal on, spurtin’ around in gushin’ simplicity. But you’re wrong, stranger,” continued the driver, with a grave look, “quite wrong in callin’ me a koonisquat. I have dropt in the social scale, but I ain’t got quite so low as that, I guess, by a long chalk.”

“Well, you compound of Welshman and Yankee, be off and refresh yourself,” returned my father, putting an extra dollar, over and above his fare, into the man’s hand, “but don’t consume it on your filthy fire-water cock-tails, or gin-slings, or any other kind of sling-tails. If you must drink, take it out in strong hot coffee.”

The man drove off, still grinning, and I hurried my father into the cottage where, while I set before him a good luncheon, he gave me a wildly rambling and interjectional account of his proceedings since the date of his last letter to me.

“But why did you take me by surprise in this way, dear daddy; why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“Because I like to take people by surprise, especially ill-doing scapegraces like—by the way,” said my father, suddenly laying down his knife and fork, “where is she?”

“Where is who?”

“She—her, of course; the—the girl, the Hottentot, the savage. Oh! George, what an ass you are!”

“If you mean Eve, sir,” said I, “she is away from home—and everybody else along with her. That comes of your taking people by surprise, you see. Nobody prepared to receive you; nothing ready. No sheets aired even.”

“Well, well, Punch, my boy, don’t be sharp with your old father. I won’t offend again. By the way,” he added, quickly, “you’re not married yet? eh?”

“No, not yet.”

“Ah!” said my father with a sigh of relief, as he resumed his knife and fork, “then there’s the barest chance of a possibility that if—but you’ve asked her to marry you, eh?”

“Yes, I have asked her.”

“And she has accepted you?”

“Yes, she has accepted me. I wrote all that to you long ago.”

“Ah!” said my father, with a profound sigh of resignation, “then there is no chance of a possibility, for if a man tries to win the affections of a girl and succeeds, he is bound in honour to marry her—even though he were the Emperor of China, and she a—a Hottentot. Now, Punch, I have made up my mind to like the girl, even though she painted scarlet circles round her eyes, and smeared her nose with sky-blue—but you must let your poor old father blow off the steam, for you have been such a—a donkey!—such a hasty, impatient, sentimental, romantic idiot, that—another glass of that milk, my boy. Thank’ee, where do you get it? Beats English milk hollow.”

“Got it from one of our numerous cows, daddy,” said I, with a short laugh at this violent change of the subject, “and my Eve made the butter.”

“Did she, indeed? Well, I’m glad she’s fit for even that small amount of civilised labour; but you have not told me yet when I shall see her?”

“That is a question I cannot exactly answer,” said I, “but you will at all events be introduced to-night to her father’s mother, and her cousin (whom we call aunt), as well as to a young lady—a Miss Waboose—who is staying with us at present. And now, father,” I added, “come, and we’ll have a stroll round the farm. I don’t expect the ladies back till evening. Meanwhile, I want you to do me a favour; to humour what I may call a whim.”

“If it’s not a very silly one, Punch, I’ll do it, though I have not much confidence in your wisdom now.”

“It is simply that you should agree, for this night only, to pass yourself off for a very old friend of mine. You need not tell fibs, or give a false name. You are a namesake, you know. There are lots of Maxbys in the world!”

“Weak, my boy; decidedly weak. They’ll be sure to see through it and I won’t be able to recollect not to call you Punch.”

“No matter. Call me Punch. I’ll tell them you are a very familiar old friend—a sort of relation, too, which will account for the name.”

“Well, well,” said my father, with a smile of pity, “I’ll not object to humour your whim, but it’s weak—worthy of a man who could engage himself to a miserable red-Indian Hottentot!”

This being finally settled, and my father having been pretty well exhausted by his ramble round the farm, I set him down on the rustic chair with a newspaper and left him, saying that I should be back in an hour or so.

I knew the road by which the waggon was to return, walked along it several miles, and then waited. Soon it drove up to the spot where I stood. They were surprised to see me, but more surprised when I ordered the ladies to get out, and walk with me, while the coachman drove on slowly in advance.

Then I hurriedly told of my father’s arrival, and explained more fully than I had yet ventured to do his misconceptions and prejudices as to Eve. “Now, I want you all,” said I, “to help me to remove these prejudices and misconceptions as quickly as possible by falling in with my little plans.”

Hereupon I explained that my father was to be introduced as an old friend and namesake, while Eve was to be presented to him as a visitor at the cottage named Miss Waboose. I had feared that old Mrs Liston would not enter into my plan, but found that, on the contrary, having a strong sense of humour, she quite enjoyed the notion of it. So did Aunt Temple, but Eve herself felt doubtful of her ability to act out her part. I had no doubt on that point, for she had undertaken it, and well did I know that whatever Eve undertook she could, and would, accomplish.

It might be tedious to recount in detail the scenes that followed. The dear old man was charmed with Miss Waboose—as I had fully expected—and Miss Waboose was more than charmed with the dear old man! So that when we bade the ladies good-night, he kissed her fair forehead with quite fatherly tenderness.

When I conducted the old man to his room I was struck, and made quite anxious, by the disconsolate expression of his face, and asked earnestly what was wrong.

“Wrong!” he exclaimed, almost petulantly. “Everything’s wrong. More particularly, you are wrong. Oh, George, I can’t get over it. To think that you are tied hard and fast—irrevocably—to—a red-Indian—a painted savage—a Hottentot. It is too—too bad!”

He kicked off one of his shoes so viciously at this point, that it went straight into, and smashed, a looking-glass; but he didn’t seem to care a straw for that. He did not even condescend to notice it.

“And to think, too,” he continued, “that you might have had that adorable young lady, Miss Waboose, who—in spite of her heathenish name—is the most charming, artless, modest young creature I ever saw. Oh! Punch, Punch, what a consummate idiot you have been.”

It was impossible to help laughing at my poor father’s comical expression of chagrin, as he sat on the edge of his bed, slapped his hands down on both knees and looked up in my face.

“Excuse me, daddy, but what ground have you for supposing that Miss Waboose would accept me, even if I were free to ask her hand?”

“Ground? Why the ground that she is fond of you. Any man with half an eye could see that, by the way she looks at and speaks to you. Of course you have not observed that. I trust, my boy, you are too honourable to have encouraged it. Nevertheless, it is a fact—a miserable, tantalising, exasperating fact—a maddening fact, now that that hideous red-Indian—Hottentot stands in the way.”

“That red-Indian—Hottentot,” said I, unable any longer to cause my dear father so much pain, “does not stand in the way, for I am happy to tell you that Miss Waboose and Eve are one and the same person.”

“Come, come, Punch,” returned my parent, testily, “I’m in no humour for jesting. Go away, and let me get to bed and pillow my head on oblivion if possible.”

I do assure you, reader, that I had no slight difficulty in persuading my father that Eve Liston and Waboose were really the same person.

“But the girl’s fair,” objected my father, when the truth began to force an entrance.

“Yes—‘passing fair,’” said I.

“And with blue eyes and golden hair!” said he.

“Even so,” said I.

“No more like a savage than I am?” said my father.

“Much less so,” said I.

When at length he did take in the fact, he flung his arms round my neck for the second time that day, and did his best to strangle me. Then, under a sudden impulse, he thrust me out into the passage and shut and locked the door.

“You won’t pillow your head on oblivion now, will you, daddy?” I asked through the keyhole.

“Get away, you deceiver!” was the curt reply.

But surprises did not come singly at that time. Call it a miracle, or a coincidence, or what you will, it is a singular fact that, on the very next day, there arrived at Sunny Creek cottage four travellers—namely, Jack Lumley, the black-haired pale-face, Peter Macnab, and Big Otter.

On beholding each other, Jessie Lumley and Eve Liston, uttering each a little shriek, rushed into each other’s arms, and straightway, for the space of five minutes, became a human amalgam.

“Not too late, I hope?” said Lumley, after the first excitement of meeting was over.

“Too late for what?” said I.

“For the wedding, of course,” said he.

“By no means. It is fixed for this day three weeks.”

“Good—Jessie and I will have the knot tightened a little on the same day by the same man.”

“Wind and weather permitting,” said Macnab, with his wonted irreverence. “Now, Maxby, my boy, take us into the house, and introduce us to old Mrs Liston. But what splendid creature is this coming towards us?”

“Why that’s Aunt Temple,” I whispered, as she came forward. “Let me introduce you, aunt, to Mr Macnab—the jolly fur-trader of whom you have heard me speak so often and so much.”

Macnab made a profound obeisance, and Aunt Temple returned a dignified bow, expressing herself, “much pleased to make the acquaintance,” etcetera, and saying that Mrs Liston, being unable to come out to greet them, was anxious that we should enter. “Particularly Big Otter,” said Aunt Temple, turning to the grave chief, “for whom she has a very great regard.”

Thus invited and specially complimented, our tall Indian stooped to enter the cottage door, but not being accustomed to the wooden wigwams of the pale-faces, he did not stoop low enough, struck his head against the top, and rather damaged an eagle’s feather with which his hair was decorated.

Nothing, almost, could upset the dignity and imperturbable gravity of Big Otter. He stooped lower to conquer the difficulty, and when inside drew himself up to his full height, so that the eagle’s feather touched the ceiling, and tickled up some flies that were reposing in fancied security there.

Glancing round till his black eyes caught sight of old Mrs Liston in a darkish corner on a sofa, he stepped forward, and, stooping to grasp one of her small hands in both of his, said tenderly—“Watchee.”

“What cheer—what cheer?” said the accommodating old lady, responding to the salutation in kind. “Tell him, George, that I’m so happy to see once again the friend of my beloved William.”

“Big Otter rejoices to meet again the mother of Weeum,” replied the Indian.

“And tell him,” said Mrs Listen, “that I hope he has now come to stay with us altogether.”

The Indian smiled gravely, and shook his head, intimating that the question required consideration.

When the other members of the party were introduced—Jessie and Eve having been separated for the purpose—we all adjourned to the verandah to interchange news.

Need it be said that we had much to hear and tell? I think not. Neither need the fact be enlarged on that we all retired late that night, in a state of supreme felicity and mental exhaustion.

There was one exception, however, as regards the felicity, for Mrs Liston, out of regard for the friend of her darling William, insisted that Big Otter should occupy the best bedroom on the ground floor. The result was eminently unsatisfactory, for Big Otter was not accustomed to best bedrooms. Eve conducted the Indian to his room. He cared nothing for his comfort, and was prepared humbly to do whatever he was bid. He silently followed her and looked round the room with open-mouthed wonder as she pointed to his bed and, with a pleasant nod, left him.

Resting his gun in a corner—for he never parted with that weapon night or day—and laying his powder-horn and shot-pouch on the ground, he drew his tomahawk and scalping-knife, and was about to deposit them beside the horn, when his eye suddenly fell on a gigantic Indian crouching, as if on the point of springing on him. Like lightning he sprang erect. Then an expression of intense humility and shame covered his grave features on discovering that a large mirror had presented him with a full-length portrait of himself! A sort of pitiful smile curled his lip as he took off his hunting coat. Being now in his ordinary sleeping costume he approached the bed, but did not like the look of it. No wonder! Besides being obviously too short, it had white curtains with frills or flounces of some sort, with various tags and tassels around, and it did not look strong. He sat cautiously down on the side of it, however, and put one leg in. The sheets felt unpleasant to his naked foot, but not being particular, he shoved it in, and was slowly letting himself down on one elbow, when the bed creaked!

This was enough. Big Otter was brave to rashness in facing known danger, but he was too wise to risk his body on the unknown! Drawing forth his leg he stood up again, and glanced round the room. There was a small dressing-table opposite the bed; beside it was the large glass which had given him such a surprise. Further on a washhand-stand with a towel-rack beside it, but there was no spot on which he could stretch his bulky frame save the middle of the floor. Calmly he lay down on that, having previously pulled off all the bedclothes in a heap and selected therefrom a single blanket. Pillowing his head on a footstool, he tried to sleep, but the effort was vain. There was a want of air—a dreadful silence, as if he had been buried alive—no tinkling of water, or rustling of leaves, or roar of cataract. It was insupportable. He got up and tried to open the door, but the handle was a mystery which he could not unriddle. There was a window behind the dressing-table. He examined that, overturning and extinguishing the candle in the act. But that was nothing. The stars gave enough of light. Fortunately the window was a simple cottage one, which opened inwards with a pull. He put on his coat and belt, resumed his arms, and, putting his long leg over the sill, once more stood on his native soil and breathed the pure air! Quietly gliding round the house, he found a clump of bushes with a footpath leading through it. There he laid him down, enveloped in one of Mrs Liston’s best blankets, and there he was found next morning in tranquil slumber by our domestic when she went to milk the cows!

Before the three weeks were over Peter Macnab almost paralysed Aunt Temple by a cool proposal that she should exchange the civilised settlements for the wilderness, and go back with him, as Mrs Macnab, to the Mountain Fort! The lady, recovering from her semi-paralytic affection, agreed to the suggestion, and thus Peter Macnab was, according to his own statement, “set up for life.”

Shall I dwell on the triple wedding? No. Why worry the indulgent reader, or irritate the irascible one, by recounting what is so universally understood. There were circumstances peculiar, no doubt to the special occasion. To Eve and myself, of course, it was the most important day of our lives—a day never to be forgotten; and for which we could never be too thankful, and my dear father pronounced it the happiest day of his life; but I think he forgot himself a little when he said that! Then old Mrs Liston saw but one face the whole evening, and it was the face of Willie—she saw it by faith, through the medium of Eve’s sweet countenance.

But I must cut matters short. When all was over, Macnab said to his wife:—

“Now, my dear, we must be off at the end of one week. You see, I have just one year’s furlough, and part of it is gone already. The rest of it, you and I must spend partly in the States, partly in England, and partly on the continent of Europe, so that we may return to the Great Nor’-west with our brains well stored with material for small talk during an eight or nine months’ winter.”

Aunt Macnab had no objection. Accordingly, that day week he and she bade us all good-bye and left us. Big Otter was to go with them part of the way, and then diverge into the wilderness. He remained a few minutes behind the others to say farewell.

“You will come and settle beside us at last, I hope,” said Mrs Liston, squeezing the red-man’s hand.

The Indian stood gently stroking the arched neck of his magnificent horse in silence for a few moments. Then he said, in a low voice:—

“Big Otter’s heart is with the pale-faces, but he cannot change the nature which has been given to him by the Great Master of Life. He cannot live with the pale-faces. He will dwell where his fathers have dwelt, and live as his fathers have lived, for he loves the great free wilderness. Yet in the memory of his heart the mother of Weeum will live, and Waboose and Muxbee, and the tall pale-face chief, who won the hearts of the red-men by his justice and his love. The dark-haired pale-face, too, will never be forgotten. Each year, as it goes and comes, Big Otter will come again to Sunny Creek about the time that the plovers whistle in the air. He will come and go, till his blood grows cold and his limbs are frail. After that he will meet you all, with Weeum, in the bright Land of Joy, where the Great Master of Life dwells for evermore. Farewell!”

He vaulted on his steed at the last word, and, putting it to the gallop, returned to his beloved wilderness in the Great Nor’-west.

The End.

Chapter One.

Or, Solitude in the Wilderness.

The Outskirter.

To some minds solitude is depressing, to others it is congenial. It was the former to our friend John Robinson; yet he had a large share of it in his chequered life. John—more familiarly known as Jack—was as romantic as his name was the reverse. To look at him you would have supposed that he was the most ordinary of common-place men, but if you had known him, as we did, you would have discovered that there was a deep, silent, but ever-flowing river of enthusiasm, energy, fervour—in a word, romance—in his soul, which seldom or never manifested itself in words, and only now and then, on rare occasions, flashed out in a lightning glance, or blazed up in a fiery countenance. For the most part Jack was calm as a mill-pond, deep as the Atlantic, straightforward and grave as an undertaker’s clerk and good-humoured as an unspoilt and healthy child.

Jack never made a joke, but, certes, he could enjoy one; and he had a way of showing his enjoyment by a twinkle in his blue eye and a chuckle in his throat that was peculiarly impressive.

Jack was a type of a large class. He was what we may call an outskirter of the world. He was one of those who, from the force of necessity, or of self-will, or of circumstances, are driven to the outer circle of this world to do as Adam and Eve’s family did, battle with Nature in her wildest scenes and moods; to earn his bread, literally, in the sweat of his brow.

Jack was a middle-sized man of strong make. He was not sufficiently large to overawe men by his size, neither was he so small as to invite impertinence from “big bullies,” of whom there were plenty in his neighbourhood. In short, being an unpretending man and a plain man, with a good nose and large chin and sandy hair, he was not usually taken much notice of by strangers during his journeyings in the world; but when vigorous action in cases of emergency was required Jack Robinson was the man to make himself conspicuous.

It is not our intention to give an account of Jack’s adventurous life from beginning to end, but to detail the incidents of a sojourn of two months at Fort Desolation, in almost utter solitude, in order to show one of the many phases of rough life to which outskirters are frequently subjected.

In regard to his early life it may be sufficient to say that Jack, after being born, created such perpetual disturbance and storm in the house that his worthy father came to look upon him as a perfect pest, and as soon as possible sent him to a public school, where he fought like a Mameluke Bey, learned his lessons with the zeal of a philosopher, and, at the end of ten years ran away to sea, where he became as sick as a dog and as miserable as a convicted felon.

Poor Jack was honest of heart and generous of spirit, but many a long hard year did he spend in the rugged parts of the earth ere he recovered, (if he ever did recover), from the evil effects of this first false step.

In course of time Jack was landed in Canada, with only a few shillings in his pocket; from that period he became an outskirter. The romance in his nature pointed to the backwoods; he went thither at once, and was not disappointed. At first the wild life surpassed his expectations, but as time wore on the tinsel began to wear off the face of things, and he came to see them as they actually were. Nevertheless, the romance of life did not wear out of his constitution. Enthusiasm, quiet but deep, stuck to him all through his career, and carried him on and over difficulties that would have disgusted and turned back many a colder spirit.

Jack’s first success was the obtaining of a situation as clerk in the store of a general merchant in an outskirt settlement of Canada. Dire necessity drove him to this. He had been three weeks without money and nearly two days without food before he succumbed. Having given in, however, he worked like a Trojan, and would certainly have advanced himself in life if his employer had not failed and left him, minus a portion of his salary, to “try again.”

Next, he became an engineer on board one of the Missouri steamers, in which capacity he burst his boiler, and threw himself and the passengers into the river—the captain having adopted the truly Yankee expedient of sitting down on the safety-valve while racing with another boat!

Afterwards, Jack Robinson became clerk in one of the Ontario steam-boats, but, growing tired of this life, he went up the Ottawa, and became overseer of a sawmill. Here, being on the frontier of civilisation, he saw the roughest of Canadian life. The lumbermen of that district are a mixed race—French-Canadians, Irishmen, Indians, half-castes, etcetera,—and whatever good qualities these men might possess in the way of hewing timber and bush-life, they were sadly deficient in the matters of morality and temperance. But Jack was a man of tact and good temper, and played his cards well. He jested with the jocular, sympathised with the homesick, doctored the ailing in a rough and ready fashion peculiarly his own, and avoided the quarrelsome. Thus he became a general favourite.

Of course it was not to be expected that he could escape an occasional broil, and it was herein that his early education did him good service. He had been trained in an English school where he became one of the best boxers. The lumberers on the Ottawa were not practised in this science; they indulged in that kicking, tearing, pommelling sort of mode which is so repugnant to the feelings of an Englishman. The consequence was that Jack had few fights, but these were invariably with the largest bullies of the district; and he, in each case, inflicted such tremendous facial punishment on his opponent that he became a noted man, against whom few cared to pit themselves.

There are none so likely to enjoy peace as those who are prepared for war. Jack used sometimes to say, with a smile, that his few battles were the price he had to pay for peace.

Our hero was unlucky. The saw-mill failed—its master being a drunkard. When that went down he entered the lumber trade, where he made the acquaintance of a young Scotchman, of congenial mind and temperament, who suggested the setting up of a store in a promising locality and proposed entering into partnership. “Murray and Robinson” was forthwith painted by the latter, (who was a bit of an artist), over the door of a small log-house, and the store soon became well known and much frequented by the sparse population as well as by those engaged in the timber trade.

But “the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.” There must have been a screw loose somewhere, for bad debts accumulated and losses were incurred which finally brought the firm to the ground, and left its dissevered partners to begin the world over again!

After this poor Jack Robinson fell into low spirits for a time, but he soon recovered, and bought a small piece of land at a nominal price in a region so wild that he had to cut his own road to it, fell the trees with his own hand, and, in short, reclaim it from the wilderness on the margin of which it lay. This was hard work, but Jack liked hard work, and whatever work he undertook he always did it well. Strange that such a man could not get on! yet so it was, that, in a couple of years, he found himself little better off than he had been when he entered on his new property. The region, too, was not a tempting one. No adventurous spirits had located themselves beside him, and only a few had come within several miles of his habitation.

This did not suit our hero’s sociable temperament, and he began to despond very much. Still his sanguine spirit led him to persevere, and there is no saying how long he might have continued to spend his days and his energies in felling trees and sowing among the stumps and hoping for better days, had not his views been changed and his thoughts turned into another channel by a letter.

Chapter Two.

The Letter, and its Consequences.

One fine spring morning Jack was sitting, smoking his pipe after breakfast, at the door of his log cabin, looking pensively out upon the tree-stump-encumbered field which constituted his farm. He had facetiously named his residence the Mountain House, in consequence of there being neither mountain nor hill larger than an inverted wash-hand basin, within ten miles of him! He was wont to defend the misnomer on the ground that it served to keep him in remembrance of the fact that hills really existed in other parts of the world.

Jack was in a desponding mood. His pipe would not “draw” that morning; and his mind had been more active than usual for a few days past, revolving the past, the present, and the future. In short, Jack was cross. There could be no doubt whatever about it; for he suddenly, and without warning, dashed his pipe to pieces against a log, went into the house for another, which he calmly filled, as he resumed his former seat, lit, and continued to smoke for some time in sulky silence. We record this fact because it was quite contrary to Jack’s amiable and patient character, and showed that some deep emotions were stirring within him.

The second pipe “drew” well. Probably it was this that induced him to give utterance to the expression—

“I wonder how long this sort of thing will last?”

“Just as long as you’ve a mind to let it, and no longer,” answered a man clad in the garb of a trapper, whose mocassin foot had given no indication of his approach until he was within a couple of paces of the door.

“Is that you, Joe?” said Jack, looking up, and pointing to a log which served as a seat on the other side of the doorway.

“It’s all that’s of me,” replied Joe.

“Sit down and fill your pipe out of my pouch, Joe. It’s good ’baccy, you’ll find. Any news? I suppose not. There never is; and if there was, what would be the odds to me?”

“In the blues?” remarked the hunter, regarding Jack with a peculiar smile through his first puff of smoke.

“Rather!” said Jack.

“Grog?” inquired Joe.

“Haven’t tasted a drop for months,” replied Jack.

“All square here?” inquired the hunter, tapping his stomach.

“Could digest gun-flints and screw nails!”

The two smoked in silence for some time; then Joe drew forth a soiled letter, which he handed to his companion, saying—

“It’s bin lying at the post-office for some weeks, and as the postmaster know’d I was comin’ here he asked me to take it. I’ve a notion it may be an offer to buy your clearin’, for I’ve heerd two or three fellows speakin’ about it. Now, as I want to buy it myself, if yer disposed to sell it, I hereby make you the first offer.”

Jack Robinson continued to smoke in silence, gazing abstractedly at the letter. Since his mother had died, a year before the date of which we write, he had not received a line from any one, insomuch that he had given up calling at the post-office on his occasional visits to the nearest settlement. This letter, therefore, took him by surprise, all the more that it was addressed in the handwriting of his former partner, Murray.

Breaking the seal, he read as follows:

“Fort Kamenistaquoia, April the somethingth:—

“DEAR JACK,—You’ll be surprised to see my fist, but not more surprised than I was to hear from an old hunter just arrived, that you had taken to farming. It’s not your forte, Jack, my boy. Be advised. Sell off the farm for what it will fetch, and come and join me. My antecedents are not in my favour, I grant; but facts are stubborn things, and it is a fact that I am making dollars here like stones. I’m a fur-trader, my boy. Have joined a small company, and up to this time have made a good thing of it. You know something of the fur trade, if I mistake not. Do come and join us; we want such a man as you at a new post we have established on the coast of Labrador. Shooting, fishing, hunting, ad libitum. Eating, drinking, sleeping, ad infinitum. What would you more? Come, like a good fellow, and be happy!

“Ever thine, J. MURRAY.”

“I’ll sell the farm,” said Jack Robinson, folding the letter.

“You will?” exclaimed Joe. “What’s your price?”

“Come over it with me, and look at the fixings, before I tell you,” said Jack.

They went over it together, and looked at every fence and stump and implement. They visited the live stock, and estimated the value of the sprouting crop. Then they returned to the house, where they struck a bargain off-hand.

That evening Jack bade adieu to the Mountain House, mounted his horse, with his worldly goods at the pommel of the saddle, and rode away, leaving Joe, the trapper, in possession.

In process of time our hero rode through the settlements to Montreal, where he sold his horse, purchased a few necessaries, and made his way down the Saint Lawrence to the frontier settlements of the bleak and almost uninhabited north shore of the gulf. Here he found some difficulty in engaging a man to go with him, in a canoe, towards the coast of Labrador.

An Irishman, in a fit of despondency, at length agreed; but on reaching a saw-mill that had been established by a couple of adventurous Yankees, in a region that seemed to be the out-skirts of creation, Paddy repented, and vowed he’d go no farther for love or money.

Jack Robinson earnestly advised the faithless man to go home, and help his grandmother, thenceforth, to plant murphies; after which he embarked in his canoe alone, and paddled away into the dreary north.

Camping out in the woods at night, paddling all day, and living on biscuit and salt pork, with an occasional duck or gull, by way of variety; never seeing a human face from morn till night, nor hearing the sound of any voice except his own, Jack pursued his voyage for fourteen days. At the end of that time he descried Fort Kamenistaquoia. It consisted of four small log-houses, perched on a conspicuous promontory, with a flag-staff in the midst of them.

Here he was welcomed warmly by his friend John Murray and his colleagues, and was entertained for three days sumptuously on fresh salmon, salt pork, pancakes, and tea. Intellectually, he was regaled with glowing accounts of the fur trade and the salmon fisheries of that region.

“Now, Jack,” said Murray, on the third day after his arrival, while they walked in front of the fort, smoking a morning pipe, “it is time that you were off to the new fort. One of our best men has built it, but he is not a suitable person to take charge, and as the salmon season has pretty well advanced we are anxious to have you there to look after the salting and sending of them to Quebec.”

“What do you call the new fort?” inquired Jack.

“Well, it has not yet got a name. We’ve been so much in the habit of styling it the New Fort that the necessity of another name has not occurred to us. Perhaps, as you are to be its first master, we may leave the naming of it to you.”

“Very good,” said Jack; “I am ready at a moment’s notice. Shall I set off this forenoon?”

“Not quite so sharp as that,” replied Murray, laughing. “To-morrow morning, at day-break, will do. There is a small sloop lying in a creek about twenty miles below this. We beached her there last autumn. You’ll go down in a boat with three men, and haul her into deep water. There will be spring tides in two days, so, with the help of tackle, you’ll easily manage it. Thence you will sail to the new fort, forty miles farther along the coast, and take charge.”

“The three men you mean to give me know their work, I presume?” said Jack.

“Of course they do. None of them have been at the fort, however.”

“Oh! How then shall we find it?” inquired Jack.

“By observation,” replied the other. “Keep a sharp look out as you coast along, and you can’t miss it.”

The idea of mists and darkness and storms occurred to Jack Robinson, but he only answered, “Very good.”

“Can any of the three men navigate the sloop?” he inquired.

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Murray; “but you know something of navigation, yourself, don’t you?”

“No! nothing!”

“Pooh! nonsense. Have you never sailed a boat?”

“Yes, occasionally.”

“Well, it’s the same thing. If a squall comes, keep a steady hand on the helm and a sharp eye to wind’ard, and you’re safe as the Bank. If it’s too strong for you, loose the halyards, let the sheets fly, and down with the helm; the easiest thing in the world if you only look alive and don’t get flurried.”

“Very good,” said Jack, and as he said so his pipe went out; so he knocked out the ashes and refilled it.

Next morning our hero rowed away with his three men, and soon discovered the creek of which his friend had spoken. Here he found the sloop, a clumsy “tub” of about twenty tons burden, and here Jack’s troubles began.

The Fairy, as the sloop was named, happened to have been beached during a very high tide. It now lay high and dry in what once had been mud, on the shore of a land-locked bay or pond, under the shadow of some towering pines. The spot looked like an inland lakelet, on the margin of which one might have expected to find a bear or a moose-deer, but certainly not a sloop.

“Oh! ye shall nevair git him off,” said François Xavier, one of the three men—a French-Canadian—on beholding the stranded vessel.

“We’ll try,” said Pierre, another of the three men, and a burly half-breed.

“Try!” exclaimed Rollo, the third of the three men—a tall, powerful, ill-favoured man, who was somewhat of a bully, who could not tell where he had been born, and did not know who his father and mother had been, having been forsaken by them in his infancy. “Try? you might as well try to lift a mountain! I’ve a mind to go straight back to Kamenistaquoia and tell Mr Murray that to his face!”

“Have you?” said Jack Robinson, in a quiet, peculiar tone, accompanied by a gaze that had the effect of causing Rollo to look a little confused. “Come along, lads, we’ll begin at once,” he continued, “it will be full tide in an hour or so. Get the tackle ready, François; the rest of you set to work, and clear away the stones and rubbish from under her sides.”

Jack threw off his coat, and began to work like a hero—as he was. The others followed his example; and the result was that when the tide rose to its full height the sloop was freed of all the rubbish that had collected round the hull; the block tackle was affixed to the mast; the rope attached to a tree on the opposite side of the creek; and the party were ready to haul. But although they hauled until their sinews cracked, and the large veins of their necks and foreheads swelled almost to bursting, the sloop did not move an inch. The tide began to fall, and in a few minutes that opportunity was gone. There were not many such tides to count on, so Jack applied all his energies and ingenuity to the work. By the time the next tide rose they had felled two large pines, and applied them to the side of the vessel. Two of the party swung at the ends of these; the other two hauled on the block-tackle. This time the sloop moved a little at the full flood; but the moment of hope soon passed, and the end was not yet attained.

The next tide was the last high one. They worked like desperate men during the interval. The wedge was the mechanical power which prevailed at last. Several wedges were inserted under the vessel’s side, and driven home. Thus the sloop was canted over a little towards the water. When the tide was at the full, one man hauled at the tackle, two men swung at the ends of the levers, and Jack hammered home the wedges at each heave and pull; thus securing every inch of movement. The result was that the sloop slid slowly down the bank into deep water.

It is wonderful how small a matter will arouse human enthusiasm! The cheer that was given on the successful floating of the Fairy was certainly as full of fervour, if not of volume, as that which followed the launching of the Great Eastern.

Setting sail down the gulf they ran before a fair breeze which speedily increased to a favouring gale. Before night a small bay was descried, with three log-huts on the shore. This was the new fort. They ran into the bay, grazing a smooth rock in their passage, which caused the Fairy to tremble from stem to stern, and cast anchor close to a wooden jetty. On the end of this a solitary individual, (apparently a maniac), was seen capering and yelling wildly.

“What fort is this?” shouted Jack.

“Sorrow wan o’ me knows,” cried the maniac; “it’s niver been christened yet. Faix, if it’s a fort at all, I’d call it Fort Disolation. Och! but it’s lonesome I’ve been these three days—niver a wan here but meself an’ the ghosts. Come ashore, darlints, and comfort me!”

“Fort Desolation, indeed!” muttered Jack Robinson, as he looked round him sadly; “not a bad name. I’ll adopt it. Lower the boat, lads.”

Thus Jack took possession of his new home.

Chapter Three.

Domestic and Personal Matters.

Jack Robinson’s first proceeding on entering the new fort and assuming the command, was to summon the man, (supposed to be a maniac), named Teddy O’Donel, to his presence in the “Hall.”

“Your name is Teddy O’Donel?” said Jack.

“The same, sir, at your sarvice,” said Teddy, with a respectful pull at his forelock. “They was used to call me Mister O’Donel when I was in the army, but I’ve guv that up long ago an’ dropped the title wid the commission.”

“Indeed: then you were a commissioned officer?” inquired Jack, with a smile.

“Be no manes. It was a slight longer title than that I had. They called me a non-commissioned officer. I niver could find in me heart to consociate wid them consaited commissioners—though there was wan or two of ’em as was desarvin’ o’ the three stripes. But I niver took kindly to sodgerin’. It was in the Howth militia I was. Good enough boys they was in their way, but I couldn’t pull wid them no how. They made me a corp’ral for good conduct, but, faix, the great review finished me; for I got into that state of warlike feeling that I loaded me muskit five times widout firin’, an’ there was such a row round about that I didn’t know the dirty thing had niver wint off till the fifth time, when she bursted into smithereens an’ wint off intirely. No wan iver seed a scrag of her after that. An’ the worst was, she carried away the small finger of Bob Riley’s left hand. Bob threw down his muskit an’ ran off the ground howlin’, so I picked the wipon up an’ blazed away at the inimy; but, bad luck to him, Bob had left his ramrod in, and I sint it right through the flank of an owld donkey as was pullin’ an apple and orange cart. Oh! how that baste did kick up its heels, to be sure! and the apples and oranges they was flyin’ like—Well, well—the long and the short was, that I wint an’ towld the colonel I couldn’t stop no longer in such a regiment. So I guv it up an’ comed out here.”

“And became a fur-trader,” said Jack Robinson, with a smile.

“Just so, sur, an’ fort-builder to boot; for, being a jiner to trade and handy wid the tools, Mr Murray sent me down here to build the place and take command, but I s’pose I’m suppersheeded now!”

“Well, I believe you are, Teddy; but I hope that you will yet do good service as my lieutenant.”

The beaming smile on Teddy’s face showed that he was well pleased to be relieved from the responsibilities of office.

“Sure,” said he, “the throuble I have had wid the min an’ the salvages for the last six weeks—it’s past belavin’! An’ thin, whin I sint the men down to the river to fush—more nor twinty miles off—an’ whin the salvages wint away and left me alone wid only wan old salvage woman!—och! I’d not wish my worst inimy in me sitivation.”

“Then the savages have been giving you trouble, have they?”

“They have, sur, but not so much as the min.”

“Well, Teddy,” said Jack, “go and fetch me something to eat, and then you shall sit down and give me an account of things in general. But first give my men food.”

“Sure they’ve got it,” replied Teddy, with a broad grin. “That spalpeen they calls Rollo axed for meat the first thing, in a voice that made me think he’d ait me up alive av he didn’t git it. So I guv ’em the run o’ the pantry. What’ll yer plaze to dhrink, sur?”

“What have you got?”

“Tay and coffee, sur, not to mintion wather. There’s only flour an’ salt pork to ait, for this is a bad place for game. I’ve not seed a bird or a bear for three weeks, an’ the seals is too cute for me. But I’ll bring ye the best that we’ve got.”

Teddy O’Donel hastened to the kitchen, a small log-hut in rear of the dwelling-house, and left Jack Robinson alone in the “Hall.”

Jack rose, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and walked to the window. It was glazed with parchment, with the exception of the centre square, which was of glass.

“Pleasant, uncommonly pleasant,” he muttered, as he surveyed the landscape.

In front lay a flat beach of sand with the gulf beyond, the horizon being veiled in mist. Up the river there was a flat beach with a hill beyond. It was a black iron-looking hill, devoid of all visible verdure, and it plunged abruptly down into the sea as if it were trying fiercely to drown itself. Down the river there was a continuation of flat beach, with, apparently, nothing whatever beyond. The only objects that enlivened the dreary expanse were, the sloop at the end of the wooden jetty and a small flagstaff in front of the house, from which a flag was flying in honour of the arrival of the new governor. At the foot of this flagstaff there stood an old iron cannon, which looked pugnacious and cross, as if it longed to burst itself and blow down all visible creation.

Jack Robinson’s countenance became a simple blank as he took the first survey of his new dominions. Suddenly a gleam of hope flitted across the blank.

“Perhaps the back is better,” he muttered, opening the door that led to the rear of the premises. In order to get out he had to pass through the kitchen, where he found his men busy with fried pork and flour cakes, and his lieutenant, Teddy, preparing coffee.

“What is that?” inquired Jack, pointing to a small heap of brown substance which Teddy was roasting in a frying-pan.

“Sure it’s coffee,” said the man.

“Eh?” inquired Jack.

“Coffee, sur,” repeated Teddy with emphasis.

“What is it made of?” inquired Jack.

“Bread-crumbs, sur. I’m used to make it of pais, but it takes longer, d’ye see, for I’ve got to pound ’em in a cloth after they’re roasted. The crumbs is a’most as good as the pais, an’ quicker made whin yer in a hurry.”

Jack’s first impulse was to countermand the crumbs and order tea, but he refrained, and went out to survey the back regions of his new home.

He found that the point selected for the establishment of the fort was a plain of sand, on which little herbage of any kind grew. In rear of the house there was a belt of stunted bushes, which, as he went onward into the interior, became a wood of stunted firs. This seemed to grow a little more dense farther inland, and finally terminated at the base of the distant and rugged mountains of the interior. In fact, he found that he was established on a sandbank which had either been thrown up by the sea, or at no very remote period had formed part of its bed. Returning home so as to enter by the front door, he observed an enclosed space a few hundred yards distant from the fort. Curious to know what it was, he walked up to it, and, looking over the stockade, beheld numerous little mounds of sand with wooden crosses at the head of them. It was the burial-ground of the establishment. Trade had been carried on here by a few adventurous white men before the fort was built. Some of their number having died, a space had been enclosed as a burying-ground. The Roman Catholic Indians afterwards used it, and it was eventually consecrated with much ceremony by a priest.

With a face from which every vestige of intelligence was removed, Jack Robinson returned to the fort and sat down in solitary state in the hall. In the act of sitting down he discovered that the only arm-chair in the room was unsteady on its legs, these being of unequal length. There were two other chairs without arms, and equally unsteady on their legs. These, as well as everything in the room, were made of fir-wood—as yet unpainted. In the empty fire-place Jack observed a piece of charcoal, which he took up and began, in an absent way, to sketch on the white wall. He portrayed a raving maniac as large as life, and then, sitting down, began insensibly to hum—

“I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls.”

In the midst of which he was interrupted by the entrance of his lieutenant with a tray of viands.

“Ah, yer a purty creatur,” exclaimed Teddy, pausing with a look of admiration before the maniac.

“Come, Teddy, sit down and let’s have the news. What have we here?” said Jack, looking at three covered plates which were placed before him.

“Salt pork fried,” said Teddy removing the cover.

“And here?”

“Salt pork biled,” said the man, removing the second cover; “an’ salt pork cold,” he added, removing the third. “You see, sur, I wasn’t sure which way ye’d like it, an’ ye was out whin I come to ax; so I just did it up in three fashions. Here’s loaf bread, an’ it’s not bad, though I say it that made it.”

As Jack cut down into the loaf, he naturally remembered those lines of a well-known writer:

“Who has not tasted home-made bread,

A heavy compound of putty and

lead!”

“Are these cakes?” he said, as Teddy presented another plate with something hot in it.

“Ay, pancakes they is, made of flour an’ wather fried in grease, an’ the best of aitin’, as ye’ll find;—but, musha! they’ve all stuck together from some raison I han’t yet diskivered: but they’ll be none the worse for that, and there’s plenty of good thick molasses to wash ’em down wid.”

“And this,” said Jack, pointing to a battered tin kettle, “is the—the—”

“That’s the coffee, sur.”

“Ah! well, sit down, Teddy, I have seen worse fare than this. Let’s be thankful for it. Now, then, let me hear about the fishery.”

Nothing pleased Teddy O’Donel so much as being allowed to talk. He sat down accordingly and entertained his master for the next hour with a full, true, and particular account of every thing connected with Fort Desolation. We will not, however, inflict this on the reader. Reduced to its narrowest limits, his information was to the following effect:—

That the Indians, generally, were well disposed towards the traders, though difficult to please. That a good many furs had been already obtained, and there was a report of more coming in. That the salmon fishery was situated on a river twenty miles below the fort, and was progressing favourably; but that the five men engaged there were a quarrelsome set and difficult to keep in order. Teddy thought, however, that it was all owing to one of the men, named Ladoc, a bully, who kept the other four in bad humour.

But the point on which poor Teddy dilated most was his solitude. For some time he had been living with no other companions than an old Indian woman and her half-caste daughter, and they having left him, during the last three days he had been living entirely alone “among the ghosts,” many of which he described minutely.

This intelligence was brought to an abrupt close by a row among the men in the kitchen. Rollo had been boasting of his walking powers to such an extent, that Pierre had become disgusted and spoke contemptuously of Rollo; whereupon the bully, as usual, began to storm, and his wrath culminated when Pierre asserted that, “Mr Robinson would bring him to his marrow-bones ere long.”

“Jack Robinson!” exclaimed Rollo with contempt; “I’d walk him blind in two hours.”

Just at that moment the door opened, and Jack stood before them.

“You are too noisy, men,” said he, in a quiet voice, (Jack almost always spoke in a soft voice); “remember that this kitchen is within hearing of the hall. Rollo, go down to the beach and haul up the sloop’s boat, I see the tide is making on her.”

Rollo hesitated.

“You hear?” said Jack, still in a quiet tone, but with a look—not a fierce look, or a threatening look, but—a peculiar look, which instantly took effect.

One has often observed a cat when about to spring. It makes many pauses in its prowling towards its prey, and occasional motions that lead one to expect a spring. But the motion which precedes the actual spring is always emphatic. It may not be violent; it may be as slight as all the previous motions, but there is that in it which tells irresistibly, somehow, of a fixed purpose. So is it, doubtless, with tigers; so was it with Jack Robinson. His first remark to the men was a prowl; his order to Rollo was a pause, with an intention; his “you hear?” softly said, had a something in it which induced Rollo to accord instant obedience!

On returning to the hall, Jack paced up and down indignantly. “So there are two bullies in the camp,” he soliloquised; “I must cure them both;—but softly, Jack. It won’t do to fight if you can secure peace by other means. Let blows be the last resource. That’s my motto. He’ll walk me blind! Well, we shall see, to-morrow!”

Chapter Four.

Taming a Bully.

The morrow came, and Jack Robinson rose with the sun. Long before his men were astir he had inspected the few books and papers of the establishment, had examined the condition of the fur and goods store, and had otherwise made himself acquainted with the details of the fort; having gone over its general features with Teddy the day before.

When the “lieutenant” arose, he found indications of his new master having been everywhere before him, and noted the fact! As Teddy was by no means a man of order—although a good and trustworthy man—there was enough to be done before breakfast. Jack purposely put Rollo into the kitchen to prepare the morning meal, this being comparatively light work. He himself worked with the other men in the stores. There was necessarily a great deal of lifting and shifting and clearing, in all of which operations he took the heaviest part of the work, and did his work better and more thoroughly than any of the others. Teddy observed this also, and noted the fact!

At breakfast there was naturally a good deal of talk among the men, and special mention was of course made of the energy of their master.

Breakfast over, Jack assembled the men and apportioned to each his day’s work.

“I myself,” said he, “mean to walk down to the fishery to-day, and I leave O’Donel in charge; I shall be back to-morrow. Rollo, you will prepare to accompany me.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the man, not knowing very well how to take this. The others glanced at each other intelligently as they departed to their work.

A few minutes sufficed for preparation, and soon Jack stood with his rifle on his shoulder in front of the house. Rollo quickly made his appearance with an old trading gun.

“You can leave that, we won’t require it,” said Jack; “besides I want to walk fast, so it is well that you should be as light as possible.”

“No fear but I’ll keep up with you, sir,” said the man, somewhat piqued.

“I do not doubt it,” replied Jack, “but one gun is enough for us, so put yours by and come along.”

Rollo obeyed, and resolved in his heart that he would give his new master a taste of his powers.

Jack started off at a good rattling pace, somewhat over four miles an hour. For the first mile Rollo allowed him to lead, keeping about a foot behind. Then he thought to himself, “Now, my friend, I’ll try you,” and ranged up beside him, keeping a few yards to one side, however, in order to avoid the appearance of racing. After a few minutes he pushed the pace considerably, and even went ahead of his companion; but, ere long, Jack was alongside and the pace increased to nearly five miles an hour.

Only those who have tried it know, or can fully appreciate, what is meant by adding a mile an hour to one’s pace. Most active men go at four miles an hour when walking at a good smart pace. Men never walk at five miles an hour except when in the utmost haste, and then only for a short distance. Anything beyond that requires a run in order to be sustained.

It was curious to watch the progress of these two men. The aim of each was to walk at his greatest possible speed, without allowing the slightest evidence of unwonted exertion to appear on his countenance or in his manner.

They walked on the sands of the shore—there being no roads there—and at first the walking was good, as the tide was out and the sand hard. But before they had got half way to the fishery the sea came in and drove them to the soft sand, which, as nearly every one knows, is terribly fatiguing and difficult to walk in.

Up to this point the two men had kept abreast, going at a tremendous pace, yet conversing quietly and keeping down every appearance of distress; affecting, in fact, to be going at their usual and natural pace! Many a sidelong glance did Rollo cast, however, at his companion, to see if he were likely to give in soon. But Jack was as cool as a cucumber, and wore a remarkably amiable expression of countenance. He even hummed snatches of one or two songs, as though he were only sauntering on the beach. At last he took out his pipe, filled it, and began to smoke, without slackening speed. This filled Rollo with surprise, and for the first time he began to entertain doubts as to the result of the struggle.

As for Jack, he never doubted it for a moment. When they were compelled to take to the heavy sand and sank above the ankles at every step, he changed his tactics. Putting out his pipe, he fell behind a few paces.

“Ha!” thought Rollo, “done up at last; now I’ll give it you.”

The thought that he was sure of victory infused such spirit into the man that he braced himself to renewed exertion. This was just what Jack wanted. He kept exactly a foot behind Rollo, yet when the other ventured to slacken his pace, (which was now too great to be kept up), he pushed forward just enough to keep him at it, without disheartening him as to result. In the midst of this they both came to a full stop on discovering a box made of birch bark, which seemed to have been dropped by some passing Indians.

“Hallo! what have we here?” cried Jack, stooping down to examine it.

“My blessin’ on’t whatever it is,” thought Rollo, to whom the momentary relief from walking was of the greatest consequence. Jack knew this, and hastened his inspection. It was a box of bear’s fat.

“Come, not a bad thing in times like these,” observed Jack; “will you carry this or the rifle, my man? See, the rifle is lighter, take that.”

Again they stepped out, and the sand seemed to grow softer and deeper as they advanced. They were now five miles from the end of their journey, so Jack began to exert himself. He pushed on at a pace that caused Rollo to pant and blow audibly. For some time Jack pretended not to notice this, but at last he turned round and said—

“You seem to be fatigued, my man, let me carry the rifle.”

Rollo did not object, and Jack went forward with the box and rifle more rapidly than before. He was perspiring, indeed, at every pore profusely, but wind and limb were as sound as when he started.

He finally left Rollo out of sight, and arrived at the fishery without him!

Half an hour afterwards Rollo arrived. He was a stout fellow, and by taking a short rest, had recovered sufficiently to come in with some degree of spirit; nevertheless, it was evident to all that he was “used up,” for, “it is not the distance but the pace that kills!” He found the fishermen at dinner, buttering their cakes with the bear’s grease that had been discovered on the way down. Jack Robinson was sitting in the midst of them, chatting quietly and smoking his pipe beside the fire-place of the hut.

Jack introduced him as one of the new men, but made no reference to the walk from Fort Desolation. He felt, however, that he had conquered the man, at least for that time, and hoped that further and more violent methods would not be necessary. In this he was disappointed, as the sequel will show.

That night Jack slept on a bed made of old salmon-nets, with a new salmon-net above him for a blanket. It was a peculiar and not a particularly comfortable bed; but in his circumstances he could have slept on a bed of thorns. He gazed up at the stars through the hole in the roof that served for a chimney, and listened to the chirping of the frogs in a neighbouring swamp, to which the snoring of the men around him formed a rough-and-ready bass. Thus he lay gazing and listening, till stars and strains alike melted away and left him in the sweet regions of oblivion.

Chapter Five.

The Salmon Fishery.

Next morning, Jack Robinson went out at daybreak to inspect the salmon fishery.

The river, up which the fish went in thousands, was broad, deep, and rapid. Its banks were clothed with spruce-fir and dense underwood. There was little of the picturesque or the beautiful in the scenery. It was a bleak spot and unattractive.

Two of the four men who conducted the fishery were stationed at the mouth of the river. The other two attended to the nets about six miles farther up, at a place where there was a considerable fall terminating in a long, turbulent rapid.

With his wonted promptitude and energy, Jack began to make himself master of his position long before the men were stirring. Before Ladoc, who was superintendent, had lighted his first pipe and strolled down to the boat to commence the operations of the day, Jack had examined the nets, the salt boxes, the curing-vats, the fish in pickle, the casks, and all the other matériel of the fishery, with a critical eye. From what he saw, he was convinced that Ladoc was not the best manager that could be desired, and, remembering that Ladoc was a bully, he was strengthened in an opinion which he had long entertained, namely, that a bully is never a trustworthy man.

He was in the act of forming this opinion, when Ladoc approached.

“Good morning, Ladoc,” said he; “you rise early.”

“Oui, sair; mais, you gits up more earlier.”

“Yes, I am fond of morning air. The fishery prospers, I see.”

“It doos, monsieur,” said Ladoc, accepting the remark as a compliment to himself; “ve have catch fifteen casks already, and they is in most splendid condition.”

“Hum!” ejaculated Jack, with a doubtful look at a cask which was evidently leaking, “hum! yes, you are getting on pretty well, but—”

Here Jack “hummed” again, and looked pointedly at one of the large vats, which was also leaking, and around which there was a great deal of salt that had been scattered carelessly on the ground. Raising big eyes to the roof of the low shed in which the salt-boxes stood, he touched with his stick a torn piece of its tarpaulin covering, through which rain had found its way in bad weather. He “hummed” again, but said nothing, for he saw that Ladoc was a little disconcerted.

After some minutes Jack turned to his companion with a bland smile, and said—

“The next station is—how many miles did you say?”

“Six, monsieur.”

“Ah, six! well, let us go up and see it. You can show me the way.”

“Breakfast be ready ver’ soon,” said Ladoc, “monsieur vill eat first, p’r’aps?”

“No, we will breakfast at the upper station. Ho, Rollo! here, I want you.”

Rollo, who issued from the hut at the moment, with a view to examine the weather and light his pipe, came forward.

“I am going with Ladoc to the upper station,” said Jack; “you will take his place here until we return.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Rollo, fixing his eyes upon Ladoc. At the same moment Ladoc fixed his eyes on Rollo. The two men seemed to read each other’s character in a single glance, and then and there hurled silent defiance in each other’s teeth through their eyes! Ladoc was annoyed at having been silently found fault with and superseded; Rollo was aggrieved at being left behind; both men were therefore enraged—for it is wonderful how small a matter is sufficient to enrage a bully—but Jack ordered Ladoc to lead the way, so the rivals, or enemies, parted company with another glance of defiance.

That day, Jack Robinson had a somewhat rough and remarkable experience of life.

He began by overhauling the nets at the mouth of the river, and these were so prolific that the small flat-bottomed boat used by the fishermen was soon half filled with glittering salmon, varying from ten to fifteen pounds in weight. In order to avoid having his mocassins and nether garments soiled, Jack, who pulled the sculls, sat with bare feet and tucked-up trousers. In less than an hour he rowed back to the landing-place, literally up to the knees in salmon! Among these were a few young seals that had got entangled in the nets, while in pursuit of the fish, and been drowned. These last were filled with water to such an extent, that they resembled inflated bladders!

“Breakfast is ready, sir,” said one of the men, as the boat-party leaped ashore.

“Very good,” replied Jack; turning to Ladoc, “now, my man, are you ready to start for the upper fishery?”

“Eh? ah—oui, monsieur.”

There was a titter amongst the men at the expression of their big comrade’s face, for Ladoc was ravenously hungry, and felt inclined to rebel at the idea of being obliged to start on a six-miles’ walk without food; but as his young master was about to do the same he felt that it was beneath his dignity to complain. Besides, there was a something peculiar about Jack’s manner that puzzled and overawed the man.

The fact was, that Jack Robinson wanted to know what his bullies were made of, and took rather eccentric methods of finding it out. He accordingly set off at his best pace, and pushed Ladoc so hard, that he arrived at the upper fishery in a state of profuse perspiration, with a very red face, and with a disagreeably vacuous feeling about the pit of his stomach.

They found the men at the station just landing with a boat-load of fish. They were all clean-run, and shone in the bright sunshine like bars of burnished silver.

“Now, Ladoc,” said Jack, “get breakfast ready, while I look over matters here.”

It need not be said that the man obeyed most willingly. His master went to examine into details. Half-an-hour sufficed to make him pretty well acquainted with the state of matters at the station, and, during breakfast, he soon obtained from the men all the knowledge they possessed about the fishery, the natives, and the region.

One of the men was a half-caste, a fine-looking, grave, earnest fellow, who spoke English pretty well. His name was Marteau.

“The seals and the bears are our worst enemies, sir,” said Marteau, in the course of conversation.

“Indeed! and which of the two are worst?” inquired Jack. “Another slice of pork, Ladoc, your appetite appears to be sharp this morning; thank you, go on, Marteau, you were saying something about the bears and seals.”

“It’s not easy to say which of them is worst, sir. I think the bears is, for the seals eat the bits that they bite out o’ the fish, and so get some good of it; but the bears, they goes to the vats and pulls out the salt fish with their claws, for you see, sir, they can’t resist the smell, but when they tries to eat ’em—ah, you should see the faces they do make! You see, they can’t stand the salt, so they don’t eat much, but they hauls about and tears up an uncommon lot of fish.”

“It must make him ver’ t’irsty,” observed Ladoc, swallowing a can of tea at a draught.

“It makes one thirsty to think of it,” said Jack, imitating Ladoc’s example; “now, lads, we’ll go and overhaul the nets.”

Just as he spoke, Ladoc sprang from his seat, seized Jack’s gun, which leant against the wall, shouted, “A bear!” and, levelling the piece through the open doorway, took aim at the bushes in front of the hut.

At the same moment Jack leaped forward, struck up the muzzle of the gun just as it exploded, and, seizing Ladoc by the collar, hurled him with extraordinary violence, considering his size, against the wall.

“Make yourself a better hunter,” said he, sternly, “before you presume to lay hands again on my gun. Look there!”

Jack pointed, as he spoke, in the direction in which the man had fired, where the object that had been mistaken for a bear appeared in the form of a man, crawling out of the bushes on all-fours. He seemed to move unsteadily, as if he were in pain.

Running to his assistance, they found that he was an Indian, and, from the blood that bespattered his dress and hand, it was evident that he had been wounded. He was a pitiable object, in the last stage of exhaustion. When the party ran towards him, he looked up in their faces with lustreless eyes, and then sank fainting on the ground.

“Poor fellow!” said Jack, as they carried him into the hut and placed him on one of the low beds; “he must have met with an accident, for there is no warfare in this region among the Indians to account for his being wounded.”

“’Tis a strange accident,” said Marteau, when the man’s clothes were stripped off and the wounds exposed. “An accident sometimes puts one bullet through a man, but seldom puts two!”

“True,” said Jack, “this looks bad, here is a hole clean through the fleshy part of his right arm, and another through his right thigh. An enemy must have done this.”

On farther examination it was found that the bone of the man’s leg had been smashed by the bullet, which, after passing through to the other side of the limb, was arrested by the skin. It was easily extracted, and the wounds were dressed by Jack, who, to his many useful qualities, added a considerable knowledge of medicine and surgery.

When the Indian recovered sufficiently to give an account of himself to Marteau, who understood his language perfectly, he told him, to the surprise of all, that his double wound was indeed the result of an accident, and, moreover, that he had done the deed with his own hand. Doubtless it will puzzle the reader to imagine how a man could so twist himself, that with an unusually long gun he could send a bullet at one shot through his right arm and right thigh. It puzzled Jack and his men so much, that they were half inclined to think the Indian was not telling the truth, until he explained that about a mile above the hut, while walking through the bushes, he tripped and fell. He was carrying the gun over his shoulder in the customary Indian fashion, that is, by the muzzle, with the stock behind him. He fell on his hands and knees; the gun was thrown forward and struck against a tree so violently, that it exploded; in its flight it had turned completely round, so that, at the moment of discharge, the barrel was in a line with the man’s arm and leg, and thus the extraordinary wound was inflicted.

To crawl from the spot where the accident occurred took the poor fellow nearly twelve hours, and he performed this trying journey during the night and morning over a rugged country and without food.

The surgical operation engaged Jack’s attention the greater part of the forenoon. When it was completed and the Indian made as comfortable as possible, he went out with the men to visit the nets which were set at the rapids about two miles higher up the river.

Chapter Six.

Jack has a Desperate Encounter.

We never can tell what a day or an hour may bring forth. This is a solemn fact on which young and old might frequently ponder with advantage, and on which we might enlarge to an unlimited extent; but our space will not admit of moralising very much, therefore we beg the reader to moralise on that, for him—or herself. The subject is none the less important, that circumstances require that it should be touched on in a slight, almost flippant, manner.

Had Jack Robinson known what lay before him that evening, he would—he would have been a wiser man! Nothing more appropriate than that occurs to us at this moment. But, to be more particular:—

When the party reached the nets, Jack left them to attend to their work, and went off alone to the vats, some of which, measuring about six feet in diameter, were nearly full of fish in pickle.

As he walked along the slight track which guided him towards them, he pondered the circumstances in which he then found himself, and, indulging in a habit which he had acquired in his frequent and prolonged periods of solitude, began to mutter his thoughts aloud.

“So, so, Jack, you left your farm because you were tired of solitude, and now you find yourself in the midst of society. Pleasant society, truly!—bullies and geese, without a sympathetic mind to rub against. Humph! a pleasant fix you’ve got into, old fellow.”

Jack was wrong in this to some extent, as he afterwards came to confess to himself, for among his men there were two or three minds worth cultivating, noble and shrewd, and deep, too, though not educated or refined. But at the time of which we write, Jack did not know this. He went on to soliloquise:

“Yes, you’ve got a pretty set to deal with; elements that will cause you enough of trouble before you have done with them. Well, well, don’t give in, old chap. Never say die. If solitude is to be your lot, meet it like a man. Why, they say that solitude of the worst kind is to be found where most people dwell. Has it not been said, that in the great city of London itself a man may be more solitary than in the heart of the wilderness? I’ve read it, but I can’t very well believe it. Yet, there may be something in it. Humph! Well, well, Jack, you’re not a philosopher, so don’t try to go too deep; take it easy, and do the best you can.”

At this point Jack came suddenly in sight of the vats. They stood in the centre of a cleared space in the forest. On the edge of the largest vat was perched an object which induced our hero to throw forward his fowling-piece hastily. It was a black bear, or rather the hind-quarters of a black bear, for the head and one paw and shoulder of the animal were far down in the vat. He was holding firmly to its edge by the hind legs and one fore-leg, while with the other he was straining his utmost to reach the fish.

Jack’s first impulse was to fire, but reflecting that the portion of the bear then in view was not a very vulnerable part, he hesitated, and finally crept behind a tree to consider, feeling confident that whatever should occur he would be pretty sure of getting a favourable opportunity to fire with effect.

Quite unconscious of his danger, bruin continued to reach down into the vat with unwearied determination. His efforts were rewarded with success, for he presently appeared on the edge of the vat with a fine salmon in his embrace. Now was Jack’s opportunity. He raised his piece, but remembering Marteau’s remark about the bear’s difficulty in eating salt salmon, he postponed the fatal shot until he should have studied this point in natural history.

His forbearance met with a reward, for the bear kept him during the next five minutes in such a state of suppressed laughter, that he could not have taken a steady aim to have saved his life. Its sense of smell was evidently gratified, for on leaping to the ground it took a powerful snuff, and then began to devour the salmon with immense gusto. But the first mouthful produced an expression of countenance that could not be misunderstood. It coughed, spluttered, and sneezed, or at least gave vent to something resembling these sounds, and drew back from the fish with a snarl; then it snuffed again. There was no mistaking the smell. It was delicious! Bruin, disbelieving his sense of taste, and displaying unwise faith in his sense of smell, made another attempt. He had tried the head first; with some show of reason he now tried the tail. Faugh! it was worse than the other; “as salt as fire,” as we have heard it sometimes expressed. The spluttering at this point became excessive, and it was clear that the bear was getting angry. Once again, with an amount of perseverance that deserved better fortune, the bear snuffed heartily at the fish, tore it to shreds with his claws, and then tried another mouthful, which it spat out instantly. Displaying all its teeth and gums, it shut its eyes, and, raising its head in the air, fairly howled with disappointment.

Jack now deemed it prudent to bring the scene to a close, so, calming himself as well as he could, he took a steady aim, and, watching his opportunity, fired.

The bear did not fall. It faced round in a moment, and, uttering a fierce growl, very unlike to its previous tones, rushed upon its enemy, who fired his second barrel at the creature’s breast. Whether it was that Jack’s fit of laughter had shaken his nerves so as to render him incapable of taking a good aim, is a matter of uncertainty, but although both shots took effect, the bear was not checked in his career. On it came. Jack had no time to load. He turned to run, when his quick eye observed a branch of a tree over his head within reach. Dropping his gun he bounded upwards and caught it, and, being unusually powerful in the arms, drew himself up and got astride of it just as the bear reached the spot. But bruin was not to be baulked so easily. He was a black bear and a good climber. Finding that he could not at his utmost stretch obtain a nibble at Jack’s toes, he rushed at the trunk of the tree and began to ascend rapidly. Jack at once moved towards the end of the branch, intending to drop to the ground, recover his gun and run for it; but the movement broke the branch off suddenly, and he came down with such a crash, that the bear stopped, looked round, and, seeing his enemy on the ground, began to descend.

Although somewhat stunned by the fall, our hero was able to spring up and run in the direction of the hut. The bear was so close on his heels, however, that he had no chance of his reaching it. He felt this, and, as a last resource, doubled on his track like a hare and made for the banks of the river, which were twenty feet high at the place, intending to leap into the rapid and take his chance.

In this, too, he was foiled. His fall from the tree had partially disabled him, and he could not run with his wonted agility. About ten yards from the edge of the bank the bear overtook him, and it seemed as if poor Jack Robinson’s troubles were at last about to be brought to an abrupt close. But Jack was self-possessed and brave as steel. On feeling the bear’s claws in his back, he drew his knife, wheeled round, fell into its embrace, and plunged the knife three or four times in its side. The thing was done in a moment, and the two, falling together, rolled over the edge of the steep bank, and went crashing down through the bushes amid a cloud of dust and stones into the raging flood below. At the foot of the rapid, Marteau and one of the men happened to be rowing ashore with a load of fish.

“Hallo! what’s that?” cried Marteau.

“Eh!” exclaimed his comrade.

“A bear!” shouted Marteau, backing his oar.

“And a man! What! I say!”

“Pull! pull!”

Next moment the boat was dancing on the foam, and Marteau had hold of the bear’s neck with one hand, and Jack’s hair with the other.

They were soon hauled to land, the bear in its dying agonies and Jack in a state of insensibility; but it took the united strength of the two men to tear him from the tremendous grasp that he had fastened on the brute, and his knife was found buried to the handle close alongside of bruin’s heart!

Chapter Seven.

Solitude.

On the day of his encounter with the bear, Jack Robinson sent Rollo up to the fort to fetch down all the men except O’Donel, in order that the fishery might be carried on with vigour.

Of course it is unnecessary to inform the reader that Jack speedily recovered from the effects of his adventure. It would be absurd to suppose that anything of an ordinary nature could kill or even do much damage to our hero. Beyond five deep punctures on his back and five on his breast, besides a bite in the shoulder, Jack had received no damage, and was able to return on foot to Fort Desolation a few days after the event.

On arriving, he found his man, Teddy O’Donel, sitting over the kitchen fire in the last stage of an attack of deep depression and home sickness. Jack’s sudden appearance wrought an instantaneous cure.

“Ah!” said he, grasping his master’s hand and wringing it warmly; “it’s a blessed sight for sore eyes! Sure I’ve bin all but dead, sur, since ye wint away.”

“You’ve not been ill, have you?” said Jack, looking somewhat earnestly in the man’s face.

“Ill? No, not i’ the body, if that’s what ye mane, but I’ve been awful bad i’ the mind. It’s the intellect as kills men more nor the body. The sowl is what does it all.” (Here Teddy passed his hand across his forehead and looked haggard.) “Ah! Mr Robinson, it’s myself as’ll niver do to live alone. I do belave that all the ghosts as iver lived have come and took up there abode in this kitchen.”

“Nonsense!” said Jack, sitting down on a stool beside the fire and filling his pipe; “you’re too superstitious.”

“Supperstitious, is it?” exclaimed the man, with a look of intense gravity. “Faix, if ye seed them ye’d change yer tune. It’s the noses of ’em as is wust. Of all the noses for length and redness and for blowin’ like trumpets I ever did see—well, well, it’s no use conjicturin’, but I do wonder sometimes what guv the ghosts sitch noses.”

“I suppose they knows that best themselves,” observed Jack.

“P’r’aps they does,” replied Teddy with a meditative gaze at the fire.

“But I rather suspect,” continued Jack, “that as your own nose is somewhat long and red, and as you’ve got a habit of squinting, not to mention snoring, Teddy, we may be justified in accounting for the—”

“Ah! it’s no use jokin’,” interrupted O’Donel; “ye’ll niver joke me out o’ my belaif in ghosts. It’s no longer agone than last night, after tay, I laid me down on the floor beside the fire in sitch a state o’ moloncholly weakness, that I really tried to die. It’s true for ye; and I belave I’d have done it, too, av I hadn’t wint off to slape by mistake, an’ whin I awoke, I was so cowld and hungry that I thought I’d pusspone dyin’ till after supper. I got better after supper, but, och! it’s a hard thing to live all be yer lone like this.”

“Have no Indians been here since I left?”

“Not wan, sur.”

“Well, Teddy, I will keep you company now. We shall be alone here together for a few weeks, as I mean to leave all our lads at the fishery. Meanwhile, bestir yourself and let me have supper.”

During the next few weeks Jack Robinson was very busy. Being an extremely active man, he soon did every conceivable thing that had to be done about the fort, and conceived, as well as did, a good many things that did not require to be done. While rummaging in the stores, he discovered a hand-net, with which he waded into the sea and caught large quantities of small fish, about four inches in length, resembling herrings. These he salted and dried in the sun, and thus improved his fare,—for, having only salt pork and fresh salmon, he felt the need of a little variety. Indeed, he had already begun to get tired of salmon, insomuch that he greatly preferred salt pork.

After that, he scraped together a sufficient number of old planks, and built therewith a flat-bottomed boat—a vessel much wanted at the place. But, do what he would, time hung very heavy on his hands, even although he made as much of a companion of Teddy O’Donel, as was consistent with his dignity. The season for wild fowl had not arrived, and he soon got tired of going out with his gun, with the certainty of returning empty-handed.

At last there was a brief break in the monotony of the daily life at Fort Desolation. A band of Indians came with a good supply of furs. They were not a very high type of human beings, had little to say, and did not seem disposed to say it. But they wanted goods from Jack, and Jack wanted furs from them; so their presence during the two days and nights they stayed shed a glow of moral sunshine over the fort that made its inhabitants as light-hearted and joyful as though some unwonted piece of good fortune had befallen them.

When the Indians went away, however, the gloom was proportionally deeper, Jack and his man sounded lower depths of despair than they had ever before fathomed, and the latter began to make frequent allusions to the possibility of making away with himself. Indeed, he did one evening, while he and Jack stood silently on the shore together, propose that they should go into the bush behind the fort, cover themselves over with leaves, and perish “at wance, like the babes in the wood.”

Things were in this gloomy condition, when an event occurred, which, although not of great importance in itself, made such a deep impression on the dwellers at Fort Desolation, that it is worthy of a chapter to itself.

Chapter Eight.

Horrors.

One morning the sun rose with unwonted splendour on the broad bosom of the Saint Lawrence. The gulf was like a mirror, in which the images of the seagulls were as perfect as the birds themselves, and the warm hazy atmosphere was lighted up so brightly by the sun, that it seemed as though the world were enveloped in delicate golden gauze.

Jack Robinson stood on the shore, with the exile of Erin beside him. Strange to say, the effect of this lovely scene on both was the reverse of gladdening.

“It’s very sad,” said Jack, slowly.

“True for ye,” observed the sympathising Teddy, supposing that his master had finished his remark.

“It’s very sad,” repeated Jack, “to look abroad upon this lovely world, and know that thousands of our fellow-men are enjoying it in each other’s society, while we are self-exiled here.”

“An’ so it is,” said Teddy, “not to mintion our fellow-women an’ our fellow-childers to boot.”

“To be sure we have got each other’s society, O’Donel,” continued Jack, “and the society of the gulls—”

“An’ the fush,” interposed Teddy.

“And the fish,” assented Jack; “for all of which blessings we have cause to be thankful; but it’s my opinion that you and I are a couple of egregious asses for having forsaken our kind and come to vegetate here in the wilderness.”

“That’s just how it is, sur. We’re both on us big asses, an’ it’s a pint for investigation which on us is the biggest—you, who ought to have know’d better, or me, as niver kno’w’d anything, a’most, to spake of.”

Jack smiled. He was much too deeply depressed to laugh. For some minutes they stood gazing in silent despondency at the sea.

“What’s that?” exclaimed Jack, with sudden animation, pointing to an object which appeared at the moment near the extremity of a point of rocks not far from the spot where they stood—“a canoe?”

“Two of ’em!” cried O’Donel, as another object came into view.

The change which came over the countenances of the two men, as they stood watching the approach of the two canoes, would have been incomprehensible to any one not acquainted with the effect of solitude on the human mind. They did not exactly caper on the beach, but they felt inclined to do so, and their heaving bosoms and sparkling eyes told of the depth of emotion within.

In about a quarter of an hour the canoes were within a short distance of the landing-place, but no shout or sign of recognition came from the Indians who paddled them. There was an Indian in the bow and stern of each canoe, and a woman in the middle of one of them.

“Well, boys, what cheer?” said Jack, using a well-known backwood’s salutation, as the men landed.

The Indians silently took the proffered hand of the trader and shook it, replying in a low voice, “Wachee,” as the nearest point they could attain to the pronunciation of “What cheer?”

There was something so unusually solemn in the air and manner of the savages, that Jack glanced at the canoe in which the woman sat. There he saw what explained the mystery. In the bottom lay an object wrapped up in pieces of old cloth and birchbark, which, from its form, was evidently a human body. A few words with the Indians soon drew from them the information that this was one of their wives who had been ailing for a long time, and at length had died. They were Roman Catholic converts, and had come to bury the body in the graveyard of the fort which had been “consecrated” by a priest.

To whatever pitch of excitement Jack and his man had risen at the unexpected appearance of the Indians, their spirits fell to an immeasurably profounder depth than before when their errand was made known.

Everything connected with this burial was sad and repulsive, yet Jack and his man felt constrained, out of mere sympathy, to witness it all.

The Indians were shabby and squalid in the extreme, and, being destitute of the means of making a coffin, had rolled the corpse up in such wretched materials as they happened to possess. One consequence of this was, that it was quite supple. On being lifted out of the canoe, the joints bent, and a sort of noise was emitted from the mouth, which was exceedingly horrible. Had the dead face been visible, the effect would not have been so powerful, but its being covered tended to set the imagination free to conceive things still more dreadful.

The grave was soon dug in the sand inside the graveyard, which was not more than a hundred yards on one side of the fort. Here, without ceremony of any kind, the poor form was laid and covered over. While being lowered into the grave, the same doubling-up of the frame and the same noise were observed. After all was over, the Indians returned to their canoe and paddled away, silently, as they had come; not before Jack, however, had gone to the store for a large piece of tobacco, which he threw to them as they were pushing off.

During the remainder of that day, Jack Robinson and his man went about their vocations with hearts heavy as lead. But it was not till night that this depression of spirits culminated. For the first time in his life Jack Robinson became superstitiously nervous. As for Teddy O’Donel, he had seldom been entirely free from this condition during any night of his existence; but he was much worse than usual on the present occasion!

After sunset, Jack had his tea alone in the hall, while O’Donel took his—also, of course, alone—in the kitchen. Tea over, Jack sat down and wrote part of a journal which he was in the habit of posting up irregularly. Then he went into the kitchen to give Teddy his orders for the following day, and stayed longer than usual. Thereafter, he read parts of one or two books which he had brought with him from the civilised world. But, do what he would, the image of the dead woman lying so near him invariably came between him and the page, and obtruded itself on his mind obstinately. Once he was so exasperated while reading, that he jumped violently off his chair, exclaiming, “This is childish nonsense!” In doing so he tilted the chair over, so that it balanced for an instant on its hind legs, and then fell with an awful crash, which caused him to leap at least three feet forward, clench his fists, and wheel round with a look of fury that would certainly have put to flight any real ghost in creation.

Jack gasped, then he sighed, after which he smiled and began to pace the hall slowly. At last he said, half aloud, “I think I’ll smoke my pipe to-night with that poor fellow, O’Donel. He must be lonely enough, and I don’t often condescend to be social.”

Taking up his pipe and tobacco-pouch, he went towards the kitchen.

Now, while his master was enduring those uncomfortable feelings in the hall, Teddy was undergoing torments in the kitchen that are past description. He had had a grandmother—with no nose to speak of, a mouth large enough for two, four teeth, and one eye—who had stuffed him in his youth with horrible stories as full as a doll is of sawdust. That old lady’s influence was now strong upon him. Every gust of wind that rumbled in the chimney sent a qualm to his heart. Every creak in the beams of his wooden kitchen startled his soul. Every accidental noise that occurred filled him with unutterable horror. The door, being clumsily made, fitted badly in all its parts, so that it shook and rattled in a perfectly heartrending manner.

Teddy resolved to cure this. He stuck bits of wood in the opening between it and the floor, besides jamming several nails in at the sides and top. Still, the latch would rattle, being complicated in construction, and not easily checked in all its parts. But Teddy was an ingenious fellow. He settled the latch by stuffing it and covering it with a mass of dough! In order further to secure things, he placed a small table against the door, and then sat down on a bench to smoke his pipe beside the door.

It was at this point in the evening that Jack resolved, as we have said, to be condescending.

As he had hitherto very seldom smoked his pipe in the kitchen, his footstep in the passage caused O’Donel’s very marrow to quake. He turned as pale as death and became rigid with terror, so that he resembled nothing but an Irish statue of very dirty and discoloured marble.

When Jack put his hand on the latch, Teddy gasped once—he was incapable of more! The vision of the poor Indian woman rose before his mental eye, and he—well, it’s of no use to attempt saying what he thought or felt!

The obstruction in the latch puzzled Jack not a little. He was surprised at its stiffness. The passage between the hall and kitchen was rather dark, so that he was somewhat nervous and impatient to open the door. It happened that he had left the door by which he had quitted the hall partially open. A gust of wind shut this with a bang that sent every drop of blood into his heart, whence it rebounded into his extremities. The impulse thus communicated to his hand was irresistible. The door was burst in; as a matter of course the table was hurled into the middle of the kitchen, where it was violently arrested by the stove. Poor Teddy O’Donel, unable to stand it any longer, toppled backwards over the bench with a hideous yell, and fell headlong into a mass of pans, kettles, and firewood, where he lay sprawling and roaring at the full power of his lungs, and keeping up an irregular discharge of such things as came to hand at the supposed ghost, who sheltered himself as he best might behind the stove.

“Hold hard, you frightened ass!” shouted Jack as a billet of wood whizzed over his head.

“Eh! what? It’s you, sur? O, musha, av I didn’t belave it was the ghost at last!”

“I tell you what, my man,” said Jack, who was a good deal nettled at his reception, “I would advise you to make sure that it is a ghost next time before you shie pots and kettles about in that way. See what a smash you have made. Why, what on earth have you been doing to the door?”

“Sure I only stuffed up the kayhole to keep out the wind.”

“Humph! and the ghosts, I suppose. Well, see that you are up betimes to-morrow and have these salmon nets looked over and repaired.”

So saying, Jack turned on his heel and left the room, feeling too much annoyed to carry out his original intention of smoking a pipe with his man. He spent the evening, therefore, in reading a pocket copy of Shakespeare, and retired to rest at the usual hour in a more composed frame of mind, and rather inclined to laugh at his superstitious fears.

It happened, unfortunately, that from his window, as he lay on his bed, Jack could see the graveyard. This fact had never been noticed by him before, although he had lain there nightly since his arrival, and looked over the yard to the beach and the sea beyond. Now, the night being bright moonlight, he could see it with appalling distinctness. Sleep was banished from his eyes, and although he frequently turned with resolution to the wall and shut them, he was invariably brought back to his old position as if by a species of fascination.

Meanwhile Teddy O’Donel lay absolutely quaking in the kitchen. Unable to endure it, he at last rose, opened the door softly, and creeping up as near us he dared venture to his master’s door, sat down there, as he said, “for company.” In course of time he fell asleep.

Jack, being more imaginative, remained awake. Presently he saw a figure moving near the churchyard. It was white—at least the upper half of it was.

“Pshaw! this is positive folly; my digestion must be out of order,” muttered Jack, rubbing his eyes; but the rubbing did not dissipate the figure which moved past the yard and approached the fort. At that moment Teddy O’Donel gave vent to a prolonged snore. Delivered as it was against the wooden step on which his nose was flattened, it sounded dreadfully like a groan. Almost mad with indignation and alarm, Jack Robinson leaped from his bed and pulled on his trousers, resolved to bring things to an issue of some sort.

He threw open his chamber door with violence and descended the staircase noisily, intending to arouse his man. He did arouse him, effectually, by placing his foot on the back of his head and crushing his face against the steps with such force as to produce a roar that would have put to shame the war-whoop of the wildest savage in America.

In endeavouring to recover himself, Jack fell upon Teddy and they rolled head-over-heels down the steps together towards the door of the house, which was opened at that instant by Ladoc, who had walked up to the fort, clad only in his shirt and trousers, (the night being warm), to give a report of the condition of things at the fishery, where he and Rollo had quarrelled, and the men generally were in a state of mutiny.

Chapter Nine.

The Bully receives a Lesson.

We regret to be compelled to chronicle the fact, that Jack Robinson lost command of his temper on the occasion referred to in the last chapter. He and Teddy O’Donel rolled to the very feet of the amazed Ladoc, before the force of their fall was expended. They sprang up instantly, and Jack dealt the Irishman an open-handed box on the ear that sent him staggering against one of the pillars of the verandah, and resounded in the still night air like a pistol-shot. Poor Teddy would have fired up under other circumstances, but he felt so deeply ashamed of having caused the undignified mishap to his master, that he pocketed the affront, and quietly retired towards his kitchen. On his way thither, however, he was arrested by the tremendous tone in which Jack demanded of Ladoc the reason of his appearance at such an untimely hour.

There was a slight dash of insolence in the man’s reply.

“I come up, monsieur,” said he, “to tell you if there be two masters at fishery, I not be one of ’em. Rollo tink he do vat him please, mais I say, no; so ve quarrel.”

“And so, you take upon you to desert your post,” thundered Jack.

“Vraiment, oui,” coolly replied Ladoc.

Jack clenched his fist and sprang at the man as a bull-terrier might leap on a mastiff. Almost in the act of striking he changed his mind, and, instead of delivering one of those scientific blows with which he had on more than one occasion in his past history terminated a fight at its very commencement, he seized Ladoc by the throat, tripped up his heels, and hurled him to the ground with such force, that he lay quite still for at least half a minute! Leaving him there to the care of O’Donel, who had returned, Jack went up to his bedroom, shut the door, thrust his hands into his pockets, and began to pace the floor rapidly, and to shake his head. Gradually his pace became slower, and the shaking of his head more sedate. Presently he soliloquised in an undertone.

“This won’t do, John Robinson. You’ve let off too much steam. Quite against your principles to be so violent—shame on you, man. Yet after all it was very provoking to be made such a fool of before that insolent fellow. Poor Teddy—I wish I hadn’t hit you such a slap. But, after all, you deserved it, you superstitious blockhead. Well, well, it’s of no use regretting. Glad I didn’t hit Ladoc, though, it’s too soon for that. Humph! the time has come for action, however. Things are drawing to a point. They shall culminate to-morrow. Let me see.”

Here Jack’s tones became inaudible, and he began to complete his toilette. His thoughts were busy—to judge from his knitted brows and compressed lips. The decision of his motions at last showed that he had made up his mind to a course of action.

It was with a cleared brow and a self-possessed expression of countenance that he descended, a few minutes later, to the hall, and summoned O’Donel.

That worthy, on making his appearance, looked confused, and began to stammer out—

“I beg parding, sur, but—but raally, you know—it, it was all owin’ to them abominable ghosts.”

Jack smiled, or rather, tried to smile, but owing to conflicting emotions the attempt resulted in a grin.

“Let bygones be bygones,” he said, “and send Ladoc here.”

Ladoc entered with a defiant expression, which was evidently somewhat forced.

Jack was seated at a table, turning over some papers. Without raising his head, he said—

“Be prepared to start for the fishery with me in half-an-hour, Ladoc.”

“Monsieur?” exclaimed the man, with a look of surprise.

Jack raised his head and looked at him. It was one of his peculiar looks.

“Did you not understand me?” he said, jumping up suddenly.

Ladoc vanished with an abrupt, “Oui, monsieur,” and Jack proceeded, with a real smile on his good-humoured face, to equip himself for the road.

In half an hour the two were walking silently side by side at a smart pace towards the fishery, while poor Teddy O’Donel was left, as he afterwards said, “all be his lone wid the ghost and the newly buried ooman,” in a state of mental agony, which may, perhaps, be conceived by those who possess strong imaginations, but which cannot by any possibility be adequately described.

Chapter Ten.

Strangers and Strange Events.

The monotony of the night march to the fishery was enlivened by the unexpected apparition of a boat. There was just enough of moonlight to render it dimly visible a few hundred yards from the shore.

“Indians!” exclaimed Ladoc, breaking silence for the first time since they set out.

“The stroke is too steady and regular for Indians,” said Jack. “Boat ahoy!”

“Shore ahoy!” came back at once in the ringing tones of a seaman’s voice.

“Pull in; there’s plenty of water!” shouted Jack.

“Ay, ay,” was the response. In a few seconds the boat’s keel grated on the sand, and an active sailor jumped ashore. There were five other men in the boat.

“Where have you dropped from?” enquired Jack. “Well, the last place we dropped from,” answered the seaman, “was the port quarter davits of the good ship Ontario, Captain Jones, from Liverpool to Quebec, with a general cargo; that was last night, and ten minutes afterwards, the Ontario dropped to the bottom of the sea.”

“Wrecked!” exclaimed Jack.

“Just so. Leastwise, sprung a leak and gone to the bottom.”

“No hands lost, I hope?”

“No, all saved in the boats; but we parted company in the night, and haven’t seen each other since. Is there any port hereabouts, where we could get a bit o’ summat to eat?”

“There is, friend. Just pull six miles farther along shore as you are going, and you’ll come to the place that I have the honour and happiness to command—we call it Fort Desolation. You and your party are heartily welcome to food and shelter there, and you’ll find an Irishman in charge who will be overjoyed, I doubt not, to act the part of host. To-morrow night I shall return to the fort.”

The shipwrecked mariners, who were half-starved, received this news with a cheer, and pushing off, resumed their oars with fresh vigour, while Jack and his man continued their journey.

They reached the fishery before dawn, and, without awakening the men, retired at once to rest.

Before breakfast, Jack was up, and went out to inspect the place. He found that his orders, about repairing the roof of the out-house and the clearing up, had not been attended to. He said nothing at first, but, from the quiet settled expression of his face, the men felt convinced that he did not mean to let it pass.

He ordered Ladoc to repair the roof forthwith, and bade Rollo commence a general clearing-up. He also set the other men to various occupations, and gave each to understand, that when his job was finished he might return to breakfast. The result of this was, that breakfast that morning was delayed till between eleven and twelve, the fishery speedily assumed quite a new aspect, and that the men ate a good deal more than usual when they were permitted to break their fast.

After breakfast, while they were seated outside the door of their hut smoking, Jack smoked his pipe alone by the margin of the river, about fifty yards off.

“Monsieur be meditating of something this morning,” observed little François Xavier, glancing at Rollo with a twinkle in his sharp grey eye.

“He may meditate on what he likes, for all that I care,” said Rollo with a scornful laugh. “He’ll find it difficult to cow me, as I’ll let him know before long.”

Ladoc coughed, and an unmistakable sneer curled his lip as he relighted his pipe. The flushed face of Rollo showed what he felt, but, as nothing had been said, he could not with propriety give vent to his passion.

At that moment Jack Robinson hailed Ladoc, who rose and went towards him. Jack said a few words to him, which, of course, owing to the distance, could not be heard by the men. Immediately after, Ladoc was seen to walk away in the direction of an old Indian burying-ground, which lay in the woods about a quarter of a mile from the fishery.

Five minutes later Jack hailed Rollo, who obeyed the summons, and after a few words with his master, went off in the same direction as Ladoc. There seemed something mysterious in these movements. The mystery was deepened when Jack hailed François Xavier, and sent him after the other two, and it culminated when Jack himself, after allowing five minutes more to elapse, sauntered away in the same direction with a stout cudgel under his arm. He was soon lost to view in the woods.

Each of the three men had been told to go to the burying-ground, and to wait there until Jack himself should arrive. Ladoc was surprised on receiving the order, but, as we have seen, obeyed it. He was more than surprised, however, when he saw Rollo walk into the enclosure, and still more astonished when François followed in due course. None of the three spoke. They felt that Jack would not keep them long in suspense, and they were right. He soon appeared—smoking calmly.

“Now, lads,” said he, “come here. Stand aside, François. I have brought you to this place to witness our proceedings, and to carry back a true report to your comrades. Ladoc and Rollo, (here Jack’s face became suddenly very stern; there was something intense, though not loud, in his voice), you have kept my men in constant hot water by your quarrelling since you came together. I mean to put an end to this. You don’t seem to be quite sure which of you is the best man. You shall settle that question this day, on this spot, and within this hour. So set to, you rascals! Fight or shake hands. I will see fair play!”

Jack blazed up at this point, and stepped up to the men with such a fierce expression, that they were utterly cowed.

“Fight, I say, or shake hands, or—” Here Jack paused, and his teeth were heard to grate harshly together.

The two bullies stood abashed. They evidently did not feel inclined to “come to the scratch.” Yet they saw by the peculiar way in which their master grasped his cudgel, that it would be worse for both of them if they did not obey.

“Well,” said Ladoc, turning with a somewhat candid smile to Rollo, “I’s willin’ to shake hands if you be.”

He held out his hand to Rollo, who took it in a shamefaced sort of way and then dropped it.

“Good,” said Jack; “now you may go back to the hut; but, walk arm in arm. Let your comrades see that you are friends. Come, no hesitation!”

The tone of command could not be resisted; the two men walked down to the river arm in arm, as if they had been the best of friends, and little François followed—chuckling!

Next day a man arrived on foot with a letter to the gentlemen in charge of Fort Desolation. He and another man had conveyed it to the fort in a canoe from Fort Kamenistaquoia.

“What have we here?” said Jack Robinson, sitting down on the gunwale of a boat and breaking the seal.

The letter ran as follows:—

“Fort Kamenistaquoia, etcetera, etcetera.

“MY DEAR JACK,

“I am sorry to tell you that the business has all gone to sticks and stivers. We have not got enough of capital to compete with the Hudson’s Bay Company, and I may remark, privately, that if we had, it would not be worth while to oppose them on this desolate coast. The trade, therefore, is to be given up, and the posts abandoned. I have sent a clerk to succeed you and wind up the business, at Fort Desolation, as I want you to come here directly, to consult as to future plans.

“Your loving but unfortunate friend,

“J. MURRAY.”

On reading this epistle, Jack heaved a deep sigh.

“Adrift again!” he muttered.

At that moment his attention was arrested by the sound of voices in dispute. Presently the door of the men’s house was flung open, and Rollo appeared with a large bundle on his shoulders. The bundle contained his “little all.” He was gesticulating passionately to his comrades.

“What’s wrong now?” said Jack to François, as the latter came towards him.

“Rollo he go ’way,” said François. “There be an Indian come in hims canoe, and Rollo make up his mind to go off vid him.”

“Oh! has he?” said Jack, springing up and walking rapidly towards the hut.

Now it must be told here that, a few days before the events we are describing, Jack had given Rollo a new suit of clothes from the Company’s store, with a view to gain his regard by kindness, and attach him to the service, if possible. Rollo was clad in this suit at the time, and he evidently meant to carry it off.

Jack crushed back his anger as he came up, and said in a calm, deliberate voice, “What now, Rollo?”

“I’m going off,” said the man fiercely. “I’ve had enough of you.”

There was something supernaturally calm and bland in Jack’s manner, as he smiled and said—

“Indeed! I’m very glad to hear it. Do you go soon?”

“Ay, at once.”

“Good. You had better change your dress before going.”

“Eh?” exclaimed the man.

“Your clothes belong to the company; put them off!” said Jack. “Strip, you blackguard!” he shouted, suddenly bringing his stick within three inches of Rollo’s nose, “Strip, or I’ll break every bone in your carcase.”

The man hesitated, but a nervous motion in Jack’s arm caused him to take off his coat somewhat promptly.

“I’ll go into the house,” said Rollo, humbly.

“No!” said Jack, sternly, “Strip where you are. Quick!”

Rollo continued to divest himself of his garments, until there was nothing left to remove.

“Here, François,” said Jack, “take these things away. Now, sir, you may go.”

Rollo took up his bundle and went into the hut, thoroughly crestfallen, to re-clothe himself in his old garments, while Jack strolled into the woods to meditate on his strange fortunes.

That was the end of Rollo. He embarked in a canoe with an Indian and went off—no one knew whither. So, the wicked and useless among men wander about this world to annoy their fellows for a time—to pass away and be forgotten. Perhaps some of them, through God’s mercy, return to their right minds. We cannot tell.

According to instructions, Jack made over the charge of his establishment that day to the clerk who had been sent down to take charge, and next morning set out for Fort Kamenistaquoia, in the boat with the shipwrecked seamen.

Misfortune attended him even to the last minute. The new clerk, who chanced to be an enthusiastic young man, had resolved to celebrate his own advent and his predecessor’s departure by firing a salute from an old carronade which stood in front of the fort, and which might, possibly, have figured at the battle of the Nile. He overcharged this gun, and, just as the boat pushed off, applied the match. The result was tremendous. The gun burst into a thousand pieces, and the clerk was laid flat on the sand! Of course the boat was run ashore immediately, and Jack sprang out and hastened to the scene of the disaster, which he reached just as the clerk, recovering from the effects of the shock, managed to sit up.

He presented a wonderful appearance! Fortunately, none of the flying pieces of the gun had touched him, but a flat tin dish, full of powder, from which he had primed the piece, had exploded in his face. This was now of a uniform bluish-black colour, without eyelashes or eyebrows, and surmounted by a mass of frizzled material that had once been the unfortunate youth’s hair.

Beyond this he had received no damage, so Jack remained just long enough to dress his hurts, and make sure that he was still fit for duty.

Once more entering the boat, Jack pushed off. “Good-bye, boys!” said he, as the sailors pulled away. “Farewell, Teddy, mind you find me out when you go up to Quebec.”

“Bad luck to me av I don’t,” cried the Irishman, whose eyes became watery in spite of himself.

“And don’t let the ghosts get the better of you!” shouted Jack.

O’Donel shook his head. “Ah, they’re a bad lot, sur—but sorrow wan o’ them was iver so ugly as him!”

He concluded this remark by pointing over his shoulder with his thumb in the direction of the house where the new clerk lay, a hideous, though not severely injured, spectacle, on his bed.

A last “farewell” floated over the water, as the boat passed round a point of land. Jack waved his hand, and, a moment later, Fort Desolation vanished from his eyes for ever.

Readers, it is not our purpose here to detail to you the life and adventures of Jack Robinson.

We have recalled and recounted this brief passage in his eventful history, in order to give you some idea of what “outskirters,” and wandering stars of humanity sometimes see, and say, and go through.

Doubtless Jack’s future career would interest you, for his was a nature that could not be easily subdued. Difficulties had the effect of stirring him up to more resolute exertions. Opposition had the effect of drawing him on, instead of keeping him back. “Cold water” warmed him. “Wet blankets,” when thrown on him, were dried and made hot! His energy was untiring, his zeal red hot, and when one effort failed, he began another with as much fervour as if it were the first he had ever made.

Yet Jack Robinson did not succeed in life. It would be difficult to say why. Perhaps his zeal and energy were frittered away on too many objects. Perhaps, if he had confined himself to one purpose and object in life, he would have been a great man. Yet no one could say that he was given to change, until change was forced upon him. Perchance want of judgment was the cause of all his misfortunes; yet he was a clever fellow: cleverer than the average of men. It may be that Jack’s self-reliance had something to do with it, and that he was too apt to trust to his own strength and wisdom, forgetting that there is One, without whose blessing man’s powers can accomplish no good whatever. We know not. We do not charge Jack with this, yet this is by no means an uncommon sin, if we are to believe the confessions of multitudes of good men.

Be this as it may, Jack arrived at Fort Kamenistaquoia in due course, and kindly, but firmly, refused to take part with his sanguine friend, J Murray, who proposed—to use his own language—“the getting-up of a great joint-stock company, to buy up all the sawmills on the Ottawa!”

Thereafter, Jack went to Quebec, where he was joined by Teddy O’Donel, with whom he found his way to the outskirt settlements of the far west. There, having purchased two horses and two rifles, he mounted his steed, and, followed by his man, galloped away into the prairie to seek his fortune.

The End.

Preface.

Sir Alexander Mackenzie was one of the most energetic and successful of the discoverers who have traversed the vast wilderness of British America. He did his work single-handed, with slender means, and slight encouragement, at a time when discovery was rare and the country almost terra incognita. The long and difficult route, so recently traversed by the Red River Expedition, was, to Sir Alexander, but the small beginning of his far-reaching travels. He traced the great river which bears his name to its outlet in the Polar Sea, and was the first to cross the Rocky Mountains in those latitudes and descend to the Pacific ocean.

Being a man of action, and not particularly enamoured of the pen, his journal (For a sight of which apply to the British Museum, London, or the Advocates’ Library, Edinburgh)—full though it be of important and most interesting facts—is a bare and unadorned though valuable record of progress made, of work done, which is unsuited to juvenile minds, besides being bulky and scarce.

Having spent some years in Rupert’s Land, and seen something of Red Indian and fur-trading life, I have ventured to weave the incidents of Sir Alexander’s narratives into a story which, it is hoped, may prove interesting to the young—perchance, also, to the old.

I take this opportunity of acknowledging myself deeply indebted to Sir Alexander’s daughter, Miss Mackenzie, and to his two sons, for kindly placing at my disposal all the information in their possession.

R.M.B.

Edinburgh, 1872.

Chapter One.

Shows how it began.

“The world is round,” said somebody in ancient times to somebody else.

“Not at all; it is flat—flat as a pancake,” replied somebody else to somebody; “and if you were to travel far enough you might get to the end of it and tumble over the edge, if so disposed.”

Ever since the commencement of this early geographical controversy, men have been labouring with more or less energy and success to ascertain the form and character of the earth; a grand, glorious labour it has been; resulting in blessings innumerable to mankind—blessings both spiritual and temporal.

We have heard some people object to geographical discovery, especially in the inclement parts of the earth, on the ground that it could be of no use, and involved great risk to life and limb. “Of no use!” Who can tell what discoveries shall be useful and what useless? “The works of God are great, sought out of all those that have pleasure therein,” saith the Scripture. There is no reference here to usefulness, but the searching out of God’s works, without limitation, is authorised; and those who “take pleasure therein,” will be content to leave the result of their labours in the hands of Him who sent them forth. As to “risk,”—why, a carpenter cannot ascend to the top of a house to put the rafters thereon without risk; a chemist cannot investigate the properties of certain fumes without risk; you cannot even eat your dinner without risk. Only this are we sure of—that, if man had never undertaken labour except when such was obviously useful and devoid of risk, the world would still be in the darkness of the Middle Ages.

Reuben Guff held these sentiments, or something like them; and Reuben was a man who had seen a great deal of life in his day, although at the time we introduce him to public notice he had not lived more than six-and-thirty summers. He was a bronzed, stalwart Canadian. His father had been Scotch, his mother of French extraction; and Reuben possessed the dogged resolution of the Scot with the vivacity of the Frenchman. In regard to his tastes and occupation we shall let him speak for himself.

Sitting under a pine-tree, in the wild wilderness that lies to the north of Canada with the drumstick of a goose in one hand and a scalping-knife in the other; with a log-fire in front of him, and his son, a stripling of sixteen, by his side, he delivered himself of the following sentiments:—

“I tell ’ee what it is, Lawrence,” (the lad was named after the great river on the banks of which he had been reared), “I was born to be a pioneer. Ever since I was the height of a three-fut rule I’ve had a skunner at the settlements and a love for the wilderness that I couldn’t overcome nohow. Moreover, I wouldn’t overcome it if I could, for it’s my opinion that He who made us knows what He wants us to do, an’ has given us sitch feelin’s and inclinations as will lead us to do it, if we don’t run mad after notions of our own, as the folk in the settlements are raither apt to do.”

Here some of the “notions” referred to appeared to tickle the fancy of the backwoodsman, for he paused to indulge in a quiet chuckle which wrinkled up all the lines of good-humour and fun in his rough countenance. After applying himself for a few seconds with much energy to the drumstick,—he resumed his discourse in a slow, deliberate style of speech which was peculiar to him:—

“Yes, Lawrence, my lad, I’ve made it my business ever since I was fifteen to explore this here wilderness, livin’ by my gun and guidin’ the fur-traders on their v’yages, or consorting with the Injins, as you know very well; and, now that we’ve come to the big lake it is needful to tell ’ee that I’m still bent on followin’ out my callin’. I’m goin’ away to the nor’ard to explore, and you’ll have to make up your mind to-night whether you will be my steersman or whether I’m to lay that dooty on Swiftarrow. I needn’t say which I’d like best.”

The hunter finished the drumstick at this point, threw the bone into the fire, lighted his pipe, and awaited his son’s answer in silence.

But the son appeared to be in no hurry to reply; for, after giving his father a glance and nod, which were meant to say, “I hear and I’ll consider, but I’m too much engaged just now to speak,” he continued his occupation of devouring venison steaks, the sauce to which was evidently hunger.

Having finished his supper and lighted his pipe he became more communicative.

“Father,” he said, “you have always advised me to think well before speaking.”

“I have, lad; it’s the natur’ of our forefathers an’ a very good natur’ too. I’d be sorry to see it go out of the family.”

“Well, then; I’ve thought my best about goin’ with ’ee on this trip,” returned the youth, “an’ I’ve resolved to go on one condition—that Swiftarrow goes with us.”

“Why so, my son? we don’t need him.”

“Perhaps not, but I like him; for he has taught me all that I know of woodcraft, and I’m certain that if you and I both leave him he’ll be sure to return to the new settlement at the south end of Ontario, and you know what the end of that would be.”

“Death by drinkin’,” replied Reuben Guff shaking his head slowly, while he watched the upward flight of a ring of white smoke that had just issued from his lips.

“Well, I won’t leave him to that,” continued the youth, with sudden energy of manner and look, “as long as my name is Lawrence. You know that nothin’ would please me more than goin’ to explore the wilderness with you, father; but if Swiftarrow is to be left behind, there shall be no pioneering for me. Besides, three are better than two on such a trip, and the Injin will be sure to keep the pot full, no matter what sort o’ country we may have to pass through, for he’s a dead shot wi’ the gun as well as wi’ the bow.”

“I daresay you’re right, lad,” replied Reuben, in a tone of one who muses. “There’s room in the canoe for three, and it’s not unlikely that the Injin would go south to the settlement, for he is a lonely man since his poor mother died. I do believe that it was nothin’ but his extraor’nar’ love for that old ’ooman that kep’ him from goin’ to the dogs. Leastwise it was that kep’ him from goin’ to the settlement, which is much the same thing, for Swiftarrow can’t resist fire-water. Yes, lad, you’re right—so we’ll take him with us. As you say, three are better than two on such a v’yage.”

Some weeks after the foregoing conversation the pioneers arrived at the northern end of that great inland sea, Lake Superior, which, being upwards of four hundred miles long, and one hundred and seventy-five miles broad, presents many of the features of Ocean itself. This end of the lake was, at the time we write of, and still is, an absolute wilderness, inhabited only by scattered tribes of Indians, and almost untouched by the hand of the white man, save at one spot, where the fur-traders had planted an isolated establishment. At this point in the wild woods the representatives of the fur-traders of Canada were wont to congregate for the settlement of their affairs in the spring of every year, and from this point also trading-parties were despatched in canoes into the still more remote parts of the great northern wilderness, whence they returned with rich cargoes of furs received from the “red men” in exchange for powder and shot, guns, hatchets, knives, cloth, twine, fish-hooks, and such articles as were suited to the tastes and wants of a primitive and wandering people.

Here Reuben Guff and his son found Swiftarrow, as they had expected, and proposed to him that he should accompany them on their voyage north,—a proposal which he accepted with pleasure,—for the strong-boned Indian had an adventurous spirit as well as a healthy frame.

Swiftarrow was a brave and powerful Indian, and was esteemed one of the best hunters of his tribe; but no one seeing him in camp in a quiescent state would have thought him to be possessed of much energy, for he was slow and deliberate in his movements, and withal had a lazy look about his eyes. But the sight of a bear or moose-deer had the effect of waking him up in a way that caused his dark eyes to flash and his large frame to move with cat-like activity.

When Reuben Guff discovered him on the shore of Lake Superior, he was seated at the door of his skin lodge, anointing his hair, which was long and black, with bear’s grease—the “genuine article,” without even the admixture of a drop of scent!—so pure, in fact, that the Indian basted his steaks and anointed his hair with grease from the same box.

“Hallo! Swiftarrow,” exclaimed Reuben, as he sauntered up to the savage, with his gun on his shoulder, “ye seem to be beautifyin’ yerself to-day—not goin’ to get married, eh?”

Swiftarrow, whose long hair hung over his face like a glossy curtain, tossed aside his locks and gazed earnestly at the hunter. A slight smile and a pleasant gleam lighted up his dark countenance as he wiped his greasy right hand on his legging and extended it, exclaiming, “watchee!” by which he meant, what cheer?

“What cheer? what cheer?” replied Reuben, with a broad but quiet grin, as he shook his friend’s hand heartily.

Each man understood the other’s language perfectly; but each appeared to prefer to talk in his own tongue; for while Reuben addressed the red man in English, Swiftarrow replied in Indian. This had been an understood arrangement between them ever since the time when, as lads, they had first met and formed a close friendship, on the shores of Lake Huron.

“Is my brother’s trail to be through the woods or on the waters? Does he go hunting or trading?” inquired the Indian, after the first salutations were over.

“Well, I may say that I’m neither goin’ a-huntin’ or tradin’—here, fill yer pipe wi’ baccy from my pouch; it’s better than yours, I’ll be bound. In a manner, too, I’m goin’ both to hunt an’ trade in a small way; but my main business on this trip is to be diskivery.”

The Indian uttered a sound, which meant that he did not understand.

“I’m goin’ to sarch out new lands,” explained Reuben, “away to the far north. I’ve heard it said by Injins that have wandered to the nor’ard that they’ve met in with red-skins, who said that there is a big river flowin’ out o’ a great lake in the direction o’ the north pole, an’ that it runs into the sea there. They may be tellin’ truth, or they may be tellin’ lies; I dun know; anyhow, I’m koorious to know somethin’ about it, so I’m goin’ north to see for myself, and I’ve comed to ask if Swiftarrow will go with me.”

The hunter paused, but the Indian remained silently smoking his long stone-headed pipe, or calumet, with a countenance so grave and expressionless, that no idea of his sentiments could be gathered from it. After a brief pause, Reuben continued—

“It won’t be altogether a trip of diskivery neither, for I’ve got some bales of goods with me, and as we go in a small birch canoe, we’ll travel light; but I hope to come back sunk to the gunwale with furs, for the red-skins of the far north are like enough to have plenty of pelts, and they won’t ask much for them. As to grub, you and I could manage to supply ourselves wi’ lots o’ that anywheres, and I’ve got plenty of powder and lead. Moreover, my boy Lawrence is goin’ with me.”

During the foregoing remarks, the Indian’s countenance betrayed no sign of feeling until the name of Lawrence was mentioned, when a gleam of satisfaction shot from his eyes. Removing the pipe from his lips, he puffed a volume of smoke through his nostrils, and said:—

“Swiftarrow will go.”

Backwoodsmen seldom take long to mature their plans, and are generally prompt to carry them into execution. Two days after the brief conversation above narrated, the three friends pushed off in their little birch-bark canoe and paddled up the stream which leads to the Kakabeka Falls on the Kamenistaquoia River. Surmounting this obstacle by the simple process of carrying the canoe and her lading past the falls by land, and relaunching on the still water above, they continued their voyage day by day, encamping under the trees by night, until they had penetrated far and deep into the heart of the northern wilderness, and had even passed beyond the most distant establishments of the adventurous fur-traders.

The world of forest, swamp, lake, and river, that still, however, lay between them and the land which they sought to reach, was very wide. Weeks, and even months, would certainly elapse before they could hope to approach it; one day, therefore, they buried their goods and stores in a convenient place, intending to dig them up on their return, and meanwhile turned aside into a country which promised to afford them a good supply of fresh provisions for the voyage north.

Here an adventure befell them which brought their voyage of discovery, at that time, to an abrupt close.

Chapter Two.

Terrible Discoveries and Altered Plans.

“Ho!” ejaculated Swiftarrow.

“Smoke!” exclaimed Reuben Guff.

Both men spoke at the same moment,—their discovery having been simultaneous. At the same time Lawrence pointed with the blade of his paddle to a thin line of smoke which rose above the tree-tops into the blue sky, and was faithfully mirrored in the lake on which they floated.

“Injins!” said Reuben, resting his steering paddle across the canoe for a few seconds.

Swiftarrow assented with another “Ho,” and Lawrence moved his gun into a handy position to be ready for an emergency; but there was no other sign of man’s presence than the wreath of smoke. All was perfectly silent. The air too was quite still, and the surface of the lake resembled a sheet of glass.

“Strange,” observed Reuben, “red-skins ain’t usually so shy. If they mean mischief they don’t ever let smoke be seen, an’ when they don’t mean mischief they generally show themselves. Come, push on, lads; we’ll go see what’s i’ the wind.”

“I’ll show them the muzzle, father,” said Lawrence, laying down his paddle and taking up his gun: “it may be well to let ’em see that we have arms.”

“No need for that, boy. If they know anything at all, they know that white men don’t go about in the wilderness empty-handed. Put down the piece, and use your paddle.”

Thus reproved, Lawrence flushed slightly, but obeyed the order and resumed paddling.

In a few minutes they were on shore. Still all was silent as the grave. Hauling the bow of the canoe on the beach to keep it fast, the three men took their weapons, and, entering the woods in single file, walked cautiously but swiftly in the direction of the smoke. They soon reached the spot, and the scene which met their eyes was one which, while it accounted for the silence that reigned around, filled their minds with sadness and horror.

In an open space, where a number of trees had been cut down, stood about a dozen skin tents or Indian lodges, some with the curtain-doors closed, others open, exposing the interiors, on the floors of which the dead bodies of Indian men, women, and children, lay in every attitude and in all stages of decomposition. Outside of the tents other corpses lay strewn on the ground, and most of these bore evidence of having been more or less torn by wolves. The travellers knew at a glance that these unfortunate people had fallen before that terrible disease, small-pox, which had recently attacked and almost depopulated several districts of the Indian country.

How the disease was introduced among the Indians at the time of which we write, it is impossible to say and useless to conjecture. The fact of its desolating effects is unquestionable. One who dwelt in the country at the time writes: (See Sir Alexander Mackenzie’s Voyages, page 14.) “The fatal infection spread around with a baneful rapidity which no flight could escape, and with a fatal effect that nothing could resist. It destroyed with its pestilential breath whole families and tribes; and the horrid scene presented, to those who had the melancholy opportunity of beholding it, a combination of the dead, the dying, and such as, to avoid the fate of their friends around them, prepared to disappoint the plague of its prey by terminating their own existence. To aggravate the picture, if aggravation were possible, the carcases were dragged forth from the huts by the wolves, or were mangled within them by the dogs, which thus sought to satisfy their hunger with the putrid remains of their masters. It was not uncommon at this time for the father of a family, whom the infection had not reached, to call his household around him, represent the terrible sufferings and fate that awaited them, which he believed was owing to the influence of an evil spirit who desired to extirpate the race, and incited them to baffle death with all its horrors by at once killing themselves—at the same time offering to perform the deed of mercy with his own hand if their hearts should fail them.”

That some of the dead before our pioneers had acted in this way was evident, for while most of the corpses bore marks of having been smitten with the disease, others were there which showed nothing to account for death save a knife wound over the region of the heart.

It was a sad and sickening sight, and drew forth one or two low-toned sorrowful remarks from Reuben, as he moved slowly towards the tent from which smoke still issued.

The three men paused before it because a sound came from within, and they felt reluctant to disturb the awful silence. The pause, however, was but momentary. Reuben lifted the covering and opened it wide. A small fire still burned on the hearth in the centre of the lodge; around it lay the bodies of dead men, women, and children. Only one figure, that of an old woman, remained in a half-reclining position, but she was motionless, and they thought her dead also. This, however, was not the case. The flood of light which streamed in on her appeared to rouse her, for she raised her grey head, and, gazing anxiously at the figures which darkened the entrance of the lodge, asked in a tremulous voice: “Is that you, my son?”

“No, mother, but it is a friend,” said Swiftarrow, who understood her language.

“A friend,” repeated the old woman, shaking her head slowly, “I don’t want a friend. The Master of Life is my friend. My people said that an evil spirit was slaying them; but I know better. It was the Great Spirit who came to us. We have been very wicked. We needed punishment. But why has He spared me? I was the worst of them all.”

There was something terrible in the tone and manner in which this was uttered, as if the breast of the speaker were torn with conflicting feelings.

“She must have met wi’ the missionaries some time or other,” whispered Reuben.

“Is the old woman the only one of all the tribe left alive?” asked Swiftarrow.

“Ay, the only one—no, not the only one; my son is yet alive. He went to set a bear-trap not very long since; but he should have come back before now. He will be back soon.”

The deep sigh which followed proved that the poor old woman was hoping against hope.

“How long is’t since he left you, mother?” asked Lawrence eagerly.

“Two suns have risen and set since he left, and he had not far to go.”

“Father, I’ll go seek for this man,” said Lawrence; “something may have befallen him.”

Reuben made no objection, and the youth set off immediately in a direction which was pointed out by the old woman.

After he was gone his father and the Indian shifted one of the cleanest looking of the empty tents to a considerable distance from the spot where the terrible work of death had been done, and removing the old woman from the neighbourhood of the pestilential atmosphere, placed her therein, kindled a fire and cooked her a little food, of which she evidently stood much in need.

Meanwhile Lawrence sped through the pathless forest with the light step of a strong youth and the precision of a practised hunter. About four miles from the Indian camp he came upon the track of a bear, the footprints of which proved that it was an unusually large one. He followed it up closely, and was led by it to a spot where some trees had been cut down, and not far from which he saw what appeared to him to be the remains of a trap. Almost at the same moment of his making this discovery he heard a growl, and saw the bear itself—a monster of the brown species, which differs from the ordinary black bear of America in being more carnivorous and much larger, as well as more savage and bold. No sooner did it see the youth than it rushed upon him with great fury. A piece of broken line was drawn tight round its neck, and another piece round its fore-leg, while four arrows stuck in its shoulder and side, showing plainly that it had broken loose from a snare and had been attacked by man. But Lawrence had no time to think on these things. He had barely time to throw forward and cock his gun when the bear was upon him. It rose on its hind-legs, and in doing so towered high above the youth, who, whatever his feelings might have been, looked undismayed. With an unflinching eye he took aim at the monster’s heart, and shot it dead. So close was it to him that he singed the hair on its breast and had to leap to one side to avoid being struck as it fell.

Reloading quickly, the young hunter advanced towards the trap, where his worst fears were realised, for near to it he found the body of an Indian torn limb from limb, and mostly eaten, except the head, which remained entire. It was evident that the poor man, having set several snares for bears, had gone to visit them, and found this brown bear caught by the head and leg. He seemed to have tried to kill it with arrows, but must have been afraid to go near enough to use his weapons with effect, and the enraged animal, having broken the snare, flew upon him and tore him to pieces.

Brown bears of this kind are very powerful. One traveller in these regions saw the footprints of a large one, which, having seized a moose-deer in a river, dragged it for a quarter of a mile along the sandy banks, and afterwards devoured it all except part of the hind-quarters; and the moose which had been treated in this unceremonious way, judging from the size and hardness of the bones, must have been upwards of a year old, when it would weigh as much as an ox of the same age.

Collecting the scattered remnants of the unfortunate Indian, who was no other than the old woman’s son, Lawrence covered them over with leaves and sticks. He then skinned the bear and cut off its claws, which he carried away as trophies, along with one or two choice steaks cut from the creature’s flank. He also collected the weapons and part of the dress of the Indian, with which he returned to the camp.

“Heyday! Lawrence, what have you got there, lad?” said Reuben, as his son came up and threw the bundle on the ground.

“A brown bear, father.”

“Well done!” exclaimed Reuben, with a look of pride, for although his son had shot many a black bear in the forest, he had never before stood face to face with such a monster as that whose skin and claws now lay at his feet.

“It would have been well, father,” said Lawrence gravely, “if the man who first saw this had owned a gun. His arrows were no better than needles in such a hide. See here!”

He drew from his breast the bloody portions of dress which had belonged to the slaughtered Indian.

“The son of the old woman has gone to the happy hunting-grounds,” said Swiftarrow, referring to the heaven of the Indian, as he lifted and examined the dress.

“Ay, ay,” said Reuben sadly, “’tis the chances of the wilderness. You’d better tell the poor old creetur’, Swiftarrow; you understand her ways and lingo better than me.”

Silently the Indian went to the old woman, and laid the bloody garments before her. At first she did not understand what had happened. Suddenly the truth flashed upon her, and she looked quickly up into the grave countenance of the Indian, but death and sorrow appeared to have already done their worst on her, for she neither spoke nor wept for some time. She took up the shreds of cloth and turned them over tenderly; but neither sign nor groan escaped her. Evidently she had been already so stunned by the horrors which had surrounded her for some time, that this additional blow did not tell—at least, not at first—but Reuben observed, while trying to comfort her some time afterwards, that a few tears were coursing slowly down her withered cheeks.

That night, round the camp-fire, the pioneers held earnest counsel, and resolved, sadly but firmly, that their projected journey must be given up for that season.

“It’s a hard thing to do,” said Reuben, as he lay at full length before the fire after supper, “to give up our plans after comin’ so far; but it ain’t possible to carry that old ’ooman along with us an’ it’s not to be thought of to leave her behind to starve, so there’s nothin’ for it but to go back an’ take her wi’ us to the settlements. I would feel like a murderer if I was to leave one o’ God’s creeturs to perish in the wilderness. What think you, Lawrence?”

“I think you are right, father,” replied the youth, with a deep sigh.

“An’ what says Swiftarrow?”

“Go back,” was the Indian’s prompt and laconic answer.

“Well, then, we’re all agreed, so we’ll turn back on our trail to-morrow; but I shall try again next year if I’m above ground. I once know’d a Yankee who had what he called a motto, an’ it was this, ‘Never give in, ’xcept w’en yer wrong.’ I think I’ll take to that motto. It seems to me a good ’un.”

In proof, we presume, of his sincerity, Reuben Guff rolled himself in his blanket, stretched his feet towards the fire, pillowed his head on a bundle of moss, and at once gave in to the seductive influences of sleep; an example which was so irresistible that his companions followed it without delay.

Chapter Three.

Introduces the King of Pioneers.

Discarding space and ignoring time, we seize you by the hand, reader, and bound away with you still deeper into the northern wilderness, away into that remote region which, at the time we write of, was the ultima thule of the fur-traders of Canada,—beyond which lay the great unknown world, stretching to the pole. Here, amid the grand scenery of the Rocky Mountains, lies the Athabasca Lake, also styled the Lake of the Hills. We prefer the latter name, as being more romantic.

This is no pretty pond such as we in England are wont to visit and delight in during our summer holidays. It is a great sheet of water; a grand fresh-water sea, 200 miles long and 15 miles broad—a fitting gem for the bosom of the mighty region on which it glitters.

A year has fled since the period of our last chapter, and here, in a birch-bark canoe on the waters of the Lake of the Hills, we find our pioneers—Reuben Guff, his son Lawrence, and his Indian friend Swiftarrow. There is also a young Indian woman in the canoe—Swiftarrow’s wife.

The kind-hearted red man adopted the old woman who had been rescued on their previous trip, but, not finding her a good substitute for his own mother, he bethought him of adding a young squaw to his establishment. While he meditated on this step, the old woman died. About the same time Reuben Guff made proposals to him to join him on a second “v’yage of diskivery.” The Indian agreed; got married off-hand, and took his bride along with him. We now find them all four at the Lake of the Hills.

It may be as well to observe, in passing, that Indian brides are usually more robust than those of civilised communities. They are quite competent to follow their lords on the most arduous canoe voyages, and, besides being able to wield the paddle with great dexterity, are exceedingly useful in managing what may be styled the domestic matters of the camp. They also keep up a constant supply of the Indian’s indispensable foot-gear—moccasins—which are so slender in their nature that a pair may be completely worn-out in a single day of hard hunting.

The brown bride, therefore, was not a hindrance to the party, but a useful member of it, as well as a pleasant companion. True, her companionship consisted chiefly in answering “yes” and “no” when spoken to, and in smiling pleasantly at all times; but this was sufficient to satisfy the moderate demands of her male friends upon her intellectual resources.

“Fort Chipewyan at last,” said Reuben, resting his paddle across the canoe and looking earnestly towards the horizon; “I hope we ain’t too late after all our pushin’ on. It would be hard to find that Monsieur Mackenzie had started.”

“Too much ice in the lake,” said Swiftarrow. “He has not gone yet.”

“I’m not so sure o’ that,” observed Lawrence. “If reports be true, Monsieur Mackenzie is not the man to wait until the ice is all off the lakes and nothin’ but plain sailin’ lies before him.”

“That’s true, lad,” replied Reuben, resuming his paddle. “I wonder,” he murmured to himself, as he gazed wistfully towards the unknown north, “I wonder if the big river is really there, an’ if it do jine the sea?”

That same question was put to himself that same evening—though not for the first time—by one of the inhabitants of Fort Chipewyan. The fort was a mere group of two or three log-huts. In the largest of these huts sat a man whose strongly-marked handsome countenance gave evidence of a bold enterprising spirit and a resolute will. He pored over a map for some time, carefully tracing a few pencil-lines into the blank spaces on the paper, and then murmured, in words which were almost identical with those of Reuben Guff, “I wonder if it joins the Polar Sea?”

This man was the true pioneer, or, rather, the king of pioneers, to whom Guff gave place without a murmur, for Reuben was a modest man; and the moment he heard that one of the gentlemen of the Canadian fur-trading company had taken up his favourite hobby, and meant to work out the problem, he resolved, as he said, “to play second fiddle,” all the more that the man who thus unwittingly supplanted him was a mountaineer of the Scottish Highlands.

“It’s of no manner of use, you see,” he said to Swiftarrow, when conversing on the subject, “for me to go off on a v’yage o’ diskivery w’en a gentleman like Monsieur Mackenzie, with a good edication an’ scienteefic knowledge and the wealth of a fur company at his back, is goin’ to take it in hand. No; the right thing for Reuben Guff to do in the circumstances is to jine him an’ play second fiddle—or third, if need be.”

Alexander Mackenzie—while seated in the lowly hut of that solitary outpost poring over his map, trying to penetrate mentally into those mysterious and unknown lands which lay just beyond him—saw, in imagination, a great river winding its course among majestic mountains towards the shores of the ice-laden polar seas. He also saw the lofty peaks and snow-clad ridges of that mighty range which forms the back-bone of the American continent, and—again in imagination—passed beyond it and penetrated the vast wilderness to the Pacific, thus adding new lands to the British Crown, and opening up new sources of wealth to the fur company of which he was one of the most energetic members. He saw all this in imagination, we say, but he did not, at that time, see his name attached to one of the largest American rivers, classed with the names of the most noted discoverers of the world, and himself knighted. Still less, if possible, did he see, even in his wildest flights of fancy, that the book of travels which he was destined to write, would be translated into French by the order of Napoleon the First, for the express purpose of being studied by Marshal Bernadotte, with the view of enabling that warrior to devise a roundabout and unlooked-for attack on Canada—in rear, as it were—from the region of the northern wilderness—a fact which is well worthy of record! (See Appendix for an interesting letter on the subject.)

None of these things loomed on the mind of the modest though romantic and enterprising man, for at that time he was only at the beginning of his career of discovery.

It may not be out of place here to say a word or two as to the early career of the hero whose footsteps we are about to follow.

He was a Highlander, to begin with; and possessed all the fire and determination peculiar to that race. At an early period of life he was led to engage in commercial enterprises in the country north-west of Lake Superior, joined the North-West Fur Company of Canada in 1784, and went into the Indian country the following spring. It is not necessary to say more than that Alexander Mackenzie proved himself to be a first-rate fur-trader at a time when the fur-trade was carried on under great difficulties and amid severe privations. For many years he was in charge of Fort Chipewyan, the remote establishment to which we have just conducted our reader. Seven years before his coming on the scene, the Lake of the Hills had not been visited by white men, and was known only through Indian report. When Mackenzie became ruler of the district, all beyond the lake was terra incognita. His spirit was one which thirsted to explore the unknown. He was eminently fitted both to hold an advanced post and to invade new regions, being robust in constitution, powerful in frame, inquisitive in mind, and enterprising in spirit. Frequently had he arrived at Fort Chipewyan with ninety or a hundred men without any provision for their sustenance for the winter save their fishing-nets and guns. He was therefore accustomed to live from hand to mouth, and to depend on his own exertions and resources in a country where the winter is upwards of eight months long and the severity of the climate extreme.

It was in June 1789 that he made preparations to start on his first voyage of discovery.

Rising from the table at which he had been studying his projected route, Mackenzie turned, with the air of a man who has made up his mind, and said to a clerk who was smoking beside the fireplace—

“Le Roux, if we cannot prevail on these Indians to accompany us, I have determined to start without them. Has the small canoe been gummed?”

“It has,” answered Le Roux, “but I would advise delay for a day or two. If we give them time, the Indians may change their minds; besides, the ice has not yet sufficiently cleared away.”

Mackenzie paced the room impatiently, and his eyes flashed for one moment with impatience. They were deep blue eyes that could beam with melting tenderness or sparkle with suppressed passion—it is but just to add that passion in his case was usually suppressed, for he was a lover of peace, as most truly great and powerful men usually are:

“Let us see now,” he said, sitting down in front of Le Roux, “how our resources stand. In my canoe there will be the four Canadians and the German. Then there’s our Indian friend, English Chief and his two wives, who will embark in the second-sized canoe. The two young Indians whom we want to accompany us with their wives must make up their minds to-night, else I will start without them. Your own canoe with goods for trade and provisions, will not be fully loaded; I shall therefore place in it the provisions that we can’t carry, and when we come to the place where you are to stop and trade, and where I shall bid you farewell, we shall doubtless have eaten our lading down sufficiently to take the whole on board. See, by the way, that the goods and trinkets to be given in presents as we go along are not placed in the wrong canoe.”

“They are already laid with the other goods, and also the nets and ammunition by themselves,” said Le Roux, rising and laying down his pipe.

At that moment Reuben Guff entered with his friends. The surprise of Mackenzie was great on beholding them, but greater still was his delight when he learned their errand. The young Indians were forthwith told that their services would not now be required, and our friends—including Swiftarrow’s wife, Darkeye—were at once added to the exploring party.

Next day the expedition set forth from Fort Chipewyan and swept over the broad breast of the Lake of the Hills.

We will not trace their course over known ground. Suffice it to say that their troubles began at once. Soon after leaving the lake they came to a rapid part of the river which flows out of it, where they were obliged to land and carry canoes and goods to the still water further down, but here the ice was still unthawed on the banks, rendering the process of reloading difficult. Soon after they came to a place called the Portage d’Embarras, which is occasioned by driftwood filling up the channel of the river. There they entered the Slave River, where there is a portage or carrying-place named the Mountain, the landing at which is very steep and close to the fall. Below this fall there is a mile of dangerous rapids—and here they met with their first disaster.

Reuben and Swiftarrow having landed with part of the cargo of the small canoe, had left it in charge of Darkeye,—so named because of her large and lustrous eyes, which, however, were the only good points about her, for she was ill-favoured and clumsy, though strong of frame and a diligent worker. While she was moving from one point of rock to another that appeared to her more convenient for landing, the canoe was caught by an eddy and swept in a moment out into the strong current, down which it sped with fearful velocity towards the falls. Darkeye was quite collected and cool, but she happened to dip her paddle on the edge of a sunk rock with such vigour that the canoe overturned. Upon the heights above her husband saw the accident, and stood rooted for a moment in helpless dismay to the spot. It chanced that Lawrence Guff was at the time the only man near the unfortunate woman, who, although she swam like an otter, could not gain the bank. Seeing this, the youth sprang towards a jutting rock that almost overhung the fall, and entering the rushing stream so deeply that he could barely retain his foothold, caught the woman by the hair of the head as she was sweeping towards the edge of the fall. The two swayed for a few seconds on the verge of destruction; then Swiftarrow came bounding down the bank like a deer, and, catching Lawrence by the hand, dragged them both out of danger; but before they were fairly landed the canoe was carried over the falls, dashed to pieces, and in a few seconds its shreds were tossed wildly on the surging rapids far down the river.

This accident caused them little loss beyond the canoe, which was soon replaced by another, purchased from a party of Indians, with whom they fell in that same evening.

Passing through Slave River, they swept out on the bright waters of Great Slave Lake. Over these they sped during several days. This lake is one of the largest fresh-water oceans of the continent, about 250 miles long and 50 broad.

And here the work of exploration fairly began. Great Slave Lake was at that time imperfectly known from Indian report; and the river of which they were in search flowed, it was supposed, out of its western extremity. Here also Monsieur Le Roux was to be left behind with a party of men to prosecute the fur-trade.

Chapter Four.

Vicissitudes of the Voyage—Indians Met with, etcetera.

We have passed over the first three weeks of the voyage rapidly, but it must not be supposed that therefore it was all plain sailing. On the contrary, the travellers were delayed by thunderstorms, and heavy rains, and gales, and impeded by ice, which, even in the middle of June lay thick on the waters in some parts. They were also tormented by hosts of mosquitoes, and at times they found difficulty in procuring food—despite the ability of our friends Reuben, Swiftarrow, and Lawrence, who were constituted hunters to the expedition. At other times, however, the supply of food was abundant and varied. On one occasion the hunters brought in seven geese, a beaver, and four ducks, besides which a large supply of excellent trout and other fish was obtained from the nets; and on another occasion they procured two swans, ten beavers, and a goose. But sometimes they returned empty-handed, or with a single bird or so, while the nets produced nothing at all. Deer were also shot occasionally, and they found immense numbers of wild cranberries, strawberries, rasps, and other berries, besides small spring onions; so that, upon the whole, they fared well, and days of abstinence were more than compensated by days of superabundance.

One evening while they were coasting along this great lake, some Indians were discovered on the shore, and the travellers landed to make inquiries of them as to the nature of the country beyond. There were three lodges belonging to the Red-knife Indians, who were so named because their knifes were made of the copper found in that region. To the leading man of these, English Chief, being interpreter, addressed himself.

English Chief, we may remark in passing, was one of the followers of the chief who conducted Hearne on his expedition to the Coppermine River; since which event he had been a principal leader of his countrymen who were in the habit of carrying furs to the English fur-traders at Churchill, on Hudson’s Bay, and was much attached to the interest of the Hudson Bay Company, which, at that time, was in opposition to the Canadian or Nor’-West Company. These circumstances procured him the title of the English Chief. An able, active, but self-sufficient and somewhat obstinate chief he was, and caused Mackenzie a good deal of anxiety and much trouble to keep him with the party.

In answer to his queries, the principal man of the Red-knife Indians said that there were many more of his tribe a short distance off, and that he would send a man to fetch them. He also said that the explorers should see no more of them at that time, because the Slave and Beaver Indians, as well as others of the tribe, were about to depart, and would not be in that region again till the time when the swans cast their feathers.

“Ask him,” said Mackenzie, “if he and his friends have many furs to dispose of.”

To this the Indian replied by at once producing upwards of eight large packs of good beaver and marten skins; and added the information that his friends had plenty more.

“Now, then, Le Roux,” said Mackenzie, turning to his clerk, “here you and I shall part. This seems a good spot and a good opportunity for opening up the trade with these Indians. When the rest of them arrive we shall have a palaver, and then you shall remain to look after them, so, open up your packs, and get ready a few small presents without delay.”

That day was spent in considerable bustle and excitement; the Indians being overjoyed that the white traders had at last penetrated into their country; and their joy being increased by the distribution of such trifling, but much-prized, gifts as glass beads, knives, small looking-glasses, etcetera. It rained in torrents all the time but this did not damp their spirits; and as for their bodies—they were used to it! In the afternoon Mackenzie assembled the whole tribe, and made them the following speech, which was translated by English Chief in a very pompous manner, for that excellent red-skin was fully alive to the dignity of his position.

“My friends,” began our explorer, “I am glad to meet with you. The white man and the Indians are always glad to meet—they can benefit each other mutually. Each has got what the other requires. I have come for the purpose of opening up trade with you. It is true that I myself will take my departure to-morrow, because I am in search of new lands; but some of my people will remain on the spot, and if you bring in a sufficient quantity of furs to make it answer, my men will return to Fort Chipewyan for more goods, and will spend the winter here. They will build a fort and continue to dwell among you as long as you shall be found to deserve it.”

At this point the speaker paused, and the dark-skinned audience gave vent to a loud “Ho!” which was equivalent to the British “Hear, hear!”

“In regard to my own work,” continued Mackenzie, “I intend to search for, and find the great river, which, it is said, flows out of this lake, and follow its current to the sea—or, as you call it, the great salt lake. Do my brothers know anything about this river? If so, let them speak.”

Hereupon an old chief, with hair like small iron wire, and a skin like shoe-leather, got up, and delivered himself as follows—

“We are glad to hear what our white brother says. It encourages us to know that you will make a trading fort in our country, for we have need of one. Hitherto we have had to travel far—very far—with our furs; or if, to save trouble, we intrusted our furs to the Chipewyans, they often pillaged us, or, at most, gave us very little for the fruits of our toil. For a long time we have been so discouraged that we had no motive to pursue the beaver, except to obtain a sufficiency of food and clothing. Now if you come to us, we shall be happy—wauch!”

The last word was equivalent to the expression—“There, think o’ that!” The old man paused as if to give his audience time for reflection.

“As to the great river,” he continued sententiously, “we know of its existence; but none of our tribe has ever followed its course down to the great salt lake. We earnestly advise our brother not to go there, for it is a dreadful river. It is said that there are two impassable falls in its course; and it is so long that old age will come upon you before the time of your return. You will also encounter monsters of horrid shapes and awful strength on the land and in the water—wauch!”

The old chief began to glare solemnly at this point, and the whole tribe followed his example.

“It is said,” he continued, “that there are bears which eat the trees as if they were grass; whose cubs, even at their birth, are strong enough to kill the stoutest man. There are monsters in the river so big that a canoe full of men would be but a mouthful to them. There are so few animals or fish fit for food, that you will all certainly be starved. And, besides all this, evil spirits dwell there, whose chief delight lies in attacking, killing, roasting, and devouring men—wauch!”

Here the Indian sat down with the decision of a man who has given unanswerable arguments for the overturning of foolish plans; nevertheless, Mackenzie’s plans remained unaltered. Not so, however, those of a young Indian, who had been engaged to guide the explorers to the other end of the lake, in order to save them from the loss of time which would be occasioned by the necessity of coasting round its numerous bays. The imagination of this youth—Coppernose, as Lawrence Guff facetiously styled him—was so wrought upon by the dreadful description of the great river, that he manifested a strong desire to draw back; but by the timely addition of a small kettle, an axe, a knife, and a few beads to the gifts already bestowed on him, he was eventually persuaded to venture.

Before departing, poor Coppernose took a ceremonious leave of his family. He cut off a lock of his hair, and divided it into three parts. One of these he fastened to the top of his wife’s head, and blew on it three times with the utmost violence, at the same time uttering certain cabalistic words. The other two portions he fastened with the same formalities to the heads of his two children.

Even at the last he hesitated, and was finally made to enter the canoe more by force than by persuasion!

A few days later, and our pioneers were fairly embarked on the great river, whose course to the mouth it was their object to explore.

The expedition was now somewhat reduced, owing to Monsieur Le Roux having been left behind. It consisted of three canoes—the large one with Mackenzie and five men; a small one, with English Chief and his two wives, and Coppernose; and another small one, containing Reuben, his son, Swiftarrow, and Darkeye. Two of the Canadians were also attended by their wives; so that the party numbered sixteen souls, five of whom were women. They all kept company as much as possible, but English Chief was frequently left behind by the large canoe; while Reuben and his friends, being the hunters as we have said, were necessarily absent for considerable periods in search of game.

One evening as they were descending a beautiful sweep of the river under sail in grand style, the English Chief—leaning composedly back in his canoe, while his right hand slightly moved the steering paddle, and his teeth grasped his beloved pipe—said quietly to Coppernose, of course in the Indian tongue—

“A pretty guide you are, not to know something more about a river so near to your own wigwam.”

Coppernose, who was a humble-minded man, smiled slightly, and shook his head as he said—

“All red men are not so adventurous as the English Chief. I never had occasion to travel in this direction, and do not know the way.”

“Boo!” ejaculated English Chief; meaning, no doubt, fiddlededee!

“But I know of a river,” continued Coppernose, “which falls into this one from the north, and comes from the Horn Mountain that we passed at the end of Great Slave Lake; it is the country of the Beaver Indians. My relations meet me frequently on that river. There are great plains on both sides of that river, which abound in buffaloes and moose-deer.”

“I don’t believe it—wauch!” said English Chief. As this was a discouraging reception of his remarks, Coppernose relapsed into silence.

Soon afterwards the large canoe was observed to make for a low grassy point; and as it was about the usual camping time, English Chief made for the same place. The hunters reached it about ten minutes later, and bore into camp two reindeer, four geese, and a swan, besides a large quantity of berries gathered by the fair (or brown) hands of Darkeye.

“There is plenty of game everywhere,” said Reuben, in answer to a query from his leader, “we might have killed much more if we’d had more time—but enough is as good as a feast, as the sayin’ goes in my country.”

“In your country?” said Mackenzie, with a smile.

“Ay, I claim to be a Scotchman—though I was born and raised in Canada—my father hailed from the land o’ cakes.”

“Does Lawrence claim the same nationality on the same ground, Reuben?”

“He does not!” answered Lawrence for himself, while busy cleaning his father’s gun.

“The lad loves the Canadians,” replied Reuben, with a chuckle; “besides, he couldn’t claim it on the same ground, seein’ that I am fully half a Scot, while he is at least three-quarters a Canadian.”

“More the better luck for him,” said one of the Canadians, who had already kindled a fire, before which one of his comrades was busily engaged setting up juicy venison steaks to roast.

“Oui,” observed another; “vraiment, Canada beats Scottish land altogeder.”

“Ha! Faderland ees more best, den all ze vorld,” said the German, quaffing a can of water with as much zest as if it had been his own native Rhine wine.

“I warrant me,” said Mackenzie with a laugh, “that our trusty guide, Coppernose, would not give the wilderness here for Canada, Scotland, and Faderland put together. What say you, lad?”

Coppernose looked gravely at his questioner, but made no reply.

“Boo!” said English Chief; regarding his countryman with a look of contempt; “hims no onerstan’ Eengleesh.”

“He understands how to eat a rumpsteak of venison, however,” said Mackenzie, with a laugh, as Coppernose at that moment coolly appropriated a mass of half-roasted meat, and began to devour it. “You’d better follow his example, lads.”

The men were not slow to take this advice. In a short time all were more or less busily engaged with venison steaks, marrow-bones, goose drum-sticks, and fish; and comparative silence prevailed while the cravings of nature were being appeased. After supper, pipes were lighted, and conversation became animated for some time; but they were all too much fatigued to prolong this period, interesting though it was. One after another they spread their blankets under a convenient bush or tree, and, ere long, the whole party was in the land of Nod.

Chapter Five.

Describes a Literal Wild-Goose Chase and Other Matters.

Time sped on its proverbially rapid wing; the summer advanced, and still Mackenzie and his men continued to descend the mighty river of the far north, encountering dangers and vicissitudes enough undoubtedly, but happily escaping those terrified monsters of the forest and the flood, which had been described by the Copper Indians of Great Slave Lake, and the thought of which caused poor Coppernose himself to grow terrified and desperate by turns. Fain would that unhappy son of the forest have bid the party farewell, and returned to his own wigwam alone; but this might not be, for his services were of some importance, and the leader of the expedition kept on him constantly an eye, which excelled in intense watchfulness the glare of the fiercest of those creatures which filled his imagination. He submitted, therefore, with the best grace he could assume; but, what between being watched by Mackenzie, haunted by ghosts, and bullied by English Chief, poor Coppernose had a sad time of it. He possessed, however, a naturally elastic and jovial spirit, which tended greatly to ameliorate his condition; and as time passed by without any serious mishap, or the appearance of any unusually dreadful creature, he became gradually reconciled to his position.

One day—perhaps we should rather say one night, for it was approaching midnight, although the sun was still above the horizon, owing to the high northern latitude to which they had attained, rendering the whole twenty-four hours round a continuous day—one day (or night) as the canoes were sweeping down a reach of the broad river, they saw a few wreaths of smoke rising above the tree-tops. The spot was very beautiful, being thickly wooded and backed by high land, on the slopes of which the trees and bushes hung like delicate fringes of green among masses of silvery grey rock.

“That looks like the smoke of an Indian wigwam, Louis,” said Mackenzie to his bowman.

“No, monsieur, it is the wood burning,” replied Louis, dipping his vermilion-painted paddle with great vigour.

Louis was right, for soon afterwards they turned a point which disclosed to their view a considerable tract of woodland which had been recently destroyed by fire. Several tracts of this kind had been already passed, some of which had been consumed long before, and forests of young poplars had grown up in their places—a curious circumstance this, which Mackenzie remarks on, namely, “That wherever land covered with spruce, pine, and white birch had been laid waste with fire, there poplars, and nothing else, were found to grow, even though none of that species of tree had existed there before.”

Passing this desolated tract they came to a part of the river which was studded with several islands, on one of which reindeer were seen.

“There’s your chance,” said Mackenzie to his hunters, who happened to range up alongside in their small canoe at that moment.

“We’ve seed ’em, monsieur,” said Reuben, “but we must have some more ammunition afore startin’ after them, for the powder-horns of Lawrence and Swiftarrow are both empty.”

As soon as the horns were replenished, Reuben and his friends pushed out into the stream and made for the island. The other canoes continued to advance. They seldom waited for the hunters, for the latter being comparatively light, could act as a sort of flying artillery, falling behind, turning aside, or pushing ahead, as the case might require, in pursuit of game, and almost always returning to the main body about the camping hour, or soon after it. On this evening, however, the canoes reached a snug camping-ground before the usual time; they therefore determined to stop there and set the nets, as well as to overhaul the canoes, which stood much in need of repair. The cold of the ice-laden waters, through which they had recently passed, had cracked the gum off the seams, and collisions with the ice itself had made some ugly slits in the birch-bark of which the canoes were made.

That evening the nets, which were set in four fathoms water, produced an abundant supply of carp, whitefish, and trout.

“Now, lads,” said Mackenzie, when the canoe brought ashore the welcome provisions, “set the women to work to make pemmican, for we must leave a supply concealed here against our return.”

Louis Blanc superintended the making of this pemmican, which consisted of fish dried in the sun and pounded between two stones. Pemmican is also made of meat, in which case the pounded meat is put into a bag made of the raw hide of the animal; the bag is then filled with melted fat and the mouth sewed up with raw sinews. This style of pemmican will keep fresh for years.

“Where did English Chief go when we landed?” asked Mackenzie.

“Don’t know, monsieur,” replied Louis.

“After game, probably,” observed the leader, as he sat down on the stump of a fallen tree and began to make notes in his journal.

Some time thereafter, Reuben’s canoe returned laden with two deer, besides two swans, a number of ducks and hares, and several brace of ptarmigan, which latter were quite grey at that season, with the exception of one or two pure white feathers in the tail. They said that wild-fowl were innumerable among the islands; but this, indeed, was obvious to all, for everywhere their plaintive and peculiar cries, and the whirring or flapping of their wings, were heard even when the leafy screen over the encampment hid themselves from view. Darkeye also contributed her share to the general supplies, in the shape of several large birch-baskets full of gooseberries, cranberries, juniper-berries, rasps, and other wild berries, which, she said, grew luxuriantly in many places.

Meanwhile, the night (as regards time) advanced, although the daylight did not disappear, or even much diminish, but English Chief, with Coppernose and his two squaws, did not return, and their prolonged absence became at length a cause of no little anxiety to the leader of the expedition. The fact was that English Chief was fond of a little fun, and despite the dignified position which he held, and the maturity of his years, he could not resist availing himself of any little chance that came in his way of having what is more pithily than elegantly styled “a spree.”

It happened to be the particular period at which the wild-fowl of those regions begin to cast their feathers. Knowing this, English Chief quietly slipped off with his canoe when Mackenzie landed, and soon found a colony of swans afflicted with that humiliating lack of natural clothing, which is the cause, doubtless, of their periodically betaking themselves to the uttermost ends of the earth in order to hide in deep solitude their poverty, and there renew their garments. Judge then, reader, if you can, the consternation with which these once graceful creatures discovered that their retreat had been found out by that inquisitive biped, man—that they were actually caught in the act of moulting!

Uttering a terrific “hoozoo!” or some such equally wild Red-Indian hunting cry, English Chief dashed his paddle into the water; squaws and comrade followed suit; the canoe shot in among the rushes, and the whole party leaped on shore. Thus taken by surprise the swans bounced up, extended their miserable wings, uttered a trumpet-blast of alarm, and sought to fly. Of course they failed, but although they could not fly, they fled on the wings of terror, and with straight necks, heads low, legs doing double duty, and remnants of wings doing what they could, they made for the interior of the island at a pace which at first defied pursuit.

The higher part of the island was level and open, with here and there a few stunted bushes.

Arrived here the trumpeting crew scattered, like wise troops when pursued. English Chief set his heart and eyes on a particularly large bird, and dashed after it with upraised paddle. The swan made a desperate détour, apparently bent on gaining the water; it ran round a bush, and was almost caught in the arms of the younger squaw, who, leaving her senior in the canoe, had joined in the pursuit. A shriek from the squaw sent it off at a tangent to the left, pinions aloft, and terror depicted on its visage. English Chief also doubled, but a crooked stump caught his foot and sent him headlong into the bush. At that instant, Coppernose, having foiled a swan with a well-directed sweep of his paddle, came up and gave chase. English Chief, nettled at the interference, sprung up, followed and overtook him just as the hard-pushed swan turned at bay. Both men came upon it at the same moment, stumbled over it, and turned their wrath upon each other. The swan, recovering, ran wildly and blindly back towards the young squaw, who was so much alarmed by its look that she fairly turned and fled; but hearing the shouts of the Indians as they struggled, she turned towards them. Meanwhile, the elder squaw having landed, met the retreating swan just as it gained the rushes. Stooping down she allowed it to approach to within a yard of her—like a true heroine—and then, rising, hit it a neat blow on the back of the head and laid it low for ever.

After this she joined her sister-wife (if we may be allowed the expression) in trying to tear the Indians asunder. This was accomplished after a few seconds, but the two men still glared at each other. Fortunately they could do little more, having left their knives in the canoe. While they were still in a state of indecision, an unfortunate swan, which had taken refuge behind a bush, so far recovered its breath as to think it advisable to get still further away from such company. It was observed and followed as wildly as before by English Chief. This time Coppernose had the sense to confine his attentions to another part of the field, where, while prosecuting the chase, he suddenly came upon a flock of geese in the same helpless circumstances as the swans. Soon the swans were routed out of their places of concealment, and the cries of men, women, and birds again resounded in the air. The way in which those swans behaved was quite marvellous. They dodged the blows aimed at them, and “jinked” round the bushes as if they had been trained to such work in a regular public school for human bipeds, and they struck out with their pinions, too, so deftly and with such force that the pursuers had to become extremely cautious as well as bold in their approaches.

At last, when the Indians were thoroughly exhausted, they gave up the chase. On conveying the fruits of their exertions to the canoe, they found that they had killed five swans and a like number of geese. With these they returned in triumph to camp, to the great relief of Mackenzie, who had began to fear either that an accident had befallen them, or that they had deserted him.

At this place two bags of pemmican were concealed on an island, and here one of their leads was lost in taking soundings. The current of the river also was so violent that Mackenzie concluded they must be approaching the rapids, of which some of the natives had made mention. The strength of the current may be estimated from the fact that, when the lead just referred to caught on the bottom and held on, they attempted to clear it by paddling up stream; yet although they had eight paddles, and were held by the line, the strength of which was equal to four paddles, they were borne down with such force that the line snapped asunder.

Here the weather became very bad. They had frequent thunderstorms accompanied with violent rain, and, although it was at that time the beginning of July, ice lay in great quantities all along the banks of the river. On shore, the earth was thawed only to a depth of about fourteen inches. Indeed, the soil of those regions never thaws completely. At the hottest season of the year, if you were to dig down a few feet, you would come to a subsoil which is locked in the embrace of perpetual frost. Some signs of natives were discovered here, and, from the appearance of the cut trees, it was evident that they possessed no iron tools.

“Push forward,” was Mackenzie’s watchword more perhaps than it had been of any previous discoverer in Rupert’s Land. The Indians began ere long to complain bitterly of his perseverance. They were not accustomed to such constant and severe exertion, and it was with great difficulty that he prevailed on them to continue the voyage.

As they advanced, fresh signs of natives were observed, and at last, one evening, they came in sight of an encampment of them. It was at a place where the current of the great river was so strong that it was in actual ebullition, and produced a hissing noise like a kettle of water in a moderate boiling state. The region was mountainous, and just before them they perceived a high ridge covered with snow.

“They’re evidently not much used to visitors,” said Mackenzie, on observing that the natives were running about in great confusion, some making for the woods, and others hurrying to the canoes.

“They is used to be ’tacked by inimis,” said English Chief, who was rather proud of his knowledge of the English language.

“Hail them in the Chipewyan tongue,” said Mackenzie, as the canoes touched the beach. English Chief and the hunters landed first, and addressed the few natives who had ventured to remain, but they were so terrified as to be unable to reply. Seeing this, Mackenzie quietly landed, and gave orders for the pitching of the tents. While this was being done, the natives grew calm; they found that they understood Chipewyan; a few words relieved them of their apprehensions, and soon they not only came down to the tents, but were so gratified with their reception that they sent for those members of their tribe who had fled. Thus friendly relations were established.

There were five families, consisting of about thirty persons of two different tribes—the Slave and the Dog-rib Indians.

Chapter Six.

Indians met with, and the Mouth of the Great River Reached.

Heroes are not perfect. We deem it necessary to make this observation, because many modern biographers seem to imagine that their heroes are perfect, and even attempt to prove them to be so. We therefore feel it necessary to disclaim any such imagination or intention in regard to our hero. Alexander Mackenzie was indeed a hero, and a very fine specimen of a man—mentally as well as physically—if we are to credit the report of those who knew him best; but he was not perfect.

For instance, he evidently acted sometimes on the fallacious notion that whatever gave pleasure to himself must necessarily give pleasure to all other men. Acting on this idea in the present instance, he sought to delight the hearts of these Slave and Dog-rib Indians by presenting them with pipes and tobacco, and inducing them to smoke. To the credit of humanity be it recorded that they received the gift with marked dislike, although they were too polite to absolutely refuse it. Slaves though one section of them were in name, they were not slaves to tobacco; and the other section being Dog-ribs, had, we presume, too little of Adam’s rib in them to find pleasure in smoke. Of course, they knew something about smoke, but it was chiefly as a nuisance, which was very troublesome to the eyes, and which usually issued from the tops of their wigwams—not from human lips. It must also be recorded that those estimable savages entertained a strong antipathy to grog when it was produced. Their hearts were reached, however, and their souls gladdened, when knives, beads, awls, firesteels, flints, and hatchets were presented to them; and we can fancy how animated and earnest would be their converse over the wigwam fires, for weeks and months, if not for years, afterwards, when they brought out, for the thousandth time, and feasted their wondering eyes on, those delightfully useful implements, which had been left by the mysterious white beings who had dropped upon them so suddenly, as if from the skies, and whom they felt half inclined at first to reverence as gods.

Having won their confidence and esteem, Mackenzie proceeded to question them as to that portion of the great river which yet lay before him. Their account was an exaggerated echo of that previously obtained from the Indians of Great Slave Lake. Being, therefore, of little or no value, our hero was obliged to advance, and solve the question for himself. As before, the effect of the Indian stories on the Indians of his party was very marked and discouraging. With great difficulty Mackenzie overcame their objections to proceed, and even succeeded in persuading one of the Dog-rib Indians to accompany him by the potent influence of a small kettle, an axe, a knife, and a few other gifts. This man was a stout young fellow, in a very dirty deerskin coat and leggings, with a double blue line tattooed on his cheeks from the ears to the nose, on the bridge of which it met in a blue spot. Hence Lawrence, following the natural bent of his mind, which he had already displayed in naming Coppernose, immediately addressed this new recruit as Bluenose.

These poor savages, although exemplary in the matters of grog and tobacco, were, we are constrained to admit, a very filthy set of creatures; very poor also, because utterly destitute of such wealth as the fur-traders had carried to many of the less remote tribes of Indians. Nevertheless they possessed a considerable number of implements of their own manufacture, some of wood and others of bone, etcetera, which proved them to be possessed of much ingenuity and taste. The description of their weapons reminds one of those remains of prehistoric man which we find treasured in our museums, for they had arrows barbed with horn, flint, iron, and copper, spears shod with bone, daggers of horn and bone, and axes made of brown or grey stone. The latter were from six to eight inches long and two thick, having the inside flat and the outside round, and tapering to an edge, and were fastened by the middle to wooden handles with a cord of raw skin. They kindled fires by striking together a piece of white or yellow pyrites and a flint stone over a piece of touch-wood, and boiled water in water-tight baskets, by putting a succession of red-hot stones into them.

From these Indians the explorers learned that they had passed, on their voyage down the river, large bodies of Indians who inhabit the mountains.

“He’ll never make up his mind to go,” observed Reuben, as, when about to set forth again, he looked at the pale countenance of the Dog-rib who had agreed to join the party.

Mackenzie had already had a severe argument with him in order to induce him to fulfil his engagement, and had left him under the impression that he had been successful; but when the poor man had said farewell to the tribe, and was on the point of entering the canoe, his courage failed, and he drew back. Seeing this, Lawrence suddenly seized him by the nape of the neck, and exclaiming, “Come, look sharp, Bluenose, get in with ’ee,” gave him a lift that put the matter at rest by sending him sprawling on board. Next moment they were off, and shooting down the rapid current of the river.

That night they encamped, amid heavy squalls of wind and rain, at the foot of a rocky hill, on the top of which their new guide said that it blew a gale every day of the year! Here the Dog-rib became very unhappy, and pretended to be ill, but a strict watch was kept on him so that he could not escape. The country around them was very wild and rugged, and they were informed by their guide that great numbers of bears and small white buffaloes (musk-oxen?) frequented the mountains; also some tribes of Indians. Here some of the party attempted to ascend a steep hill, but were almost suffocated and fairly driven back by clouds of mosquitoes.

Natives were sometimes seen and spoken with, although their first impulse on beholding the voyagers was almost invariably to flee. On one occasion a whole tribe fled save one old man, who came boldly forward and said that he was too old to run or to care much about the short time that yet remained to him of this life. At the same time he pulled out his grey hair by handfuls, and distributed them among the party, imploring their favour for himself and his relations. His mind was quickly relieved by Swiftarrow, who seemed to have a special desire, as well as talent, for comforting aged persons of both sexes.

Some of these tribes were named the Hare Indians—hares and fish being their principal means of support. While spending a night with these people a storm of thunder and rain came on, in the midst of which the Dog-rib, Bluenose, managed to make his escape. As it was important to have a guide, Mackenzie compelled a Hare Indian to fill his place; and, after carrying him off, took great pains to conciliate him—in which efforts he was happily successful.

Next day they observed natives on the east shore of the river, and directed their course towards them. Their new guide began to call to them in an incomprehensible manner, and said that the natives did not belong to his tribe, but were a very wicked people, who would beat them cruelly, and pull out their hair, and maltreat them in various ways. Despite this warning Mackenzie advanced, and soon found them to be quite as willing to accept of gifts as other tribes. He found that they understood their guide, and that English Chief clearly comprehended one of themselves, although he could not make himself understood. Here the joyful information was obtained that in three days more they should meet with the Esquimaux, and in ten days at furthest reach the great salt lake—or the sea.

These natives were very superior to those whom the travellers had last met with, and one of them was engaged to take the place of Bluenose. This man, who was clad in a shirt made of the skins of the musk-rat, after which he was named, was a very lively individual. He sang the songs not only of his own tribe, but also those of the Esquimaux, with whom his tribe had been formerly at war, but were now at peace. He also undertook to perform an Esquimaux dance in Mackenzie’s canoe, and would infallibly have upset that conveyance had he not been violently restrained. He commented on the tribe to which Bluenose belonged with great contempt, calling them by the strong names of cowards and liars.

During these brief visits to the natives our discoverer was not only troubled by the thievish propensities of the natives, but had to guard against the same tendencies in his own men, some of whom were much confused as to the true course of rectitude in regard to “mine and thine”; in addition to which he had to contend with a general propensity on the part of his men to quarrel not only with each other, but with the weather, the journey, and the decrees of fate generally. By a judicious mixture, however, of firmness and suavity, severity and kindness, he managed to keep the several parts of his discordant band together; and, in so doing, proved himself an able general for the highest generalship consists in making the most of existing circumstances and materials.

The river here ran through various channels formed by islands, some of which were without a tree, while others were covered with spruce, fir, and other trees. The banks, which were about six feet above the surface of the river, displayed a face of solid ice intermixed with veins of black earth, and as the heat of the sun melted the ice, the trees frequently fell into the river. The variety of channels in the river rendered it difficult to decide which should be followed. Muskrat, the new guide, recommended that which ran to the east; but his leader, not feeling sure of his wisdom or knowledge, preferred the middle channel.

Here Mackenzie put ashore and proceeded to engage in some cabalistic pursuits which utterly confounded Muskrat.

“What is he doing?” asked the savage of English Chief.

“Taking the sun,” replied the interpreter, with immense pomposity.

“What does that mean?” asked the savage.

English Chief tried to explain, but failed for this good reason—that he himself was totally ignorant of the subject beyond the phrase, which he had picked up after the manner of a parrot.

It was found that the latitude was 67 degrees 47 minutes north. This was further north than Mackenzie had expected to make it, but the difference was owing to the variation of the compass. From this it became evident that the river emptied itself into the Polar Sea. Not satisfied, however, with the apparent certainty of this, our pioneer resolved to have ocular demonstration—to push on to the mouth of the river, even although, by so doing, he should risk not being able to return to Fort Chipewyan for want of provisions.

But now his men became so much discouraged that they did their utmost to induce him to turn back, and he felt convinced that if they had had it in their power, some of them would have left him to his fate. As Columbus did of old, in somewhat similar circumstances, he assured them that he would now advance only a specified number of days—seven, adding that if he did not then reach the sea he would return. Indeed the low state of their provisions alone formed a sufficient security for the maintenance of his engagement.

That evening (the 11th July) they pitched their tents near to a spot where there had been three encampments of the Esquimaux, and here Mackenzie sat up all night to observe the sun, being now in that realm of bright unchanging day, which in winter becomes a region of continuous night.

At half-past twelve he called up Reuben Guff and his son and Swiftarrow, who were the most intelligent members of his party, to view a spectacle which they had never before seen. They thought, on observing the sun so high, that it was the signal to embark, and were about to rouse their comrades, when Mackenzie checked them, and it was with difficulty he persuaded them that the sun had not descended nearer to the horizon, and that it was then but a short time past midnight!

It is but justice to Reuben and his party to say that they offered no opposition to their leader during the whole voyage. In regard to this, one speech made by Reuben will suffice to describe the spirit that animated him.

“It don’t do, Lawrence,” said he, “to go for to interfere wi’ them as leads. Be they wise or be they foolish it on’y makes matters wus to interfere wi’ leaders, my lad; therefore it’s best always to hold your tongue an’ do yer dooty. What Monsieur Mackenzie is, it ain’t for the likes of you and me to pretend for to judge. He seems to me an able, brave, and wise man, so my colours is nailed to the mast, d’ye see—as was said by the immortal Lord Nelson—an’ I’ve made up my mind to follow him to the end, through thick and thin. It’s little right I would have to claim to be a pioneer if I didn’t hold them sentiments.”

“Them sentiments,” we need scarcely add, were heartily echoed by his Indian friend and his son.

The appearance of deserted native encampments still further confirmed Mackenzie in his belief that he had at length reached the land of the Esquimaux. Round their fireplaces were found scattered pieces of whalebone, and spots were observed where train-oil had been spilt. The deserted huts also corresponded in construction with those which were known to be built elsewhere by the denizens of the far north. Several runners of sledges were also found, and the skulls of a large animal, which was conjectured to be the walrus. Here the land was covered with short grass and flowers, though the earth was not thawed above four inches from the surface; beneath that all was frozen hard.

The pioneers had now at last reached the entrance of what appeared to be a lake, which was in the neighbourhood of the Polar Sea, if not that sea itself; but the variety of channels, the strength of currents, the shallowness of the water and quantity of ice with which it was beset, with the ignorance of their guide, rendered it impossible to make any further advance that season. The object of the expedition, however, had been accomplished. The largest northern river of America, estimated at 2000 miles in length, had been traced from its source to its outlet in the Polar Sea; the nature of the country and its inhabitants had been ascertained; coal and copper ore had been discovered; the region had been wrenched from the realms of terra incognita, and the energetic pioneer fixed the position of his most northerly discoveries in 69 degrees 7 minutes north latitude. Another fact which proved that they were within the influence of the sea was the rise and fall of the water, which could be nothing else than the tide.

They caught a fish, also, resembling a herring, which none of the party had ever seen except English Chief who declared it to be of a kind that abounds in Hudson’s Bay, and finally they beheld what settled the question, a shoal of white whales, which their Indian guide said was the principal food of the Esquimaux.

It was no wonder that the discoverers found the navigation very intricate, because that great river, now named the Mackenzie, is known to empty its waters into the Polar Sea by innumerable mouths which form a delta of about forty miles in width. Storms, rain, and fogs, threw additional hindrances in their way. There was, therefore, nothing left for it but to erect a post and take possession of the land in the name of the King.

Homeward! after that, was the order of the day. But what a mighty distance off that home was! And, after all, when reached it was but a log-hut or two in a part of the vast wilderness which, regarded from a civilised-land point of view, was itself the very confines of the known world. Our space forbids us to follow Mackenzie and his men on their arduous and interesting return voyage. Suffice it to say that they dragged the canoes by means of lines against the strong current for a large portion of the way; and, after incurring innumerable dangers from natives, rapids, storms, and starvation, they reached the Lake of the Hills and landed at Fort Chipewyan on the 12th of September 1789, having been absent for the long period of one hundred and two days.

That our hero was not content to rest upon the laurels thus gathered in the far north, but longed to act the part of pioneer over the Rocky Mountains into the far west, shall be made plain in our next chapter.

Chapter Seven.

A Voyage of Discovery to the Far West Planned and Begun.

Three years passed away, during which period Mackenzie, being busily occupied with his arduous duties as a fur-trader, could not carry out the more noble purposes of discovery on which his heart was set. But a time at length arrived when circumstances permitted him to turn his eyes once more with a set purpose on the unknown wilderness of the West. Seated one fine morning about the beginning of spring, in his wooden residence at Fort Chipewyan, he observed Reuben Guff passing the window with an axe on his shoulder, that worthy, with his son and Swiftarrow, having engaged in the service of the fur-traders at the end of the late expedition. Opening the door, Mackenzie called him in.

“Where are you bound for just now, Reuben?”

“To dinner, monsieur.”

“Reuben,” said Mackenzie, with a peculiar look, “has all your pioneering enthusiasm oozed out at your finger ends?”

“No, monsieur,” replied the man, with a slight smile, “but Lawrence and I have bin thinkin’ of late that as Monsieur Mackenzie seems to have lost heart, we must undertake a v’yage o’ diskivery on our own account!”

“Good. Then you are both ready, doubtless, to begin your discoveries with a canoe journey of some extent on short notice?”

“At once, monsieur, if it please you.”

“Nay, Reuben, not quite so fast as that,” said Mackenzie, with a laugh; “you may have your dinner first. But to-morrow you shall become a genuine pioneer by preceding me towards the far west. You know the position of our most distant settlements on the Peace River?”

“Perfectly,” said Reuben, whose eye kindled as he began to see that his master was in earnest.

“Well, I intend to visit these settlements this fall, and push on towards the Rocky Mountains. It will take me to the end of the season to accomplish this, so that our real voyage of discovery will not begin until the following spring. Now, there is a certain locality beyond our most distant outpost, which I shall describe to you afterwards, where I intend to build a fort and spend next winter, so as to be on the spot ready to begin the moment the ice breaks up. Preparations must be made there for the building of the fort. Timber must be felled, cut, and squared for the houses and palisades, and two able and willing, as well as experienced men, must go there to begin this work without delay. It occurs to me that the two best men I have for such work are Reuben Guff and his son. Are they prepared for this duty, think you?”

“Say the word, monsieur,” was Reuben’s laconic but significant reply.

“Well, then, it is said. Come back here after dinner with Lawrence, and I will give you instructions: you shall start to-morrow at daybreak.”

Reuben bowed and left the hall with a light step. Next day he and his son started on their journey in a small birch-bark canoe; on the 10th of October Mackenzie followed in a canoe of larger dimensions. He visited several establishments of the district of which he had charge; ascended the Peace River towards its unknown sources, gave good advice to the several bands of Indians whom he met with by the way, and generally strengthened the hearts and hands of his agents. Passing the last outpost on the river, he pushed on, until, finally, he reached his intended winter-quarters on the 1st of November—not a day too soon, for the river was already being covered with its winter coat of ice.

Here he found Reuben and Lawrence, bronzed and hardened with toil and exposure. They had done good service during the previous summer, for all the timber was prepared, a space marked out for the fort, and a deep trench dug for the palisades. Here also were found a band of natives, amounting to about seventy men, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Chief, as they styled Mackenzie, and thirsting especially for tobacco and rum, both of which—unlike the natives of the far north—they were particularly fond of.

To build a fort in a few weeks, consisting of a dwelling-house and several stores, with palisades eighteen feet high, in the midst of frost so intense that their axes sometimes became as brittle as glass, and living in tents the while, exposed to the storms of wind and snow peculiar to a hyperborean clime, was a feat which, if detailed, would fill a volume. We are constrained to dismiss the subject in a line. Thus curtly, also, must we treat the winter. Yet some points we cannot forbear to touch on, illustrative as they are of some curious experiences of the fur-traders.

The Indians there were unusually ignorant of medical science, and when ill applied to Mackenzie, believing, with childlike simplicity, that he certainly knew everything and could do anything!

One woman came to him with a swelled breast, which her friends had lacerated with flints in order to cure it; this failing, they had blown on it, but with similar want of success. Mackenzie knew not what to do, but, bringing common sense to bear on the case, he made the poor creature keep it clean (she was naturally dirty), poulticed it several times, and anointed it with healing salve. In a short time a perfect cure was effected. After that an Indian while at work in the woods was attacked with a sudden pain near the first joint of his thumb, which disabled him. He appealed to Mackenzie, who, to his surprise, found a narrow red inflamed stripe about an inch wide, extending from the man’s thumb to his shoulder. The pain was very violent, and accompanied with chilliness and shivering. Mackenzie admits that the case was quite beyond his skill; but as it was necessary to relieve the Indian’s mind, he attempted a cure. He prepared a kind of volatile liniment of rum and soap, with which he ordered the arm to be rubbed. The success of this treatment was doubtful, because at first it drove the man mad, and the red stripe not only increased but extended in the form of several blotches on the body, and was accompanied by pains in the stomach. Seeing this, our amateur doctor fell back on the old plan of bleeding, an operation which he had never before performed. The result was marvellous. The following night the man was much better, and ere long was restored to his former health, and filled with gratitude.

Again, on another occasion, a young Indian’s gun burst and maimed his hand so that the thumb hung by a mere strip of flesh. When he came to the fort his wound was in a very offensive state. His friends had done their best for him, but as their panacea for everything consisted in singing or howling, and blowing on the affected part, he was not perceptibly the better for their exertions. The youth’s life being in danger, Mackenzie once more tried his skill. He applied to it a poultice of bark stripped from the roots of the spruce fir, having first washed the wound with the juice of the bark. This proved to be a very painful dressing, but it cleaned the wound effectually. He then cut off the pendent thumb, and applied a dressing of salve composed of Canadian balsam, wax, and tallow dropped from a burning candle into the water. As before, the treatment was successful, insomuch that the young red-skin was soon in the hunting-field again, and brought an elk’s tongue as a fee to his benefactor.

During the winter he was visited by a few Rocky Mountain Indians, who gave him some important information; namely, that the Peace River in the mountain districts was interrupted by numerous bad rapids and falls, and that, towards the mid-day sun, there was another great river whose current ran in an opposite direction, the distance between the sources of the two rivers being short.

The winter, with its dreary storms and bitter colds, at length passed away, and genial spring returned. As soon as the ice broke up, preparations were made for an immediate start. Their large birch-bark canoe had been overhauled and repaired. Her dimensions were twenty-five feet long inside, two feet two inches deep, and four feet nine inches wide. She carried goods for presents, provisions, arms, ammunition, baggage, etcetera, to the extent of three thousand pounds weight, with a crew of ten men, including their chief; yet she was so light that two men could carry her when empty for three or four miles without resting. They had no small canoe on this voyage. Their hopes, and, it may be truly said, their lives, were dependent on this solitary and frail conveyance.

As we have said, Mackenzie took nine men with him on this occasion, our friends Reuben, Lawrence, and Swiftarrow being among the number, and two of them being young Indian hunters of that region, who were supposed to be acquainted with at least part of the route they were about to pursue, and who were to act as interpreters. English Chief had long before left his former master, and no women were allowed to go with the party—even Darkeye was left behind! There was one other member of the party whom we must not omit to mention—namely, a large dog named Wolf.

On the 9th of May 1793, Mackenzie left the fort in charge of his interpreter, pushed off into the waters of the Peace River, turned the canoe’s bow westward, and the voyage of discovery began.

A few days afterwards they passed through scenery which all confessed was the most beautiful they had ever beheld.

“’Tis like a glimpse o’ paradise,” exclaimed Reuben, as the whole party rested on their paddles for a few minutes to gaze upon it.

“Ho!” exclaimed Swiftarrow, with a nod to his friend, which evidently was meant for assent.

“Betterer nor the Hudson,” said Ducette, one of the Canadians, with a look of admiration.

“Does it beat Scottisland, monsieur?” asked Lawrence, with a somewhat sly expression.

“Well, ahem,” replied Mackenzie with hesitation, “it’s not exactly—that is, it is vastly different and truly magnificent—they won’t compare, Lawrence; they won’t compare!”

The region did indeed merit all that could be said in its praise. The ground on the west side of the river—which was wide and full of lovely wooded islets—rose at intervals to a considerable height, and stretched inwards to a great distance; at the foot of every slope there was a soft, grassy lawn, broken here and there by abrupt precipices, which were fringed with exuberant verdure. Shrubs and trees of every kind, in clumps and in groves, crested the heights or nestled in the hollows: among them were groves of poplar, with the white spruce and soft birch, and other trees; while the banks abounded with alders and willows. Those that bore blossom were just opening their bright buds, and the setting sun cast a rich golden light over all, as though the glory of the beneficent Creator were shining on His gorgeous handiwork. But that beautiful wilderness did not blossom and bloom in solitude. It was tenanted and enjoyed by countless numbers of living creatures. Wherever the travellers turned their eyes, vast herds of elk and buffaloes were to be seen, the latter sporting with their young ones on the plains, the former preferring to browse on the slopes and uplands; and innumerable birds of all shapes and sizes enlivened the scene with their varied gyrations, and filled the air with melody.

It seemed, indeed, a species of paradise; but not far from it the travellers were painfully reminded of its terrestrial nature by the sight of a wide-spread conflagration, which carried fierce destruction over the whole plain, and left black ruin behind; and still further on Mackenzie was robbed of the pleasurable feelings due to the influence of sweet scenery, by the baleful influence of man in the shape of a chief of the Beaver Indians with a hunting-party. He tried to push on past these Indians, but they kept up with the canoe, running along shore, and when night approached he was compelled to encamp with them. The consequence was, as he had feared, that these people attempted to terrify his young Indian interpreters with dreadful accounts of the land beyond, and succeeded so far that it was with the utmost difficulty that they could be persuaded to remain with the expedition.

Next night they encamped at a spot where a stream fell into the Peace River from the north.

“Voilà! w’at is dis?” exclaimed Ducette, as he leaped on shore.

“The fut-print of a grizzly bar,” said Reuben, stooping to examine and measure the mark; “an oncommon big ’un, too—full nine inches wide. I wouldn’t like to embrace that bar.”

The den, or place where this monster or some of its kindred had spent the winter, was also found not far-off. It was ten feet deep, horizontally, five feet high, and six feet wide.

“I wish we could find him,” said Lawrence as he kindled the camp-fire.

“Ha! Swiftarrow has found something better,” said Mackenzie, as the Indian strode into camp laden with the tongue, marrow-bones, and other choice portions of an elk which he had killed a short distance down the river.

Lawrence had his wish next day, for they found a grizzly bear so fierce-looking and large that it was well for him he was in the canoe struggling with rapids at the time, for he was reckless enough to have attacked it single-handed—a very dangerous proceeding, and a thing that the Indians never do. They appear to think that at least three men are necessary to the destruction of this much and justly feared monster of the mountains.

Lawrence looked at Bruin with a feeling of bloodthirsty desire; Bruin looked at Lawrence with an expression of stupid curiosity; and then slowly, not to say sulkily, retired into his native forest. Next day they beheld a more gratifying sight,—namely, the snow-capped Rocky Mountains themselves, within the rugged portals of which their canoe passed not long afterwards. Here, as was to be expected, the river became narrower and more turbulent, and ere long the explorers had to face dangers and difficulties which tested their courage and endurance to the uttermost.

Chapter Eight.

Difficulties and Dangers Faced and Overcome.

Their entrance on the difficult navigation of the mountains was inaugurated by an accident to the canoe. It was a slight one, however,—a rub against a rock which cracked the bark, and compelled them to land and spend an hour or so in mending it.

The current here was very strong, and creeping up along the banks was dangerous, owing to the masses of rock that frequently fell from the cliffs.

At one turn of the river in particular, a loud noise was heard, “Look out!” cried Mackenzie.

Before any one could well understand what danger threatened them, an enormous mass of rock was seen to bound down the banks right abreast of them, crashing through trees and bushes, and sending down showers of smaller stones. The men paddled with all their might, but the rock came straight at them, struck a flat piece of the cliff; and bursting like a bombshell, descended round them in a shower of small pieces, none of which, however, touched them, although many fell very near.

Coming one afternoon to a place where the current was stronger than usual, Mackenzie landed with Reuben, Lawrence, and Ducette, in order to lighten the canoe. They ascended the hills, which were covered with cypress, and but little encumbered with underwood. Here they found a beaten path, made either by Indians or wild animals. After walking a mile along it, they fell in with a herd of buffaloes with their young ones.

“Hist!” whispered Reuben, throwing forward the muzzle of his gun with the instinct of a hunter.

“Don’t fire,” said Mackenzie, arresting his arm; “it may alarm the natives, if any should chance to be within earshot. Send Wolf at them, Ducette.”

Wolf, who belonged to Ducette, and had followed his master, was a splendid fellow,—not unlike the animal after which he had been named. He was well trained too, and kept foot and tongue equally under command, until his master’s wishes were made known. Hearing his name mentioned, he cocked his ears and gazed up in Ducette’s face.

“Allons donc, Wolf,” said Ducette.

Instantly the dog made a magnificent rush into the midst of the herd, which scattered right and left, and seized a young calf by the nose! The creature, though young, was powerful, and for some time struggled bravely; but the hound held on with deadly firmness, and worried the calf—to such an extent that in a short time Ducette was able to run in and despatch it.

To skin and dismember the carcase was a matter of little difficulty to these hunters, who were all expert butchers. They had just completed the work, and were congratulating each other on this accession of veal to the larder when a shot was heard in the direction of the canoe. It was immediately followed by another.

“The signal to recall us,” said Mackenzie. “Gather up the meat, lads; come, be smart. Give them a couple of shots, Reuben, in reply.”

The shots were fired, and, pushing down the hill through very close underwood, they soon came upon the canoe at the foot of a rapid which it was deemed impossible to ascend. What seemed impossible to some of his men, however, was by no means impossible to Mackenzie himself. He surveyed their position, saw that the succession of rapids above were indeed impracticable on that side of the river, but observed that on the other side it seemed possible to continue the ascent. The chief danger lay in attempting to cross with a heavily-laden canoe; but the attempt was made, and proved successful.

The dangers and mishaps which now assailed them in succession were enough to have damped the ardour of the most resolute pioneer; but there are some natures which cannot be quelled, whose motto in all circumstances seem to be “Victory or death!” Of such a spirit was Alexander Mackenzie, although some of his men would fain have turned back. Indeed, the overcoming of their objection to proceed sometimes cost him more trouble than overcoming the difficulties of the navigation.

On reaching the other side of the river, they towed the canoe along an island, and advanced well enough till they reached the extremity of it, when the line had to be exchanged for the paddles. In attempting to clear the point of the island, they were driven with great violence on a stony shore, and the frail canoe received considerable injury. To land and unload was the work of a few minutes; but it took a long time to repair the damage, by fitting in new pieces of bark and re-gumming the exposed seams. Part of the cargo, also, had to be opened and dried. This accomplished, they carried the whole across the point which had damaged them, reloaded and embarked. But it was now seen that it was not possible to advance farther up that side of the river either by paddling, hauling with the line, or pushing with poles. There remained only the alternative, therefore, of returning by the way they had come, or recrossing the river despite the strength of the current and the fact that there were several cascades just below them, to get into which would have involved canoe and men in certain destruction.

“Ve can nevair do it. Monsieur dare not!” whispered Ducette to Reuben, as they floated for a few moments in an eddy.

Reuben glanced at his leader, who stood up in the canoe surveying the boiling rapids with a stern, intent gaze, and said quietly, “He’ll try.”

“Now, my lads, shove out with a will—ho!” said Mackenzie, sitting down.

Lawrence, who was steering, dipped his paddle vigorously, the men followed suit, the canoe shot into the stream, and in a moment gained the sheltering eddy below an island, which was shaped somewhat like a table with a thick centre leg—or a mushroom. There were several such islands of solid rock in the river. They had been formed apparently by the action of the current—doubtless also of ice—cutting away their lower part, and leaving the mushroom-like tops, on which numbers of geese found a convenient breeding-place. From one to another of these islands the canoe shot in this way, thus decreasing the width of the final traverse. They paused a little longer at the last island, then shot into the stream, and, with a splendid sweep, gained the other side.

But here their case was little improved, for the current was almost as violent as that from which they had escaped. The craggy banks being low enough, however, to admit of the tracking-line being used, the men landed and towed the canoe till they came to the foot of the most rapid cascade they had yet seen. To ascend being impossible, they unloaded and carried everything over a rocky point; relaunched, reloaded, and continued to track with the line: but the dangers attending this operation had now seriously increased, for stones both small and great came continually rolling down the bank, and the steepness of the ground was such that the risk of the men slipping and falling into the water became imminent; besides which they had frequently to pass outside of trees which overhung the precipices; at such times a false step or a slip might have proved fatal. Presently they came to a sheer impassable precipice, where the men had to embark and take to poling up the stream; but ere long they got into water too deep for the poles, and recourse was again had to the tracking-line. Coming to another precipice, they were again checked; but Mackenzie, finding that the rock was soft, cut steps in it for the distance of about twenty feet, and thus passing along, leaped, at the risk of his life, on a small rock below, where he received those who followed him on his shoulders. Thus four of them passed, and managed to drag up the canoe, though they damaged her in doing so. They had now reached a spot where the canoe could be repaired, and fortunately found a dead tree which had fallen from the cliffs above. But for this, fire could not have been kindled there, as no wood was to be procured within a mile of the place; in which case the repairs could not have been accomplished.

Thus yard by yard these hardy pioneers advanced by means of the line, the paddle, or the pole, sometimes carrying the lading, sometimes the canoe as well, and often within a hairbreadth of destruction. Indeed, nothing but the coolness, courage, and skill of all concerned could, under God, have brought them safely through the fatigues and dangers of that tremendous day.

But they had not yet done with it. Having surmounted these and many other difficulties, they reached a place where it became absolutely necessary to make a traverse across an unusually strong current. Here the men silently showed their estimate of the danger by stripping themselves to their shirts, that they might be the better prepared to swim for their lives, in case of accident to the canoe! Fortunately the traverse was made successfully, and then at noon Mackenzie stopped and went ashore to take an altitude. While he was thus engaged, the men fastened the canoe and left it; but so insecure was the fastening that the current sheered her off, and if it had not happened that one of the men had remained in her and held on to the line, they would then and there have been deprived of every means of advancing or returning, as well as of present subsistence!

Despite the alarming nature of this incident, and the interference of a cloud that sought to neutralise the sun, our persevering traveller completed his observations, and proved the luckless spot to be situated in 56 degrees north latitude.

The rapidity of the current increased so much here, that in the distance of two miles they were compelled to unload four times and carry everything except the canoe; and even when thus light they found it difficult to prevent her being dashed to pieces against the rocks by the violence of the eddies.

The last danger they encountered was the worst. They came to a place where the river was nothing less than one continuous rapid, and they took everything out of the canoe, intending to tow her up with the line, only a few of the men being left in her. At length, however, the tumultuous heaving of the water was so great that a wave struck the canoe’s bow and broke the line. The dismay of those on shore may be imagined, for now it seemed as if nothing could save their comrades from destruction; and certainly no human power did save them on that occasion; for, while they grasped the sides of the canoe helplessly, another wave drove them with a wild surge out of the tumbling water; so that the men were enabled to thrust her ashore; and, strange to say, though the frail vessel had been carried by tossing swells over rocks which were left naked a moment later, she had received no material injury.

This last accident, coupled with the fact that the river as far as they could see was a sheet of white foaming water, induced the leader of the band to give up all idea of advancing farther at that point by water.

But do not imagine, good reader, that this implied the desertion of the canoe. On the contrary, that accommodating vessel having hitherto carried our pioneers, they now proposed to carry it—as shall be related presently.

Mackenzie met the grumbling discontent of his men with an order to ascend the hill and encamp there for the night.

“Vraiment—it all very easy to say go up dere and camp for de noit,—mais I will go not farder!” growled Ducette, as he threw a heavy bag of provisions on his back and trudged sulkily up the hill.

The two young Indians evidently approved of this sentiment, and one or two of the other men seemed inclined to echo it; but Reuben and Lawrence laughed as they each shouldered a burden,—and the former said it was his firm conviction that nothing would, could, or should stop Monsieur Mackenzie but the Pacific Ocean.

The precipitous bank of the river, or “hill,” up which they were desired to carry the tents, provisions, etcetera, necessary for their encampment, was so steep and encumbered with wood and scrub, that it might of itself have formed a sufficiently disheartening obstacle to men less accustomed to hardships; nevertheless, they braced themselves to it with wonted vigour, pushed through the scrub, felled trees to facilitate their ascent, and climbed like monkeys by the stems, until they gained the summit, where very soon a roaring fire was covered with bubbling kettles and broiling steaks and marrow-bones.

Meanwhile Mackenzie, accompanied by Swiftarrow, went off on foot to survey the river ahead. He walked as long as daylight permitted, but found that there seemed to be no end to the rapids and cascades, and returned to camp with worn-out moccasins and wounded feet. During the excursion he came on several old encampments of the Knisteneaux Indians, which must have been formed during war expeditions, a decided proof, he thought, of the savage and bloodthirsty nature of that people, seeing that their natural hunting-grounds were very far removed from those almost inaccessible regions.

It now became too apparent to the leader of the expedition that the mountain at this place must be crossed on foot, with the canoe and its heavy lading on the shoulders of himself and his men; but before deciding on this course, he resolved to despatch Reuben and three men with the two Indian interpreters to proceed along the line of the river until they should reach a navigable part of it. Accordingly, next day this party set out. Mackenzie remained in camp to superintend the repairing of the canoe and take observations. He was successful in obtaining correct time, and found the latitude to be 56 degrees 8 minutes.

At sunset the exploring party returned. They had penetrated the thick woods, ascended hills, descended valleys, and had finally got above the rapids, a distance of about three leagues; but their account of the difficulties in the way of advancing was very discouraging indeed. Mackenzie had foreseen this, and had made suitable preparations to counteract the evil effects thereof. In their absence he had prepared for them an enormous kettle of wild rice highly sweetened with sugar. When the tired, hungry, and footsore men sat down to this they became quite willing to listen to their leader’s arguments in favour of a bold advance, and when the hearty supper was washed down with a liberal allowance of rum, and finished off with a pipe, they avowed themselves ready to face anything! In this satisfactory state of mind they retired to rest, while their leader sat up in the hope of obtaining an observation of Jupiter and his first satellite, which laudable aim was frustrated by cloudy weather.

Chapter Nine.

Deeper and Deeper into the Unknown Wilderness.

Next day the arduous work of cutting a road through the forest and up the mountainside was begun.

At daybreak their leader assembled the men. “Now, my lads,” said he, “the work before us for the next two or three days will be very stiff, but it would be a disgrace to us if after having come so far, we were so soon—only a little beyond the middle of May—to give in because of a few difficulties. Besides, I am strongly of opinion that we cannot now be far from the height of land, and you know well enough that the moment we set foot on the other side of the topmost ridge of the mountains it will be all down stream. Let us set to work, then, with a will. Take your axes and cut your way through everything. The trees here are, as you see, of small growth. Cut those of them that stand conveniently in such a way as that they shall fall parallel with the intended road, but don’t sever them quite through so that they make a sort of railing on each side. Come, Lawrence, I’m glad to see that you are ready to begin, like a good pioneer—show them an example.”

Lawrence, who was the only one of the listening band who chanced to have his axe on his shoulder, smiled when thus addressed, and, turning round, exclaimed “Voilà!” as he swayed the axe aloft and sent it sweeping at one stroke through a young tree, which fell with a crash and covered half of the party with its branches.

A general laugh followed, and immediately the whole band set to work with their axes, headed by Mackenzie himself.

From early morning till sunset they toiled during the next three days, almost without cessation, except for meals. They cut their way from the margin of the river, where the rocks and ground shelved so steeply that one false step of any of the men would have been followed by a headlong plunge into the water. Over the ridge, and down into a hollow beyond, and up the mountain farther on, they hewed a broad track, by which they conveyed the baggage and then carried up the canoe. This latter was an extremely difficult operation at the first part of the road, requiring the united efforts of the whole party. Being lifted on the shoulders of some of the men, the tracking-rope was fastened to the bow, and others of the party went in advance and took a couple of turns of the rope round a stump. The bearers then advanced steadily up the steep side of the mountain till they reached those who, by holding on to the rope, relieved them of any downward weight. The rope was then shifted to a stump farther up, and the advance was continued. Thus they may be said to have warped the canoe up the mountain! By two in the afternoon everything was got to the summit. Then Mackenzie, axe in hand, led the way forward. The progress was slow, the work exhausting. Through every species of country they cut their way. Here the trees were large and the ground encumbered with little underwood; there, the land was strewn with the trunks of fallen timber, where fire had passed with desolating power years before, and in its place had sprung up extensive copses of so close a growth, and so choked up with briars, that it was all but impossible to cut through them. Poplar, birch, cypress, red-pine, spruce, willow, alder, arrow-wood, red-wood, hard, and other trees,—all fell before the bright axes of the voyageurs, with gooseberry-bushes, currant-bushes, briars, and other shrubs innumerable. It must not be supposed that they did this heavy work with absolute impunity. No, there was many a bruise and blow from falling trees, and even the shrubs were successful not only in tearing trousers and leggings, but also in doing considerable damage to skin and flesh. So toilsome was the labour, that at the close of one of the days they had advanced only three miles.

On the afternoon of the third day they finally came out in triumph on the banks of the river above the cascades, having cut a road of about nine miles in extent.

Once again, then, behold them afloat and paddling up stream—still westward—with hopes animated and fortune smiling, or, as Reuben put it, with “a gale of luck blowin’ right astarn.” Reuben, be it observed, had consorted with sailors in his day down the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and had picked up a little of their slang.

But their good fortune never lasted long at a time. Their progress being very slow, it was found advisable to send the young Indian interpreters on shore to lighten the canoe and to hunt as they advanced. They frequently killed elk and other game. On one of these occasions Swiftarrow was nearly killed. He had been sent to fetch the choice parts of an elk which they had shot, when a big rock fell from the cliffs above, and was dashed to pieces at his very feet. Just after this incident a violent fall of rain took place, obliging them to remain in camp for a day. Then driftwood barred the river, and an opening had to be forced through it. Then more cascades appeared to check their advance; and, worst of all, just as they began to hope that the height of land was gained, an opening in the hills revealed a range of blue mountains far ahead of them, running south and north as far as the eye could reach. To add to their perplexities, they came to a fork in the river, one branch running due west, the other in a southerly direction.

“Follow the westerly branch,” said one; “that must be the right one.”

“Not so sure o’ that,” observed Reuben; “the end of a track don’t needsesarly p’int out the gin’ral run of it.”

“You are right, Reuben,” said Mackenzie; “besides, I have been warned of this very branch by an old Indian whom I met last winter, and who said he had been up here in his youth. Therefore, though appearances are against it, I shall follow the southern branch.”

Mackenzie was right in this determination, as it afterwards proved, but most of his men grumbled very much at the time, because the southerly branch, besides appearing to be the wrong one, was a very rapid and dangerous stream. They knew by that time, however, that nothing could bend their leader’s will, so they submitted, though with a bad grace.

Here an immense number of beaver were seen, and a gladsome sight it was to the fur-trader, because beaver skins at that time were in great repute—silk hats not having, as yet, beaten them off the field and reduced their value to almost nothing. In some places these sagacious and busy animals had cut down several acres of large poplars. At this place, too, they had an alarm, some of the men declaring that they had heard shots fired by Indians in the woods. A whole night was therefore spent on the qui vive, although it turned out to be a false alarm.

One morning, the weather being fine and the river more manageable than usual, Mackenzie landed with Reuben and the two Indians, to ascend an adjacent mountain, telling his men to proceed in the canoe diligently, and directing them to fire two shots if they should require his return, agreeing that he would do the same if he should wish them to wait for him. Nothing was gained by this attempt to obtain a better prospect. On descending to the river they fired two shots, as agreed on, but no answer was received. Again they tried it, but the deep silence was only broken by an echo and by the rushing of the river.

“They’re behind us,” suggested Reuben.

“They’ve overshot us,” said the Indians.

Again two shots were fired, but still no reply came. Mackenzie’s mind was at once filled with anxious fears lest some accident should have befallen his canoe, while he reproached himself for having left them even for a brief period in such dangerous navigation.

In these circumstances he turned to consult with his men.

“It’s my opinion,” said Reuben, “that they’ve diskivered more rapids than they bargained for, and are out of earshot behind us; so we’d better make tracks down stream till we find ’em.”

“Not so,” said the elder of the Indians; “without doubt the canoe is dashed to pieces, and our comrades are even now with their forefathers. We shall see them no more; and my advice is that we construct a raft and try to return on it to the lands whence we came.”

Anxious though he was, Mackenzie could scarce refrain from laughing at the prompt way in which the red man had consigned his comrades to destruction. “Come,” said he, “we won’t give them up quite so readily as you seem inclined to. We shall make at least one effort to find them.”

It was now arranged that Reuben and one of the Indians should remain at the spot where they then were, kindle a large fire, and send branches down the stream from time to time, as a signal to their comrades if they chanced to be below, and that Mackenzie with the other Indian should walk up the bank of the river several miles. This was done; but they returned after some hours to the fire, having seen nothing of the canoe.

As evening was now approaching, they became thoroughly alarmed, and a more rigorous plan of search was instituted. Reuben was sent off with one Indian to proceed down the river as far as he could go before night came on, with directions to continue the journey in the morning as far as to the place where they had encamped the preceding evening. Mackenzie with the other Indian again went off up the river, intending to make a thorough search in that direction. They had no food with them, but, having their guns and the means of making fire, they had no anxiety on that score, except in regard to an immediate meal, for game was scarcer than usual at that particular spot.

It was agreed that if both should fail of success, they were to return to the place where they then separated. But their anxieties were brought to an end sooner than they had hoped for. Not very long after parting, Mackenzie heard a very far-off shot, and then another, and in a few minutes an answering double shot at a still greater distance. These being the concerted signals, he knew that the canoe party must have been discovered by Reuben; he therefore retraced his steps with a light heart, despite the fact that he had worn the moccasins off his feet, and was completely drenched with rain. It turned out that the delay had been occasioned by the breaking of the canoe, and the consequent necessity of landing to repair damages. Indeed, the sorely-battered craft had become almost a wreck. As a fitting climax to this disastrous day, the night finished off with thunder, lightning, and rain.

While thus forcing their way to the head-waters of the river, they met with a small party of miserable-looking natives, who received them at first with violent demonstrations of an intention to immolate them on the spot if they should dare to land. It was evident that the poor creatures had been subjected to bad treatment and deception by other and more powerful tribes, because they remained in a state of great suspicion and anxiety even after the interpreter had stated earnestly that the intentions of the white men were friendly, and after gifts had been presented to them. By degrees, however, they became more confident, and as their anxieties diminished their curiosity increased.

“I do believe,” said Lawrence, “that the critters have never seen white folk before.”

To most people it might have seemed ridiculous to have heard that bronzed voyageur calling himself and his brown-faced, smoke-dried, weather-worn companions, by the title of white people; but Lawrence referred to the natural colour of the race to which he belonged.

“They do seem rather koorious,” observed Reuben, as one of the Indians timidly touched his arm and looked wonderingly up into his blue eyes.

It was found, however, that these natives had heard of white people, though they had not seen them; moreover, they displayed a number of knives and iron implements which they said had been procured from people inhabiting the banks of a river which might be reached over a carrying-place of “eleven days in length,” and which river flowed in an opposite direction from the Peace River. These people, they said, travelled during a moon to get to the country of another tribe who dwelt in houses, and these again extended their journeys to the sea, or, as they called it, the “Stinking Lake,” where they exchanged their furs with white people, like our pioneers, who came to the coast of that lake in canoes as big as islands!

Here, then, at last, was definite information, and the enterprising discoverer was not long in availing himself of it. After gratifying his new friends with sundry little gifts, a feed of pemmican, which they relished amazingly, and a taste of sugar to tickle their palates, he gained their confidence so much as to induce one of them to be his guide, and immediately pushed forward.

In the course of the following week they gained the much-longed-for height of land, and found two lakelets within a quarter of a mile of each other, from one of which the waters find their way through Peace River, on the east side of the mountains, into the Arctic Sea, while from the other the waters flow south and west through the great River Columbia to the Pacific Ocean.

But the succession of disasters that befell them here, and the difficulties of the route—for it could not be called navigation—threw all their previous experiences into the shade. One day, having made a portage, they relaunched the canoe and began the well-nigh forgotten process of descending stream. They had not gone far when they struck a rock and were driven down sideways with great violence, Mackenzie, followed by his men, jumped into the shallow to turn the canoe straight, but in a moment the water deepened and they had to scramble inboard again hurriedly. Swiftarrow by some mischance was left behind to struggle on shore as best he might. Before they could resume their paddles they struck again; the stem of the canoe was shattered like an egg-shell and hung only by the gunwales, so that Lawrence, who was steering, had to quit his place. The violence of the stroke drove them to the opposite side of the river, where the bow met with the same fate. At that moment Reuben seized the branches of a small overhanging tree in a desperate hope of checking the canoe, but the tree proved so elastic that he was jerked on shore in an instant as if by magic, and the canoe swept over a cascade, where several holes were broken in her bottom and nearly all the bars started. At the same moment the wreck fell flat on the water; all the men jumped out, and Ducette, whose courage forsook him, shouted, “Save yourselves!”

“Not so! Hold on to the canoe, men,” cried Mackenzie sternly. The men obeyed, and thus prevented the total loss of everything. Yard by yard, on the verge of destruction they waded down the rapid, and guided the wreck into shallow water, where some held her fast while the others, who were quickly joined by Reuben and Swiftarrow, carried the lading safely ashore. On this occasion several things were lost, the chief of these being their whole stock of bullets, but they had plenty of shot left from which ball could be made.

One might have thought this was at last sufficient to have turned them back—so at least thought most of the men, who began to look rebellious—but Mackenzie partly compelled, partly encouraged them to advance. The canoe was dragged ashore and repaired, or rather reconstructed, and eventually through indescribable difficulties he reached the navigable stream which forms the head-waters of the Columbia River. This he descended a considerable distance, and met with many of the natives, who told him that the country below abounded with game and the river with fish; but as the course of the latter ran towards the south, and the distance by it to the sea was described as being extremely great, he deemed it advisable to retrace his course a short way and then strike westward overland to the Pacific.

The old canoe being now little better than a wreck, birch-bark was procured and a new canoe built, after which the stream was ascended until a spot was reached where the natives were in the habit of starting overland for the sea coast. Here the canoe was hidden, an Indian guide procured, and then these indomitable pioneers prepared to cross the wilderness on foot.

Chapter Ten.

The Last.

We follow our travellers now over the last portion of their trying journey. Well would it have been for them if they could have followed their route as easily as you and I, reader, follow them in imagination. Over mountain and swamp, through forest and brake, in heat and in cold, sunshine and rain, they plodded wearily but resolutely on towards the far west, until they reached the farthest west of all, where the great continent dips into the greater Pacific.

At starting on this overland route they buried some provisions, and putting in a place of security their canoe and such stores as they did not require or could not carry, they set out, each man laden with a burden varying from forty-five to ninety pounds weight, besides arms and ammunition. They were led by an Indian guide with several of his relations, and followed by their dog Wolf. This guide was deemed necessary, not so much to show the way as to introduce them to the various tribes through whose territory they should have to pass.

It takes a large portion of a quarto volume to recount their interesting adventures by the way. How then, can we presume to attempt a fair narrative in a few pages? The thing is impossible. We can but refer our readers to Mackenzie’s ponderous journal, in which, embedded amongst a mass of important details, will be found a record of one of the most interesting voyages ever undertaken.

As a matter of course difficulties assailed them at the outset. This would seem to be the universal experience of pioneers. Game latterly had begun to grow scarce, so that, their provisions being low, they were obliged to go on short allowance—two meals a day. Their food, being pemmican, required no cooking. Mingled heat, mosquitoes, sandflies, and a rugged country, with short commons, and danger, as well as worry from savages, was the beginning—and pretty much the middle and end—of their experience. They were soon joined by an elderly man and three other natives, and not only did these three Indians, but all the others along the route, harass them by their caprice, unfaithfulness, and childish petulance, and self-will.

One day their guide resolved to leave them; then, without being solicited to stay, he changed his mind and went on with them. Again, one night, at a time when they were anxious not to lose him, Mackenzie, who knew he meant to take leave quietly, asked him to sleep with him. He willingly consented, the white man’s cloak being a snug covering, and thus was he guarded! but his guardian suffered severe consequences owing to the filthy state of the Indian, whose garments were indescribable, his body being smeared with red earth, and his hair with fish-oil!

Coming to a lake they observed the sky grow very black. “A thunder-storm brewin’,” suggested Reuben.

“Encamp, and up with the tent, boys,” said Mackenzie.

The tent! It was a misnomer, their only shelter being a sheet of thin oiled cloth and the overhanging trees. Down came a deluge that kept them very close for a time; then, on resuming the march, the guide was requested to go in advance and brush the water off the bushes, but he coolly declined. Mackenzie himself therefore undertook the duty. During this storm the ground was rendered white with hailstones as large as a musket ball. The third day they met natives who received them well. These were going to the great river to fish, and seemed—unlike many other tribes—to venerate age, for they carried on their backs by turns a poor old woman who was quite blind and infirm. Farther on they met other Indians on their way to the same great river, which abounded with salmon. These told them that they would soon reach a river, neither large nor long, which entered an arm of the sea, and where a great wooden canoe with white people was said to be frequently seen!

“Here is encouragement for us; let us push on,” said Mackenzie. “Push on,” echoed Reuben and Lawrence and some of the other men; but some grumbled at the hardships they had to endure, and the short allowance of provisions, while the Indians threatened to desert them.

Mackenzie must have had something very peculiar in his look and manner, for he seemed to possess the faculty of saying little in reply to his men, and yet of constraining them to follow him. Doubtless, had some one else written his journal we should have learned the secret. It seems as if, when rebellion was looking blackest and the storm about to burst, instead of commanding or disputing, he calmly held his tongue and went off to take an observation of the sun, and on that process being completed, he almost invariably found his men in a more tractable condition! Occasionally we read of quiet remonstrance or grave reasoning, and frequently of hearty encouragement and wise counsel, but never of violence, although he was sorely tried. Perchance they knew that he was dangerous to trifle with! We cannot tell, but certainly he seems to have been a splendid manager of men.

At last they reached an Indian village where they were hospitably entertained, and presented with as much roasted salmon as they required. These people lived almost exclusively on fish and berries; were more cleanly than other tribes, and apparently less addicted to war or hunting. Here two new guides were obtained, and the people conciliated with gifts of beads, knives, and other trinkets.

Leaving them they spent a wretched night on the shores of a lake, deluged with rain and tormented with sandflies and mosquitoes—the former being perhaps the greatest pests of the country. Soon the guides grew tired of their mode of travelling, and the allowance of provisions had to be still further reduced. Fearing that they might run short altogether, Mackenzie ordered Reuben and his son to fall behind, bury some pemmican in reserve for their return, and make a fire over the spot to conceal the fact that it had been dug into. They were now on two-thirds of their regular allowance. Soon afterwards they came to a river too deep to ford, but one of their guides swam across and brought over a raft that lay on the other side. This ferried most of them over, but Swiftarrow and some of the others preferred to swim across.

At length, after many days of suffering and toil they crossed the last range of mountains and began to descend. Here magnificent cedars and other trees were seen, some of the former being fully eighteen feet in circumference. The natives whom they met with were sometimes stern, sometimes kind, but always suspicious at first. The soothing effects of gifts, however, were pretty much the same in all. Still the party had several narrow escapes.

On one occasion Mackenzie, when alone, was surrounded and seized, but he soon freed himself, and just at that moment when his life seemed to hang on a hair, Reuben Guff happened to come up, and the natives took to flight. Some of these natives were very expert canoe-men, caught salmon by means of weirs, dwelt in wooden houses elevated on poles, boiled their food in water-tight baskets by putting red-hot stones into them, made cakes of the inner rind of the hemlock sprinkled with oil, and seemed to have a rooted antipathy to flesh of every kind. Some of the salmon they caught were fully forty pounds’ weight. The chief of one tribe said that, ten years before, he had gone down to the sea in a large canoe, and there had met with two large vessels full of white men who treated him very kindly. These, Mackenzie concluded, must have been the ships of Captain Cook, an opinion which was strengthened by the discovery that the chief’s canoe was ornamented with sea-otters’ teeth, which bear some resemblance to human teeth, for which they had been mistaken by the great navigator. At last, on the 20th of July, the heroic perseverance of Mackenzie met with its reward. On that day he obtained a canoe, and descending a river, entered an arm of the Pacific! He did not himself, indeed, deem the object of the expedition attained until he had battled on for a couple of days longer—in the face of the opposition of his own men and hostility of the natives—and had obtained reliable observations which settled beyond all dispute, his exact position on the globe. But to all intents and purposes he had accomplished his great object on that day,—namely, the crossing of the American Wilderness to the Pacific Ocean.

Even in the midst of his triumph this long-enduring man was worried by petty trials, for one of the Indian guides took it into his head to desert. As he was the son of a chief, and, it was to be feared, might prejudice the natives against them, Reuben Guff was directed to pursue him. That worthy took with him Swiftarrow, and exerting his long sinewy legs to the utmost, soon overtook the fugitive and brought him back. But it was no part of Mackenzie’s plan to tyrannise over men. He received the deserter kindly, gave him a pair of moccasins, some provisions, a silk handkerchief, and some good advice, and then sent him back to his friends. The other Indian who remained with them succeeded about the same time in killing a large porcupine, which was very acceptable to all—especially to its captor, who ate so largely of it as to be obliged to undergo a prolonged period of repose in order to sleep it off.

At length, being in a state of semi-starvation, with a leaky canoe, and unfriendly natives around, Mackenzie took a last observation, which gave 52 degrees 20 minutes 48 second North latitude and 128 degrres 2 minutes West longitude.

Then he turned his face eastward. Before quitting the coast, however, a smooth rock was selected and thereon was written, in large letters, with a mixture of melted grease and vermilion, this brief memorial—“Alexander Mackenzie, from Canada, by land, the twenty-second of July, one thousand seven hundred and ninety-three.”

The return journey was scarcely less arduous than the outward, but they undertook it with the knowledge that every step carried them nearer home, and with the exhilarating consciousness that their labours had been crowned with success. Besides this, they now knew what lay before them each day—as far as the route was concerned—and at the various places where provisions had been secreted the party was strengthened and enabled to advance with greater vigour. On arriving at the Great River they found their canoe, goods, and provisions just as they had left them about five weeks before. Here they made preparations for proceeding to the head-waters of the Columbia River, crossing over to those of the Peace River, and so returning by the way they had come. In order to mark this happy point in the expedition, Mackenzie treated himself and men to a dram, “but,”—observe that I quote his words, reader,—“we had been so long without tasting any spirituous liquor, that we had Lost all relish for it!” Rejoice in that testimony, ye teetotallers. Think of it, ye topers. Put it in your pipes, ye smokers—and make the most of it!

“Nearing home at last, boys,” said Mackenzie many weeks afterwards, as, having descended the turbulent Peace River, they rounded a point of land and came in sight of their old winter-quarters; “shake out the flag, and give them a volley and a cheer.”

The men obeyed, and were in such high spirits, and made such active use of their paddles, that they reached the landing-place before the two men who had been left there in the spring, could recover their senses sufficiently to answer their questions! But this was not home yet. Some days had still to elapse ere these toil-worn men could lay aside their paddles and rest their wearied limbs.

At last, after an absence of eleven months, they reached Fort Chipewyan, where their leader resumed the duties of the fur-trade, and Swiftarrow once more kissed the brown cheek of Darkeye, who filled his heart with grim delight by placing in his paternal arms a soft, round, fat, little brown female baby, with eyes as dark and bright as her own, and a nose which was a miniature facsimile of its father’s.

One week after their arrival, Reuben and Lawrence, Swiftarrow and Darkeye, entered Mackenzie’s room to bid him farewell.

“I’m sorry you are bent on leaving me,” said their former leader; “but you have the satisfaction of knowing that you have contributed greatly to the success of our two expeditions. You have indeed proved yourselves able pioneers.”

“Thank’ee, sir,” said Reuben, while a quiet smile of satisfaction lighted up his grave features. “It was all along a hobby o’ mine, an’ of Lawrence too, to do a bit o’ diskivery; an’ now we’re content—for it ain’t possible, I fancy, to do much more in that line than push your canoe into the Frozen Sea on the one hand, or the Pacific on the other. It’s harder work than I thowt it would be—though I didn’t expect child’s play neither; an’ it’s our opinion, sir, that you are the only man in the country as could have done it at all. We intend now to go back to the settlements. As for the red-skin,” he added, glancing at Swiftarrow, “he ha’n’t got no ambition one way or another as to diskivery; but he’s a good and true man, nevertheless, you’ll allow. And now, sir, farewell. May a blessing from above rest on you and yours.”

Saying this the bold backwoodsman shook Mackenzie by the hand and left the room. Every one in the fort was on the bank to bid them farewell. Silently they stepped into their canoe, and in a few minutes had paddled out of sight into the great wilderness of wood and water.

Reader, our tale, if such it may be styled, is told. As for the hero whose steps for a time we have so closely followed, he became one of the most noted traders, as he was now one of the most celebrated discoverers, in North America. He afterwards became for a time the travelling companion in America of the Duke of Kent, father of Queen Victoria; was knighted in acknowledgment of his great and important achievements; married one of Scotland’s fair daughters; and finally died in the midst of his native Highland hills, leaving behind him a volume which—as we said at the beginning—proves him to have been one of the most vigorous, persevering, manly, and successful pioneers that ever traversed the continent of North America.

The End.

Chapter Eleven.

Extract of Letter Referred to on Page 85.

From William Mackenzie, Esquire, of Gairloch, to George Mackenzie, Esquire, of Avoch, dated Leamington, 24th May 1856.

When in Stockholm in 1824, Lord Blomfield, our Minister there, did me the honour of presenting me to the King, Bernadotte, father of the present King of Sweden.

At the King’s special request, the audience was a private one, and I was further especially requested to oblige by coming in my full Highland dress. The audience lasted fully an hour. Such an interest did Napoleon’s first and most fortunate Marshal take in everything that was Highland, not even the skiandhu escaped him.

I now come to your family portion of the audience.

As we chatted on, old Bernadotte (leaning familiarly upon my O’Keachan claymore) was pleased to say in that suaviter in modo for which his eagle eye so fitted him, “Yes, I repeat it, you Highlanders are deservedly proud of your country. Your forefathers and your people are a race apart, distinct from all the rest of Britain in high moral as well as martial bearing, and long, I hope, may you feel and show it outwardly by this noble distinction in dress. But allow me to observe, Sir, that in your family name, in the name of Mackenzie, there is a very predominant lustre, which shall never be obliterated from my mind. Pray, are you connected in any way with Sir Alexander Mackenzie, the celebrated North American traveller, whose name and researches are immortalised by his discoveries in the Arctic Ocean, and of the river which since then does honour to his name?” I informed His Majesty that as a boy I had known him well, and that our family and his were nearly connected. This seemed to give me still greater favour with him, for, familiarly putting his hand on my shoulder-brooch, he replied that on that account alone his making my acquaintance gave him greater satisfaction. He then proceeded to tell Lord Blomfield and me how your father’s name had become familiar to him, and so much valued in his eyes. He said that at one time Napoleon had arranged to distract the affairs of Britain by attacking her in her Canadian possessions—not by a direct descent upon them, but by a route which men expected would take England quite by surprise and prove infallible.

That route was to be up the Mississippi, Ohio, etcetera, up to our Canadian border lakes. For this arrangements were to be made with America, New Orleans occupied as a pied à terre by France, etcetera, etcetera. The organisation and command of this gigantic enterprise, as Bernadotte said, “was given to me by the Emperor, with instructions to make myself master of every work which could bear upon it, and the facilities the nature of the country afforded. Foremost amongst these the work of your namesake (Sir Alexander Mackenzie) was recommended, but how to get at it, with all communications with England interdicted, all knowledge of English unknown to me, seemed a difficulty not easily to be got over. However, as every one knows, my then master, l’Empereur, was not the man to be overcome by such small difficulties. The book, a huge quarto, was procured through the smugglers, and in an inconceivably short space of time most admirably translated into French for my especial use. (A copy of this translation was found in Napoleon’s library at St. Helena.) I need hardly say with what interest I perused and reperused that admirable work, till I had made myself so thoroughly master of it that I could almost fancy myself,” this he said laughing heartily, “taking your Canadas en revers from the upper waters; and ever since I have never ceased to look upon the name and think of the author with more than ordinary respect and esteem.”

After a short pause and a long-drawn breath, almost amounting to a sigh, accompanied by a look at Blomfield and a most expressive “Ah, milord, que de changes depuis ces jours-là,” Bernadotte concluded by saying that the Russian campaign had knocked that of Canada on the head until Russia was crushed! but it had pleased God to ordain it otherwise, “et maintenant me voilà Roi de Suède”—his exact words as he concluded these compliments to your father.

Introduction.

The following story is intended to illustrate one of the many phases of the fur-trader’s life in those wild regions of North America which surround Hudson’s Bay.

Most of its major incidents are facts—fiction being employed chiefly for the purpose of weaving these facts into a readable form.

If this volume should chance to fall into the hands of any of those who acted a part in the first settlement of Ungava, we trust that they will forgive the liberty that has been taken with their persons and adventures, remembering that transpositions, modifications, and transformations are necessary in constructing a tale out of the “raw material.”

We take this opportunity of expressing to the Leader of the adventurous band our grateful acknowledgements for his kindness in placing at our disposal the groundwork on which this story has been reared.

R.M. Ballantyne.

Chapter One.

The forest, and the leaders of the folorn-hope—A good shot—A consultation—An ice-floe, and a narrow chance of escape in a small way.

“Hallo! where are you!” shouted a voice that rang through the glades of the forest like the blast of a silver trumpet, testifying to lungs of leather and a throat of brass.

The ringing tones died away, and naught was heard save the rustling of the leafy canopy overhead, as the young man, whose shout had thus rudely disturbed the surrounding echoes, leaned on the muzzle of a long rifle, and stood motionless as a statue, his right foot resting on the trunk of a fallen tree, and his head bent slightly to one side, as if listening for a reply. But no reply came. A squirrel ran down the trunk of a neighbouring pine, and paused, with tail and ears erect, and its little black eyes glittering as if with surprise at the temerity of him who so recklessly dared to intrude upon and desecrate with his powerful voice the deep solitudes of the wilderness. They stood so long thus that it seemed as though the little animal and the man had been petrified by the unwonted sound. If so, the spell was quickly broken. The loud report of a fowling-piece was heard at a short distance. The squirrel incontinently disappeared from the spot on which it stood, and almost instantaneously reappeared on the topmost branch of a high tree; while the young man gave a smile of satisfaction, threw the rifle over his shoulder, and, turning round, strode rapidly away in the direction whence the shot proceeded.

A few minutes’ walk brought him to the banks of a little brook, by the side of which, on the projecting root of a tree, sat a man, with a dead goose at his feet and a fowling-piece by his side. He was dressed in the garb of a hunter; and, from the number of gray hairs that shone like threads of silver among the black curls on his temples, he was evidently past the meridian of life—although, from the upright bearing of his tall, muscular frame, and the quick glance of his fearless black eye, it was equally evident that the vigour of his youth was not yet abated.

“Why, Stanley,” exclaimed the young man as he approached, “I’ve been shouting till my throat is cracked, for at least half an hour. I verily began to think that you had forsaken me altogether.”

“In which case, Frank,” replied the other, “I should have treated you as you deserve, for your empty game-bag proves you an unworthy comrade in the chase.”

“So, so, friend, do not boast,” replied the youth with a smile; “if I mistake not, that goose was winging its way to the far north not ten minutes agone. Had I come up half an hour sooner, I suspect we should have met on equal terms; but the fact is that I have not seen hair or feather, save a tree-squirrel, since I left you in the morning.”

“Well, to say truth, I was equally unfortunate until I met this luckless goose, and fired the shot that brought him down and brought you up. But I’ve had enough o’ this now, and shall back to the fort again. What say you? Will you go in my canoe or walk?”

The young man was silent for a few seconds; then, without replying to his companion’s question, he said,—“By-the-bye, is it not to-night that you mean to make another attempt to induce the men to volunteer for the expedition!”

“It is,” replied Stanley, with a alight frown. “And what if they still persist in refusing to go?”

“I’ll try once more to shame them out of their cowardice. But if they won’t agree, I’ll compel them to go by means of more powerful arguments than words.”

“’Tis not cowardice; you do the men injustice,” said Frank, shaking his head.

“Well, well, I believe I do, lad; you’re right,” replied Stanley, while a smile smoothed out the firm lines that had gathered round his lips for a few seconds. “No doubt they care as little for the anticipated dangers of the expedition as any men living, and they hesitate to go simply because they know that the life before them will be a lonely one at such an out-o’-the-way place as Ungava. But we can’t help that, Frank; the interests of the Company must be attended to, and so go they must, willing or not willing. But I’m annoyed at this unexpected difficulty, for there’s a mighty difference between men who volunteer to go and men who go merely because they must and can’t help it.”

The young man slowly rubbed the stock of his rifle with the sleeve of his coat, and looked as if he understood and sympathised with his friend’s chagrin.

“If Prince were only here just now,” said he, looking up, “there would be no difficulty in the matter. These fellows only want a bold, hearty comrade to step forward and show them the way, and they will follow to the North Pole if need be. They look upon our willingness to go as a mere matter of course, though I don’t see why we should be expected to like banishment more than themselves. But if Prince were—”

“Well, well, Prince is not here, so we must do the best we can without him,” said Stanley.

As he spoke, the trumpet note of a goose was heard in the distance.

“There he goes!—down with you!” exclaimed Frank, darting suddenly behind the stump of the tree, while his companion crouched beside him, and both began to shout at the top of their voices in imitation of the goose. The bird was foolish enough to accept the invitation immediately, although, had it been other than a goose, it would have easily recognised the sound as a wretched counterfeit of the goose language. It flew directly towards them, as geese always do in spring when thus enticed, but passed at such a distance that the elder sportsman was induced to lower his piece.

“Ah! he’s too far off. You’d better give him a shot with the rifle, Frank; but you’re sure to miss.”

“To hit, you mean,” cried his companion, flushing with momentary indignation at this disparaging remark. At the same moment he took a rapid aim and fired. For a few yards the goose continued its forward flight as if unhurt; then it wavered once or twice, and fell heavily to the ground.

“Bravo, boy!” cried Stanley. “There, don’t look nettled; I only jested with you, knowing your weakness on the score of rifle-shooting. Now, pick up your bird, and throw it into the canoe, for I must away.”

Frank finished reloading his piece as his friend spoke, and went to pick up the goose; while the other walked down to the edge of the rivulet, and disengaged a light birch-bark canoe from the long grass and sedges that almost hid it from view.

“Make haste, Frank!” he shouted; “there’s the ice coming up with the flood-tide, and bearing down on the creek here.”

At a short distance from the spot where the sportsmen stood, the streamlet already alluded to mingled its waters with a broad river, which, a few miles farther down, flows into James’s Bay. As every one knows, this bay lies to the south of Hudson’s Bay, in North America. Here the river is about two miles wide; and the shores on either side being low, it has all the appearance of an extensive lake. In spring, after the disruption of the ice, its waters are loaded with large floes and fields of ice; and later in the season, after it has become quite free from this wintry encumbrance, numerous detached masses come up with every flood-tide. It was the approach of one of these floes that called forth Stanley’s remark.

The young man replied to it by springing towards the canoe, in which his companion was already seated. Throwing the dead bird into it, he stooped, and gave the light bark a powerful shove into the stream, exclaiming, as he did so, “There, strike out, you’ve no time to lose, and I’ll go round by the woods.”

There was indeed no time to lose. The huge mass of ice was closing rapidly into the mouth of the creek, and narrowing the only passage through which the canoe could escape into the open water of the river beyond. Stanley might, indeed, drag his canoe up the bank, if so disposed, and reach home by a circuitous walk through the woods; but by doing so he would lose much time, and be under the necessity of carrying his gun, blanket, tin kettle, and the goose, on his back. His broad shoulders were admirably adapted for such a burden, but he preferred the canoe to the woods on the present occasion. Besides, the only risk he ran was that of getting his canoe crushed to pieces. So, plunging his paddle vigorously in the water, he shot through the lessening channel like an arrow, and swept out on the bosom of the broad river just as the ice closed with a crash upon the shore and ground itself to powder on the rocks.

“Well done!” shouted Frank, with a wave of his cap, as he witnessed the success of his friend’s exploit.

“All right,” replied Stanley, glancing over his shoulder.

In another moment the canoe disappeared behind a group of willows that grew on the point at the river’s mouth, and the young man was left alone. For a few minutes he stood contemplating the point behind which his companion had disappeared; then giving a hasty glance at the priming of his rifle, he threw it across his shoulder, and striding rapidly up the bank, was soon lost to view amid the luxuriant undergrowth of the forest.

Chapter Two.

Headquarters—The men—Disputation and uncertainty—New uses for the skins of dead boys!—Mutinous resolves.

Moose Fort, the headquarters and depôt of the fur-traders, who prosecute their traffic in almost all parts of the wild and uninhabited regions of North America, stands on an island near the mouth of Moose River. Like all the establishments of the fur-traders, it is a solitary group of wooden buildings, far removed beyond the influences—almost beyond the ken—of the civilised world, and surrounded by the primeval wilderness, the only tenants of which were, at the time we write of, a few scattered tribes of Muskigon Indians, and the wild animals whose flesh furnished them with food and whose skins constituted their sole wealth. There was little of luxury at Moose Fort. The walls of the houses within the stockade, that served more as an ornament than a defence, were of painted, in some cases unpainted, planks. The floors, ceilings, chairs, tables, and, in short, all the articles of furniture in the place, were made of the same rough material. A lofty scaffolding of wood rose above the surrounding buildings, and served as an outlook, whence, at the proper season, longing eyes were wont to be turned towards the sea in expectation of “the ship” which paid the establishment an annual visit from England. Several large iron field-pieces stood before the front gate; but they were more for the sake of appearance than use, and were never fired except for the purpose of saluting the said ship on the occasions of her arrival and departure. The first boom of the cannon unlocks the long-closed portals of connection between Moose Fort and England; the second salvo shuts them up again in their frozen domains for another year! A century and a half ago, the band of “adventurers trading into Hudson’s Bay” felled the first trees and pitched their tents on the shores of James’s Bay, and successive generations of fur-traders have kept the post until the present day; yet there is scarcely a symptom of the presence of man beyond a few miles round the establishment. Years ago the fort was built, and there it stands now, with new tenants, it is true, but in its general aspect unchanged; and there it is likely to remain, wrapped in its barrier of all but impregnable solitude, for centuries to come.

Nevertheless, Moose is a comfortable place in its way, and when contrasted with other trading establishments is a very palace and temple of luxury. There are men within its walls who can tell of log-huts and starvation, solitude and desolation, compared with which Moose is a terrestrial paradise. Frank Morton, whom we have introduced in the first chapter, said, on his arrival at Moose, that it appeared to him to be the very fag-end of creation. He had travelled night and day for six weeks from what he considered the very outskirts of civilisation, through uninhabited forests and almost unknown rivers, in order to get to it; and while the feeling of desolation that overwhelmed him on his first arrival was strong upon him, he sighed deeply, and called it a “horrid dull hole.” But Frank was of a gay, hearty, joyous disposition, and had not been there long ere he loved the old fort dearly. Poor fellow! far removed though he was from his fellow-men at Moose, he afterwards learned that he had but obtained an indistinct notion of the signification of the word “solitude.”

There were probably about thirty human beings at Moose, when Mr George Stanley, one of the principal fur-traders of the place, received orders from the governor to make preparations, and select men, for the purpose of proceeding many hundred miles deeper into the northern wilderness, and establishing a station on the distant, almost unknown, shores of Ungava Bay. No one at Moose had ever been there before; no one knew anything about the route, except from the vague report of a few Indians; and the only thing that was definitely known about the locality at all was, that its inhabitants were a few wandering tribes of Esquimaux, who were at deadly feud with the Indians, and generally massacred all who came within their reach. What the capabilities of the country were, in regard to timber and provisions, nobody knew, and, fortunately for the success of the expedition, nobody cared! At least those who were to lead the way did not; and this admirable quality of total indifference to prospective dangers is that which, to a great extent, insures success in a forlorn hope.

Of the leaders of this expedition the reader already knows something. George Stanley was nearly six feet high, forty years of age, and endued with a decision of character that, but for his quiet good humour, would have been deemed obstinacy. He was deliberate in all his movements, and exercised a control over his feelings that quite concealed his naturally enthusiastic disposition. Moreover, he was married, and had a daughter of ten years of age. This might be thought a disadvantage in his present circumstances; but the governor of the fur-traders, a most energetic and active ruler, thought otherwise. He recommended that the family should be left at Moose until an establishment had been built, and a winter passed at Ungava. Afterwards they could join him there. As for Frank Morton, he was an inch taller than his friend Stanley, and equally powerful; fair-haired, blue-eyed, hilarious, romantic, twenty-two years of age, and so impulsive that, on hearing of the proposed expedition from one of his comrades, who happened to be present when Stanley was reading the dispatches, he sprang from his chair, which he upset, dashed out at the door, which he banged, and hurried to his friend’s quarters in order to be first to volunteer his services as second in command; which offer was rendered unnecessary by Stanley’s exclaiming, the moment he entered his room—

“Ha, Frank, my lad, the very man I wanted to see! Here’s a letter from headquarters ordering me off on an expedition to Ungava. Now, I want volunteers; will you go!”

It is needless to add that Frank’s blue eyes sparkled with animation as he seized his friend’s hand and replied, “To the North Pole if you like, or farther if need be!”

It was evening. The sun was gilding the top of the flagstaff with a parting kiss, and the inhabitants of Moose Fort, having finished their daily toil, were making preparations for their evening meal. On the end of the wharf that jutted out into the stream was assembled a picturesque group of men, who, from the earnest manner in which they conversed, and the energy of their gesticulations, were evidently discussing a subject of more than ordinary interest. Most of them were clad in corduroy trousers, gartered below the knee with thongs of deer-skin, and coarse, striped cotton shirts, open at the neck, so as to expose their sunburnt breasts. A few wore caps which, whatever might have been their original form, were now so much soiled and battered out of shape by long and severe service that they were nondescript; but most of these hardy backwoodsmen were content with the covering afforded by their thick, bushy locks.

“No, no,” exclaimed a short, thick-set, powerful man, with a somewhat ascetic cast of countenance; “I’ve seen more than enough o’ these rascally Huskies (Esquimaux). ’Tis well for me that I’m here this blessed day, an’ not made into a dan to bob about in Hudson’s Straits at the tail of a white whale, like that poor boy Peter who was shot by them varmints.”

“What’s a dan?” asked a young half-breed who had lately arrived at Moose, and knew little of Esquimau implements.

“What a green-horn you must be, François, not to know what a dan is!” replied another, who was inclined to be quizzical. “Why, it’s a sort of sea-carriage that the Esquimaux tie to the tail of a walrus or sea-horse when they feel inclined for a drive. When they can’t get a sea-horse they catch a white whale asleep, and wake him up after fastening the dan to his tail. I suppose they have conjurers or wizards among them, since Massan told us just now that poor Peter was—”

“Bah! gammon,” interrupted François with a smile, as he turned to the first speaker. “But tell me, Massan, what is a dan?”

“It’s a sort o’ float or buoy, lad, used by the Huskies, and is made out o’ the skin o’ the seal. They tie it with a long line to their whale spears to show which way the fish bolts when struck.”

“And did they use Peter’s skin for such a purpose?” inquired François earnestly.

“They did,” replied Massan.

“And did you see them do it?”

“Yes, I did.”

François gazed intently into his comrade’s face as he spoke; but Massan was an adept at what is usually called drawing the long bow, and it was with the most imperturbable gravity that he continued—

“Yes, I saw them do it; but I could not render any assistance to the poor child, for I was lying close behind a rock at the time, with an arrow sticking between my shoulders, and a score o’ them oily varmints a-shoutin’, and yellin’, and flourishing their spears in search o’ me.”

“Tell us how it happened, Massan. Let’s hear the story,” chorused the men, as they closed round their comrade.

“Well then,” began the stout backwoodsman, proceeding leisurely to fill his pipe from an ornamented bag that hung at his belt, “here goes. It was about the year—a—I forget the year, but it don’t matter—that we were ordered off on an expedition to the Huskies; ’xactly sich a one as they wants us to go on now, and—but you’ve heerd o’ that business, lads, haven’t you?”

“Yes, yes, we’ve heard all about it; go on.”

“Well,” continued Massan, “I needn’t be wastin’ time tellin’ you how we failed in that affair, and how the Huskies killed some of our men and burnt our ship to the water’s edge. After it was all over, and they thought they had killed us all, I was, as I said, lyin’ behind a great rock in a sort o’ cave, lookin’ at the dirty villains as they danced about on the shore, and took possession of all our goods. Suddenly I seed two o’ them carry Peter down to the beach, an’ I saw, as they passed me, that he was quite dead. In less time than I can count a hundred they took the skin off him, cut off his head, sewed up the hole, tied his arms and legs in a knot, blew him full o’ wind till he was fit to bu’st, an’ then hung him up to dry in the sun! In fact, they made a dan of him!”

A loud shout of laughter greeted this startling conclusion. In truth, we must do Massan the justice to say, that although he was much in the habit of amusing his companions by entertaining them with anecdotes which originated entirely in his own teeming fancy, he never actually deceived them, but invariably, either by a sly glance or by the astounding nature of his communication, gave them to understand that he was dealing not with fact but fiction.

“But seriously, lads,” said François, whose intelligence, added to a grave, manly countenance and a tall, muscular frame, caused him to be regarded by his comrades as a sort of leader both in action and in council, “what do you think of our bourgeois’ plan? For my part, I’m willing enough to go to any reasonable part o’ the country where there are furs and Indians; but as for this Ungava, from what Massan says, there’s neither Indians, nor furs, nor victuals—nothin’ but rocks, and mountains, and eternal winter; and if we do get the Huskies about us, they’ll very likely serve us as they did the last expedition to Richmond Gulf.”

“Ay, ay,” cried one of the others, “you may say that, François. Nothin’ but frost and starvation, and nobody to bury us when we’re dead.”

“Except the Huskies,” broke in another, “who would save themselves the trouble by converting us all into dans!”

“Tush, man! stop your clapper,” cried François, impatiently; “let us settle this business. You know that Monsieur Stanley said he would expect us to be ready with an answer to-night.—What think you, Gaspard? Shall we go, or shall we mutiny?”

The individual addressed was a fine specimen of an animal, but not by any means a good specimen of a man. He was of gigantic proportions, straight and tall as a poplar, and endowed with the strength of a Hercules. His glittering dark eyes and long black hair, together with the hue of his skin, bespoke him of half-breed extraction. But his countenance did not correspond to his fine physical proportions. True, his features were good, but they wore habitually a scowling, sulky expression, even when the man was pleased, and there was more of sarcasm than joviality in the sound when Gaspard condescended to laugh.

“I’ll be shot if I go to such a hole for the best bourgeois in the country,” said he in reply to François’ question.

“You’ll be dismissed the service if you don’t,” remarked Massan with a smile.

To this Gaspard vouchsafed no reply save a growl that, to say the best of it, did not sound amiable.

“Well, I think that we’re all pretty much of one mind on the point,” continued François; “and yet I feel half ashamed to refuse after all, especially when I see the good will with which Messieurs Stanley and Morton agree to go.”

“I suppose you expect to be a bourgeois too some day,” growled Gaspard with a sneer.

“Eh, tu gros chien!” cried François, as with flashing eyes and clinched fists he strode up to his ill-tempered comrade.

“Come, come, François; don’t quarrel for nothing,” said Massan, interposing his broad shoulders and pushing him vigorously back.

At that moment an exclamation from one of the men diverted the attention of the others.

“Voilà! the canoe.”

“Ay, it’s Monsieur Stanley’s canoe. I saw him and Monsieur Morton start for the swamp this morning.”

“I wonder what Dick Prince would have done in this business had he been here,” said François to Massan in a low tone, as they stood watching the approach of their bourgeois’ canoe.

“Can’t say. I half think he would have gone.”

“There’s no chance of him coming back in time, I fear.”

“None; unless he prevails on some goose to lend him a pair of wings for a day or two. He won’t be back from the hunt for three weeks good.”

In a few minutes more the canoe skimmed up to the wharf.

“Here, lads,” cried Mr Stanley, as he leaped ashore and dragged the canoe out of the water; “one of you come and lift this canoe up the bank, and take these geese to the kitchen.”

Two of the men instantly hastened to obey, and Stanley, with the gun and paddles under his arm, proceeded towards the gateway of the fort. As he passed the group assembled on the wharf, he turned and said—

“You’ll come to the hall in an hour, lads; I shall expect you to be ready with an answer by that time.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied several of the men.

“But we won’t go for all your expectations,” said one in an undertone to a comrade.

“I should think not,” whispered another.

“I’ll be hanged, and burnt, and frozen if I do,” said a third.

In the meantime Mr Stanley walked briskly towards his dwelling, and left the men to grumble over their troubles and continue their debate as to whether they should or should not agree to go on the pending expedition to the distant regions of Ungava.

Chapter Three.

Shows how Stanley deigned to consult with womankind—The opinions of a child developed—Persuasion fails—Example triumphs—The first volunteers to Ungava.

On reaching his apartment, which was in an angle of the principal edifice in the fort, Mr Stanley flung down his gun and paddles, and drawing a chair close to his wife, who was working with her needle near a window, took her hand in his and heaved a deep sigh.

“Why, George, that’s what you used to say to me when you were at a loss for words in the days of our courtship.”

“True, Jessie,” he replied, patting her shoulder with a hand that rough service had rendered hard and long exposure had burnt brown. “But the producing cause then was different from what it is now. Then it was love; now it is perplexity.”

Stanley’s wife was the daughter of English parents, who had settled many years ago in the fur countries. Being quite beyond the reach of any school, they had been obliged to undertake the instruction of their only child, Jessie, as they best could. At first this was an easy matter, but as years flew by, and little Jessie’s mind expanded, it was found to be a difficult matter to carry on her education in a country in most parts of which books were not to be had and schoolmasters did not exist. When the difficulty first presented itself, they talked of sending their little one to England to finish her education; but being unable to bring themselves to part with her, they resolved to have a choice selection of books sent out to them. Jessie’s mother was a clever, accomplished, and lady-like woman, and decidedly pious, so that the little flower, which was indeed born to blush unseen, grew up to be a gentle, affectionate woman—one who was a lady in all her thoughts and actions, yet had never seen polite society, save that of her father and mother. In process of time Jessie became Mrs Stanley, and the mother of a little girl whose voice was, at the time her father entered, ringing cheerfully in an adjoining room. Mrs Stanley’s nature was an earnest one, and she no sooner observed that her husband was worried about something, than she instantly dropped the light tone in which she at first addressed him.

“And what perplexes you now, dear George?” she said, laying down her work and looking up in his face with that straightforward, earnest gaze that in days of yore had set the stout backwoodsman’s heart on fire, and still kept it in a perennial blaze.

“Nothing very serious,” he replied with a smile; “only these fellows have taken it into their stupid heads that Ungava is worse than the land beyond the Styx; and so, after the tough battle that I had with you this morning in order to prevail on you to remain here for a winter without me, I’ve had to fight another battle with them in order to get them to go on this expedition.”

“Have you been victorious?” inquired Mrs Stanley.

“No, not yet.”

“Do you really mean to say they are afraid to go? Has Prince refused? are François, Gaspard, and Massan cowards?” she inquired, her eye kindling with indignation.

“Nay, my wife, not so. These men are not cowards; nevertheless they don’t feel inclined to go; and as for Dick Prince, he has been off hunting for a week, and I don’t expect him back for three weeks at least, by which time we shall be off.”

Mrs Stanley sighed, as if she felt the utter helplessness of woman in such affairs.

“Why, Jessie, that’s what you used to say to me when you were at a loss for words in the days of our courtship,” said Stanley, smiling.

“Ah, George, like you I may say that the cause is now perplexity; for what can I do to help you in your present difficulty?”

“Truly not much. But I like to tell you of my troubles, and to make more of them than they deserve, for the sake of drawing forth your sympathy. Bless your heart!” he said, in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, “I would gladly undergo any amount of trouble every day, if by so doing I should secure that earnest, loving, anxious gaze of your sweet blue eyes as a reward!” Stanley imprinted a hearty kiss on his wife’s cheek as he made this lover-like speech, and then rose to place his fowling-piece on the pegs from which it usually hung over the fireplace.

At that moment the door opened, and a little girl, with bright eyes and flaxen hair, bounded into the room.

“O mamma, mamma!” she said, holding up a sheet of paper, while a look of intense satisfaction beamed on her animated countenance, “see, I have drawn Chimo’s portrait. Is it like, mamma? Do you think it like?”

“Come here, Eda, my darling, come to me,” said Stanley, seating himself on a chair and extending his arms. Edith instantly left the portrait of the dog in her mother’s possession, and, without waiting for an opinion as to its merits, ran to her father, jumped on his knee, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him. Edith was by no means a beautiful child, but miserable indeed must have been the taste of him who would have pronounced her plain-looking. Her features were not regular; her nose had a strong tendency to what is called snubbed, and her mouth was large; but to counterbalance these defects she had a pair of large, deep-blue eyes, soft, golden hair, a fair, rosy complexion, and an expression of sweetness at the corners of her mouth that betrayed habitual good-nature. She was quick in all her movements, combined with a peculiar softness and grace of deportment that was exceedingly attractive.

“Would you like to go, my pet,” said her father, “to a country far, far away in the north, where there are high mountains and deep valleys, inhabited by beautiful reindeer, and large lakes and rivers filled with fish; where there is very little daylight all the long winter, and where there is scarcely any night all the long, bright summer? Would my Eda like to go there?”

The child possessed that fascinating quality of being intensely interested in all that was said to her. As her father spoke, her eyes gradually expanded and looked straight into his, while her head turned slowly and very slightly to one side. As he concluded, she replied, “Oh! very, very, very much indeed,” with a degree of energy that made both her parents laugh.

“Ah, my darling! would that my lazy men were endued with some of your spirit,” said Stanley, patting the child’s head.

“Is Prince a lazy man, papa?” inquired Edith anxiously.

“No, certainly, Prince is not. Why do you ask?”

“Because I love Prince.”

“And do you not love all the men?”

“No,” replied Edith, with some hesitation; “at least I don’t love them very much, and I hate one.”

“Hate one!” echoed Mrs Stanley. “Come here, my darling.”

Eda slipped from her father’s knee and went to her mother, feeling and looking as if she had said something wrong.

Mrs Stanley was not one of those mothers who, whenever they hear of their children having done anything wrong, assume a look of intense, solemnised horror, that would lead an ignorant spectator to suppose that intelligence had just been received of some sudden and appalling catastrophe. She knew that children could not be deceived by such pieces of acting. She expressed on her countenance precisely what she felt—a slight degree of sorrow that her child should cherish an evil passion, which, she knew, existed in her heart in common with all the human race, but which she expected, by God’s help and blessing, to subdue effectually at last. Kissing Eda’s forehead she said kindly,—“Which of them do you hate, darling?”

“Gaspard,” replied the child.

“And why do you hate him?”

“Because he struck my dog,” said Eda, while her face flushed and her eyes sparkled; “and he is always rude to everybody, and very, very cruel to the dogs.”

“That is very wrong of Gaspard; but, dearest Eda, do you not remember what is written in God’s Word,—‘Love your enemies?’ It is wrong to hate anybody.”

“I know that, mamma, and I don’t wish to hate Gaspard, but I can’t help it. I wish if I didn’t hate him, but it won’t go away.”

“Well, my pet,” replied Mrs Stanley, pressing the child to her bosom, “but you must pray for him, and speak kindly to him when you meet him, and that will perhaps put it away. And now let us talk of the far-off country that papa was speaking about. I wonder what he has to tell you about it.”

Stanley had been gazing out of the window during the foregoing colloquy, apparently inattentive, though, in reality, deeply interested in what was said. Turning round, he said—

“I was going to tell Eda that you had arranged to follow me to that country next year, and that perhaps you would bring her along with you.”

“Nay, George, you mistake. I did not arrange to do so—you only proposed the arrangement; but, to say truth, I don’t like it, and I can’t make up my mind to let you go without us. I cannot wait till next year.”

“Well, well, Jessie, I have exhausted all my powers of persuasion. I leave it entirely to yourself to do as you think best.”

At this moment the sound of deep voices was heard in the hall, which was separated from Stanley’s quarters by a thin partition of wood. In a few seconds the door opened, and George Barney, the Irish butler and general factotum to the establishment, announced that the “min wos in the hall awaitin’.”

Giving Eda a parting kiss, Stanley rose and entered the hall, where François, Massan, Gaspard, and several others were grouped in a corner. On their bourgeois entering, they doffed their bonnets and bowed.

“Well, lads,” began Stanley, with a smile, “you’ve thought better of it, I hope, and have come to volunteer for this expedition—” He checked himself and frowned, for he saw by their looks that they had come with quite a different intention. “What have you to say to me?” he continued abruptly.

The men looked uneasily at each other, and then fixed their eyes on François, who was evidently expected to be spokesman.

“Come, François, speak out,” said Stanley; “if you have any objections, out with them; you’re free to say what you please here.”

As he spoke, and ere François could reply, Frank Morton entered the room. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as he deposited his rifle in a corner and flung his cap on the table, “in time, I see, to help at the council!”

“I was just asking François to state his objections to going,” said Stanley, as his young friend took his place beside him.

“Objections!” repeated Frank; “what objections can bold spirits have to go on a bold adventure? The question should have been, ‘Who will be first to volunteer?’”

At this moment the door of Stanley’s apartment opened, and his wife appeared leading Eda by the hand.

“Here are two volunteers,” she said, with a smile; “pray put us at the head of your list. We will go with you to any part of the world!”

“Bravo!” shouted Frank, catching up Eda, with whom he was a great favourite, and hugging her tightly in his arms.

“Nay, but, wife, this is sheer folly. You know not the dangers that await you—”

“Perhaps not,” interrupted Mrs Stanley; “but you know them, and that is enough for me.”

“Indeed, Jessie, I know them not. I can but guess at them.—But, ah! well, ’tis useless to argue further. Be it so; we shall head the list with you and Eda.”

“And put my name next,” said a deep-toned voice from behind the other men. All turned round in surprise.

“Dick Prince!” they exclaimed; “you here?”

“Ay, lads,” said a tall man of about forty, who was not so remarkable for physical development (though in this respect he was by no means deficient) as for a certain decision of character that betrayed itself in every outline of his masculine, intelligent countenance—“ay, lads, I’m here; an’ sorry am I that I’ve jist comed in time to hear that you’re sich poor-spirited rascals as to hang back when ye should jump for’ard.”

“But how came you so opportunely, Prince?” inquired Stanley.

“I met an Injin, sir, as told me you was goin’ off; so I thought you might want me, and comed straight back. And now, sir, I’m ready to go; and so is François,” he continued, turning to that individual, who seized his hand and exclaimed, “That am I, my boy—to the moon if ye like!”

“And Massan, too,” continued Prince.

“All right; book me for Nova Zembla,” replied that worthy.

“So, so,” cried Mr Stanley, with a satisfied smile. “I see, lads, that we’re all of one mind now. Is it not so? Are we agreed?”

“Agreed! agreed!” they replied with one voice.

“That’s well,” he continued. “Now then, lads, clear out and get your kits ready.—And ho! Barney, give these men a glass of grog.—Prince, I shall want to talk with you this evening. Come to me an hour hence.—And now,” he added, taking Eda by the hand, “come along, my gentle volunteers; let’s go to supper.”

Chapter Four.

Explanatory, but not dry!—Murderous designs thwarted by vigorous treatment—The cattle pay for it!—Preparations for a long, long voyage.

In order to render our story intelligible, it is necessary here to say a few words explanatory of the nature and object of the expedition referred to in the foregoing chapters.

Many years previous to the opening of our tale, it was deemed expedient, by the rulers of the Hudson’s Bay Fur Company, to effect, if possible, a reconciliation or treaty of peace between the Muskigon Indians of James’s Bay and the Esquimaux of Hudson’s Straits. The Muskigons are by no means a warlike race; on the contrary, they are naturally timid, and only plucked up courage to make war on their northern neighbours in consequence of these poor people being destitute of firearms, while themselves were supplied with guns and ammunition by the fur-traders. The Esquimaux, however, are much superior to the Muskigon Indians physically, and would have held their adversaries in light esteem had they met on equal terms, or, indeed, on any terms at all; but the evil was that they never met. The Indians always took them by surprise, and from behind the rocks and bushes sent destruction into their camps with the deadly bullet; while their helpless foes could only reply with the comparatively harmless arrow and spear. Thus the war was in fact an annual raid of murderers. The conceited Muskigons returned to their wigwams in triumph, with bloody scalps hanging at their belts; while the Esquimaux pushed farther into their ice-bound fastnesses, and told their comrades, with lowering brows and heaving bosoms, of the sudden attack, and of the wives and children who had been butchered in cold blood, or led captive to the tents of the cowardly red men.

At such times those untutored inhabitants of the frozen regions vowed vengeance on the Indians, and cursed in their hearts the white men who supplied them with the deadly gun. But the curse was unmerited. In the councils of the fur-traders the subject of Esquimau wrongs had been mooted, and plans for the amelioration of their condition devised. Trading posts were established on Richmond Gulf and Little Whale River; but owing to circumstances which it is unnecessary to detail here, they turned out failures, and were at length abandoned. Still, those in charge of the districts around Hudson’s Bay and Labrador continued to use every argument to prevail on the Indians to cease their murderous assaults on their unoffending neighbours, but without much effect. At length the governor of East Main—a territory lying on the eastern shores of James’s Bay—adopted an argument which proved eminently successful, at least for one season.

His fort was visited by a large band of Muskigons from Albany and Moose districts, who brought a quantity of valuable furs, for which they demanded guns and ammunition, making no secret of their intention to proceed on an expedition against their enemies the Esquimaux. On hearing of this, the governor went out to them, and, in a voice of extreme indignation, assured them that they should not have an ounce of supplies for such a purpose.

“But we will pay you for what we ask. We are not beggars!” exclaimed the astonished Indians, into whose calculations it had never entered that white traders would refuse good furs merely in order to prevent the death of a few Esquimaux.

“See,” cried the angry governor, snatching up the nearest bale of furs—“see, that’s all I care for you or your payment!” and hurling the pack at its owner’s head, he felled him therewith to the ground. “No,” he continued, shaking his fist at them, “I’ll not give you as much powder or shot as would blow off the tail of a rabbit, if you were to bring me all the skins in Labrador!”

The consequence of this vigorous conduct was that the Indians retired crestfallen—utterly discomfited. But in the camp that night they plotted revenge. In the darkness of the night they slaughtered all the cattle around the establishment, and before daybreak were over the hills and far away in the direction of their hunting-grounds, loaded with fresh beef sufficient for the supply of themselves and their families for the winter! It was a heavy price to pay; but the poor Esquimaux remained unmolested that year, while the Indians received a salutary lesson. But the compulsory peace was soon broken, and it became apparent that the only effectual way to check the bloodthirsty propensity of the Indians was to arm their enemies with the gun. The destruction of the first expedition to the Esquimaux, and the bad feeling that existed in the minds of the natives of Richmond Gulf consequent thereon, induced the fur-traders to fix on another locality for a new attempt. It was thought that the remote solitudes of Ungava Bay, at the extreme north of Labrador,—where the white man’s axe had never yet felled the stunted pines of the north, nor the ring of his rifle disturbed its echoes,—would be the spot best suited for the erection of a wooden fort.

Accordingly, it was appointed that Mr George Stanley should select a coadjutor, and proceed with a party of picked men to the scene of action as early in the spring as the ice would permit, and there build a fort as he best could, with the best materials he could find; live on whatever the country afforded in the shape of food; establish a trade in oil, whalebone, arctic foxes, etcetera, etcetera, if they were to be got; and bring about a reconciliation between the Esquimaux and the Indians of the interior, if that were possible. With the careful minuteness peculiar to documents, Stanley’s instructions went on to point out that he was to start from Moose—with two half-sized canoes, each capable of carrying ten pieces or packages of 90 pounds weight each, besides the crew—and bore through the ice, if the ice would allow him, till he should reach Richmond Gulf; cross this gulf, and ascend, if practicable, some of the rivers which fall into it from the height of land supposed, but not positively known, to exist somewhere in the interior. Passing this height, he was to descend by the rivers and lakes (if such existed) leading to the eastward, until he should fall upon a river reported to exist in these lands, and called by the natives Caniapuscaw, or South River, down which he was to proceed to the scene of his labours, Ungava Bay; on reaching which he was considerately left to the unaided guidance of his own discretion! Reduced to their lowest term and widest signification, the instructions directed our friend to start as early as he could, with whom he chose, and with what he liked; travel as fast as possible over terra incognita to a land of ice—perhaps, also, of desolation—and locate himself among bloody savages. It was hoped that there would be found a sufficiency of trees wherewith to build him a shelter against a prolonged winter; in the meantime he might enjoy a bright arctic summer sky for his canopy!

But it was known, or at least supposed, that the Esquimaux were fierce and cruel savages, if not cannibals. Their very name implies something of the sort. It signifies eaters of raw flesh, and was bestowed on them by their enemies the Muskigons. They call themselves Innuit-men, or warriors; and although they certainly do eat raw flesh when necessity compels them—which it often does—they asserted that they never did so from choice. However, be this as it may, the remembrance of their misdeeds in the first expeditions was fresh in the minds of the men in the service of the fur-traders, and they evinced a decided unwillingness to venture into such a country and among such a people,—an unwillingness which was only at length overcome when Mrs Stanley and her little daughter heroically volunteered to share the dangers of the expedition in the manner already narrated.

Stanley now made vigorous preparations for his departure. Some of the men had already been enrolled, as we have seen, and there were more than enough of able and active volunteers ready to complete the crews.

“Come hither, lads,” he cried, beckoning to two men who were occupied on the bank of the river, near the entrance to Moose Fort, in repairing the side of a canoe.

The men left their work and approached. They were both Esquimaux, and good stout, broad-shouldered, thick-set specimens of the race they were. One was called Oolibuck, (This name is spelt as it should be pronounced. The correct spelling is Ouligbuck), the other Augustus; both of which names are now chronicled in the history of arctic adventure as having belonged to the well-tried and faithful interpreters to Franklin, Back, and Richardson, in their expeditions of north-west discovery.

“I’m glad to see you busy at the canoe, boys,” said Stanley, as they came up. “Of course you are both willing to revisit your countrymen.”

“Yes, sir, we is. Glad to go where you choose send us,” answered Oolibuck, whose broad, oily countenance lighted up with good-humour as he spoke.

“It will remind you of your trip with Captain Franklin,” continued Stanley, addressing Augustus.

“Me no like to ’member dat,” said the Esquimau, with a sorrowful shake of the head. “Me love bourgeois Franklin, but tink me never see him more.”

“I don’t know that, old fellow,” returned Stanley, with a smile. “Franklin is not done with his discoveries yet; there’s a talk of sending off another expedition some of these days, I hear, so you may have a chance yet.”

Augustus’s black eyes sparkled with pleasure as he heard this. He was a man of strong feeling, and during his journeyings with our great arctic hero had become attached to him in consequence of the hearty and unvarying kindness and consideration with which he treated all under his command. But the spirit of enterprise had been long slumbering, and poor Augustus, who was now past the prime of life, feared that he should never see his kind master more.

“Now I want you, lads, to get everything in readiness for an immediate start,” continued Stanley, glancing upwards at the sky; “if the weather holds, we shan’t be long off paying your friends a visit. Are both canoes repaired?”

“Yes, sir, they is,” replied Oolibuck.

“And the baggage, is it laid out? And—”

“Pardon, monsieur,” interrupted Massan, walking up, and touching his cap. “I’ve jest been down at the point, and there’s a rig’lar nor’-wester a-comin’ down. The ice is sweepin’ into the river, an’ it’ll be choked up by to-morrow, I’m afraid.”

Stanley received this piece of intelligence with a slight frown, and looked seaward, where a dark line on the horizon and large fields of ice showed that the man’s surmise was likely to prove correct.

“It matters not,” said Stanley, hastily; “I’ve made arrangements to start to-morrow, and start we shall, in spite of ice or wind, if the canoes will float!”

Massan, who had been constituted principal steersman of the expedition, in virtue of his well-tried skill and indomitable energy, felt that the tone in which this was said implied a want of confidence in his willingness to go under any circumstances, so he said gravely—

“Pardon, monsieur; I did not say we could not start.”

“True, true, Massan; don’t be hurt. I was only grumbling at the weather,” answered Stanley, with a laugh.

Just then the first puff of the coming breeze swept up the river, ruffling its hitherto glassy surface.

“There it comes,” cried Stanley, as he quitted the spot. “Now, Massan, see to it that the crews are assembled in good time on the beach to-morrow. We start at daybreak.”

“Oui, monsieur,” replied Massan, as he turned on his heel and walked away. “Parbleu! we shall indeed start to morrow, an it please you, if all the ice and wind in the polar regions was blowed down the coast and crammed into the river’s mouth. C’est vrai!”

Chapter Five.

Ice looks unpropitious—The start—An important member of the party nearly forgotten—Chimo.

Stanley’s forebodings and Massan’s prognostications proved partly incorrect on the following morning. The mouth of the river, and the sea beyond, were quite full of ice; but it was loose, and intersected in all directions by lanes of open water. Moreover, there was no wind.

The gray light of early morning brightened into dawn, and the first clear ray of the rising sun swept over a scene more beautiful than ever filled the fancy of the most imaginative poet of the Temperate Zones. The sky was perfectly unclouded, and the surface of the sea was completely covered with masses of ice, whose tops were pure white like snow, and their sides a delicate greenish-blue, their dull, frosted appearance forming a striking contrast to the surrounding water, which shone, when the sun glanced upon it, like burnished silver. The masses of ice varied endlessly in form and size, some being flat and large like fields, others square and cornered like bastions or towers—here a miniature temple with spires and minarets, there a crystal fortress with embrasures and battlements; and, in the midst of these, thousands of broken fragments, having all the varied outlines of the larger masses, appearing like the smaller houses, cottages, and villas of this floating city of ice.

“Oh how beautiful!” exclaimed little Edith, as her father led her and Mrs Stanley towards the canoes, which floated lightly in the water, while the men stood in a picturesque group beside them, leaning on their bright red paddles.

“It is indeed, my pet,” replied Stanley, a smile almost of sadness playing around his lips.

“Come, George, don’t let evil forebodings assail you to-day,” said Mrs Stanley in a low tone. “It does not become the leader of a forlorn hope to cast a shade over the spirits of his men at the very outset.” She smiled as she said this, and pressed his arm; but despite herself, there was more of sadness in the smile and in the pressure than she intended to convey.

Stanley’s countenance assumed its usual firm but cheerful expression while she spoke. “True, Jessie, I must not damp the men; but when I look at you and our darling Eda, I may be forgiven for betraying a passing glance of anxiety. May the Almighty protect you!”

“Is the country we are going to like this, papa?” inquired Eda, whose intense admiration of the fairy-like scene rendered her oblivious of all else.

“Yes, dear, more like this than anything else you have ever seen; but the sun does not always shine so brightly as it does just now, and sometimes there are terrible snow-storms. But we will build you a nice house, Eda, with a very large fireplace, so that we won’t feel the cold.”

The entire population of Moose Fort was assembled on the beach to witness the departure of the expedition. The party consisted of fifteen souls. As we shall follow them to the icy regions of Ungava, it may be worth while to rehearse their names in order as follows:—

Mr and Mrs Stanley and Edith.

Frank Morton.

Massan, the guide.

Dick Prince, principal hunter to the party.

La Roche, Stanley’s servant and cook.

Bryan, the blacksmith.

François, the carpenter.

Oolibuck, Augustus, and Moses, Esquimau

interpreters.

Gaspard, labourer and fisherman.

Oostesimow and Ma-istequan, Indian guides

and hunters.

The craft in which these were about to embark were three canoes, two of which were large and one small. They were made of birch bark, a substance which is tough, light, and buoyant, and therefore admirably adapted for the construction of craft that have not only to battle against strong and sometimes shallow currents, but have frequently to be carried on the shoulders of their crews over rocks and mountains. The largest canoe was sixteen feet long by five feet broad in the middle, narrowing gradually towards the bow and stern to a sharp edge. Its loading consisted of bales, kegs, casks, and bundles of goods and provisions; each bale or cask weighed exactly 90 pounds, and was called a piece. There were fifteen pieces in the canoe, besides the crew of six men, and Mr Stanley and his family, who occupied the centre, where their bedding, tied up in flat bundles and covered with oiled cloth, formed a comfortable couch. Notwithstanding the size and capacity of this craft, it had been carried down to the beach on the shoulders of Massan and Dick Prince, who now stood at its bow and stern, preventing it with their paddles from rubbing its frail sides against the wharf; for although the bark is tough, and will stand a great deal of tossing in water and plunging among rapids, it cannot sustain the slightest blow from a rock or other hard substance without being cracked, or having the gum which covers the seams scraped off. To those who are unacquainted with travelling in the wild regions of the north it would seem impossible that a long journey could be accomplished in such tender boats; but a little experience proves that, by judicious treatment and careful management, voyages of great length may be safely accomplished in them—that they are well adapted for the necessities of the country, and can be taken with greater ease through a rough, broken, and mountainous region than ordinary wooden boats, even of smaller size, could be.

The second canoe was in all respects similar to the one we have described, excepting that it was a few inches shorter. The third was much smaller—so small that it could not contain more than three men, with their provisions and a few bales, and so light that it could with the greatest ease be carried on the shoulders of one man. It was intended to serve as a sort of pioneer and hunting craft, which should lead the way, dart hither and thither in pursuit of game, and warn the main body of any danger that should threaten them ahead. It was manned by the two Indian guides, Oostesimow and Ma-istequan, and by Frank Morton, who being acknowledged one of the best shots of the party, was by tacit understanding regarded as commissary-general. It might have been said that Frank was the best shot, were it not for the fact that the aim of Dick Prince was perfect, and it is generally admitted that perfection cannot be excelled.

Although differing widely in their dispositions and appearance, the men of the expedition were similar at least in one respect—they were all first-rate, and had been selected as being individually superior to their comrades at Moose Fort. And a noble set of fellows they looked, as they stood beside their respective canoes, leaning on their little, brilliantly coloured paddles, awaiting the embarkation of their leaders. They all wore new suits of clothes, which were sufficiently similar to give the effect of a uniform, yet so far varied in detail as to divest them of monotony, and relieve the eye by agreeable contrast of bright colours. All of them wore light-blue cloth capotes with hoods hanging down behind, all had corduroy trousers gartered below the knee, and all wore moccasins, and had fire-bags stuck in their belts, in which were contained the materials for producing fire, tobacco, and pipes. So far they were alike, but the worsted belts of some were scarlet, of others crimson, and of others striped. Some gartered their trousers with thongs of leather, others used elegant bands of bead-work—the gifts, probably, of sorrowing sweethearts, sisters, or mothers—while the fire-bags, besides being composed some of blue, some of scarlet cloth, were ornamented more or less with flowers and fanciful devices elegantly wrought in the gaily-dyed quills of the porcupine.

On seeing Stanley and his wife and child approaching, Massan gave the order to embark. In a moment every man divested himself of his capote, which he folded up and placed on the seat he was to occupy; then, shaking hands all round for the last time, they stepped lightly and carefully into their places.

“All ready, I see, Massan,” said Stanley, as he came up, “and the ice seems pretty open. How say you? shall we make a good day of it?”

Massan smiled dubiously as he presented his thick shoulder as a support to Mrs Stanley, while she stepped into her place. He remembered the conversation of the previous evening, and determined that, whatever should happen, he at least would not cast the shadow of a doubt on their prospects. But in his own mind he suspected that their progress would be interrupted ere long, as the wind, although very light—almost imperceptible—was coming from the north-west.

“It’ll be full flood in less nor half an hour,” he replied, “and—(take care, Miss Edith, give me your little hand; there, now, jump light)—and we’ll be past the p’int by that time, and git the good o’ the ebb till sun-down.”

“I fear,” said Frank Morton, approaching, “that the ice is rather thick for us; but it don’t much matter, it will only delay us a bit—and at any rate we’ll make good way as far as the point.”

“True, true,” said Stanley; “and it’s a great matter to get fairly started. Once off we must go forward. All ready, lads?”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Now, Frank, into your canoe and show us the way; mind we trust to your guidance to keep us clear of blind alleys among these lanes of water in the ice.”

At this moment Edith—who had been for the last few minutes occupied in alternately drying her eyes and kissing her hands to a group of little children who had been her play-fellows during her sojourn at the fort—uttered a loud exclamation.

“Oh! oh! papa, mamma—Chimo!—we’ve forgot Chimo! Oh me! don’t go away yet!”

“So we have!” said her father; “dear me, how stupid to forget our old friend!—Hallo! Frank, Frank, we’ve forgot the dog,” shouted Stanley to his young comrade, who was on the point of starting.

On hearing this, Frank gave a long, shrill whistle. “That’ll bring him if he’s within ear-shot.”

When the well-known sound broke upon Chimo’s ear, he was lying coiled up in front of the kitchen fire, being privileged to do so in consequence of his position as Edith’s favourite. The cook, having gone out a few minutes previously, had left Chimo to enjoy his slumbers in solitude, so that, when he started suddenly to his feet on hearing Frank’s whistle, he found himself a prisoner. But Chimo was a peculiarly strong-minded and strong-bodied dog, and was possessed of an iron will! He was of the Esquimau breed, and bore some resemblance to the Newfoundland, but was rather shorter in the legs, longer in the body, and more powerfully made. Moreover, he was more shaggy, and had a stout, blunt, straightforward appearance, which conveyed to the beholder the idea that he scorned flattery, and would not consent to be petted on any consideration. Indeed this was the case, for he always turned away with quiet contempt from any of the men who attempted to fondle him. He made an exception, however, of little Edith, whom he not only permitted to clap him to any extent, but deliberately invited her to do so by laying his great head in her lap, rubbing himself against her, and wagging his bushy tail, as if to say, “Now, little girl, do what you will with me!” And Eda never refused the animal’s dumb-show request. When she was very young and had not much sense—at which time Chimo was young too, but possessed of a great deal of sense—she formed a strong affection for the Esquimau dog, an affection which she displayed by putting her little arms round his neck and hugging him until he felt a tendency to suffocation; she also pulled his ears and tail, and stuffed her fat little hands into his eyes and mouth,—all of which dreadful actions she seemed to think, in her childish ignorance, must be very pleasant to Chimo, and all of which the dog appeared really to enjoy. At all events, whether he liked it or not, he came regularly to have himself thus treated every day. As Eda grew older she left off choking her favourite and poking out his eyes, and contented herself with caressing him. Chimo also evinced a partiality for Mr Stanley and Frank Morton, and often accompanied the latter on his hunting excursions; but he always comported himself towards them with dignified hauteur, accepting their caresses with a slight wag of acknowledgment, but never courting their favour.

On jumping up, as we have already said, and observing that the door was shut, the dog looked slowly and calmly round the apartment, as if to decide on what was best to be done; for Chimo was a dog of great energy of character, and was never placed in any circumstances in which he did not pursue some decided course of action. On the present occasion there was not a hole, except the key-hole, by which he could hope to make his escape. Yes, by-the-bye, there was a hole in the window, which was made of parchment; but as that was merely the bullet-hole through which the animal that had given his skin for a window had been shot, and was not larger than a shilling, it did not afford much hope. Nevertheless Chimo regarded it with a steady gaze for a minute or two, then he turned to the fire, and having satisfied himself that the chimney was impracticable, being full of flames and smoke, he faced the window once more, and showed his teeth, as if in chagrin.

“Whew-ew! Chimo-o-o!” came Frank’s voice, floating faintly from afar. Chimo took aim at the bullet-hole. One vigorous bound—a horrible crash, that nearly caused the returning cook to faint—and the dog was free.

“Ah, here he comes!—good dog!” cried Frank, as the animal came bounding over intervening obstacles towards the canoes. Chimo made straight for the small canoe, in answer to his master’s call; but, like many dogs and not a few men, he owned a higher power than that of a master. The voice of his little mistress sounded sweetly in his ear, like the sound of a silver bell. “O Chimo, Chimo! my darling pet! come here—here.” It was a soft, tiny voice at the loudest, and was quite drowned amid the talking and laughter of the men, but Chimo heard it. Turning at a sharp angle from his course, he swept past the light canoe, and bounding into that of Mr Stanley, lay down beside Eda and placed his head in her lap, where it was immediately smothered in the caresses of its young mistress.

Mr Stanley smiled and patted his little girl on the shoulder, as he said, “That’s right, Eda; the love of a faithful dog is worth having and cherishing.” Then turning towards the stern of the canoe, where Massan stood erect, with his steering paddle ready for action, he said to that worthy—

“Now, Massan, all ready; give the word.”

“Ho, ho, boys; forward!”

The paddles dipped simultaneously in the water with a loud, gurgling sound; the two large canoes shot out into the stream abreast of each other, preceded by the light one, which, urged forward by the powerful arms of Frank and the two Indians, led the way among the floating fields of ice. The people on shore took off their caps and waved a last farewell. Dick Prince, who possessed a deep, loud, sonorous voice, began one of those beautiful and wild yet plaintive songs peculiar to the voyageurs of the wilderness. The men joined, with a full, rich swell, in the chorus, as they darted forward with arrow-like speed—and the voyage began.

Chapter Six.

Character partially developed—Ducks for supper—A threatened “nip”—Bundled out on the Ice.

Fortunately the wind veered round to the south-east soon after the departure of the canoes from Moose Fort, and although there was not enough of it to ruffle the surface of the river, it had the effect of checking the influx of ice from James’s Bay. The tide, too, began to ebb, so that the progress of the canoes was even more rapid than it appeared to be; and long before the sun set, they were past the point at the mouth of the river, and coasting along the shores of the salt ocean.

Outside of them the sea was covered with hummocks and fields of ice, some of which ever and anon met in the cross currents caused by the river, with a violent shock. Close to the shore, however, the thickness of the ice caused it to strand, leaving a lane of open water, along which the canoes proceeded easily, the depth of water being much more than sufficient for them, as the largest canoe did not draw more than a foot. Sometimes, however, this space was blocked up by smaller fragments, and considerable difficulty was experienced in steering the canoes amongst them. Had the party travelled in boats, they would have easily dashed through many of these checks; but with canoes it is far otherwise. Not only are their bark sides easily broken, but the seams are covered with a kind of pitch which becomes so brittle in ice-cold water that it chips off in large lumps with the slightest touch. For the sea, therefore, boats are best; but when it comes to carrying the craft over waterfalls and up mountain sides, for days and weeks together, canoes are more useful, owing to their lightness.

“Take care, Massan,” said Mr Stanley, on approaching one of these floes. “Don’t chip the gum off if you can help it. If we spring a leak, we shan’t spend our first night on a pleasant camping-ground, for the shore just hereabouts does not look inviting.”

“No fear, sir,” replied Massan. “Dick Prince is in the bow, and as long as his mouth’s shut I keep my mind easy.”

“You appear to have unlimited confidence in Prince,” said Stanley, with a smile. “Does he never fail in anything, that you are so sure of him?”

“Fail!” exclaimed the steersman, whose paddle swept constantly in a circle round his head, while he changed it from side to side as the motions of the canoe required—“fail! ay, that does he sometimes. Mortal man must get on the wrong side o’ luck now and then. I’ve seen Dick Prince fail, but I never saw him make a mistake.”

“Well, I’ve no doubt that he deserves your good opinion. Nevertheless, be more than ordinarily careful. If you had a wife and child in the canoe, Massan, you would understand my anxiety better.” Stanley smiled as he said this, and the worthy steersman replied in a grave tone,—“I have the wife and child of my bourgeois under my care.”

“True, true, Massan,” said Stanley, lying back on his couch and conversing with his wife in an undertone.

“’Tis curious,” said he, “to observe the confidence that Massan has in Prince; and yet it would be difficult to say wherein consists the superiority of the one over the other.”

“Perhaps it is the influence of a strong mind over a weaker,” suggested his wife.

“It may be so. Yet Prince is an utterly uneducated man. True, he shoots a hair’s-breadth better than Massan; but he is not a better canoe-man, neither is he more courageous, and he is certainly less powerful: nevertheless Massan looks up to him and speaks of him as if he were greatly his superior. The secret of his power must lie in that steady, never-wavering inflexibility of purpose, that characterises our good bowman in everything he does.”

“Papa,” said Edith, who had been holding a long conversation with Chimo on the wonders of the scene around them—if we may call that a conversation where the one party does all the talking and the other all the listening—“papa, where shall we all sleep to-night?”

The thought seemed to have struck her for the first time, and she looked up eagerly for an answer, while Chimo gave a deep sigh of indifference, and went to sleep, or pretended to do so, where he was.

“In the woods, Eda. How do you think you will like it?”

“Oh, I’m sure I shall like it very much,” replied the little one. “I’ve often wished to live in the woods altogether like the Indians, and do nothing but wander about and pull berries.”

“Ah, Jessie,” said Stanley, “what an idle little baggage your daughter is! I fear she’s a true chip of the old block!”

“Which do you consider the old block,” retorted Mrs Stanley—“you or me?”

“Never mind, wife; we’ll leave that an open question.—But tell me, Eda, don’t you think that wandering about and pulling berries would be a very useless sort of life?”

“No,” replied Edith, gravely. “Mamma often tells me that God wants me to be happy, and I’m quite sure that wandering about all day in the beautiful woods would make me happy.”

“But, my darling,” said Stanley, smiling at the simplicity of this plausible argument in favour of an idle life, “don’t you know that we ought to try to make others happy too, as well as ourselves?”

“Oh yes,” replied Eda, with a bright smile, “I know that, papa; and I would try to make everybody happy by going with them and showing them where the finest flowers and berries were to be found; and so we would all be happy together, and that’s what God wants, is it not?”

Mr Stanley glanced towards his wife with an arch smile. “There, Jessie, what think you of that?”

“Nay, husband, what think you?”

“I think,” he replied in an undertone, “that your sagacious teaching against idleness, and in favour of diligence and attention to duty, and so forth, has not taken very deep root yet.”

“And I think,” said Mrs Stanley, “that however wise you men may be in some things, you are all most incomprehensibly stupid in regard to the development of young minds.”

“Take care now, Jessie; you’re verging upon metaphysics. But you have only given me your opinion of men as yet; you have still to say what you think of Eda’s acknowledged predilection for idleness.”

“Well,” replied Mrs Stanley, “I think that my sagacious teaching, as you are pleased to call it, has taken pretty firm root already, and that Eda’s speech is one of the first bright, beautiful blossoms, from which we may look for much fruit hereafter; for to make one’s self and one’s fellow-creatures happy, because such is the will of God, seems to me a simple and comprehensive way of stating the whole duty of man.”

Stanley’s eyes opened a little at this definition. “Hum! multum in parvo; it may be so,” he said; and casting down his eyes, he was soon lost in a profound reverie, while the canoe continued to progress forward by little impulsive bounds, under the rapid stroke of the paddles. Eda rested her fair cheek on the shaggy brow of Chimo, and accompanied him to the land of nod, until the sun began to sink behind the icebergs on the seaward horizon, where a dark line indicated an approaching breeze.

Massan cast an uneasy glance at this from time to time. At length he called to his friend in the bow, “Hello, Prince! will it come stiff; think ye?”

“No,” replied Prince, rising and shading his eyes with his hand; “it’ll be only a puff; but that’s enough to drive the ice down on us, an’ shut up the open water.”

“It’s my ’pinion,” said Massan, “that we should hold away for the p’int yonder, an’ camp there.”

Dick Prince nodded assent, and resumed his paddle.

As he did so the report of a gun came sharply over the water.

“Ha!” exclaimed Stanley, looking out ahead; “what’s that?”

“Only Mr Frank,” said Massan; “he’s dowsed two birds. I see’d them splash into the water.”

“That’s right,” said Stanley; “we shall have something fresh for the kettle to-night. And, by the way, we’ll need all we can kill, for we haven’t much provision to depend on, and part of it must be reserved in case of accidents, so that if Frank does not do his duty, we shall have to live on birch bark, Massan.”

“That would be rayther tough. I’m afeerd,” replied the steersman, laughing. “I’ve tried the tail o’ a deer-skin coat afore now, an’ it wasn’t much to boast of; but I niver tried a birch-bark steak. I doubt it would need a power o’ chewin?”

By this time the two large canoes had drawn gradually nearer to the leading one. As they approached, Frank ordered his men to cease paddling.

“Well, Frank, what success?” said Stanley, as they came up.

“There’s our supper,” cried Frank, tossing a large duck into the canoe; “and there’s a bite for the men,” he added, sending a huge gray goose into the midst of them. “I saw a herd of reindeer on the other side of the point; but the ice closed up the passage, and prevented me from getting within range. It will stop our further progress for to-night too; so I waited to advise you to camp here.”

“There it comes!” cried Dick Prince. “Jump out on the ice, lads, and unload as fast as you can.”

As Dick spoke he sprang on to a field of ice which was attached to the shore, and drawing the canoe alongside, began hastily to remove the cargo. His example was instantly followed by the men, who sprang over the gunwales like cats; and in less than five minutes the cargoes were scattered over the ice. Meanwhile, the breeze which Massan had observed continued to freshen, and the seaward ice bore rapidly down on the shore, gradually narrowing and filling up the lanes of water among which the travellers had been hitherto wending their way. Dick Prince’s sudden action was caused by his observing a large, solid field, which bore down on them with considerable rapidity. His warning was just in time, for the goods were scarcely landed and the three canoes lifted out of the water, when the ice closed in with a crash that would have ground the frail barks to pieces, and the passage was closed up. So completely was every trace of water obliterated, that it seemed as though there never had been any there before.

Chapter Seven.

Shows how the party made themselves at home in the bush—Talk round the camp fire—A flash of temper—Turning in.

The spot where they were thus suddenly arrested in their progress was a small bay, formed by a low point which jutted from the mainland, and shut out the prospect in advance. There was little or no wood on the point, except a few stunted willows, which being green and small would not, as La Roche the cook remarked, “make a fire big enough to roast the wing of a mosquito.” There was no help for it, however. The spot on which Massan had resolved to encamp for the night was three miles on the other side of the point, and as the way was now solid ice instead of water, there was no possibility of getting there until a change of wind should drive the ice off the shore. Moreover, it was now getting dark, and it behoved them to make their preparations with as much speed as possible. Accordingly, Massan and Prince shouldered one canoe, François and Gaspard carried the other, and the light one was placed on the shoulders of Bryan the blacksmith; La Roche took the provision-basket and cooking utensils under his special charge; while the three Esquimau interpreters and the two Indian guides busied themselves in carrying the miscellaneous goods and baggage into camp. As for Chimo, he seated himself quietly on a lump of ice, and appeared to superintend the entire proceedings; while his young mistress and her mother, accompanied by Frank and Stanley, crossed the ice to the shore, to select a place for their encampment.

But it was some time ere a suitable place could be found, as the point happened to be low and swampy, and poor Eda’s first experience of a life in the woods was stepping into a hole which took her up to the knees in mud and water. She was not alone, however, in misfortune, for just at the same moment Bryan passed through the bushes with his canoe, and staggered into the same swamp, exclaiming as he did so, in a rich brogue which many years’ residence among the French half-breeds of Rupert’s Land had failed to soften, “Thunder an’ turf! such a blackguard counthry I niver did see. Och, Bryan dear, why did ye iver lave yer native land?”

“Pourquoi, why, mon boy? for ver’ goot raison,” cried La Roche, in a horrible compound of French and broken English, as he skipped lightly past, with a loud laugh, “for ver’ goot raison—dey was tired of you to home, vraiment. You was too grande raskale; dey could not keep you no longer.”

“Thrue for ye, La Roche,” replied the blacksmith, “thrue for ye, boy; they sartinly could not keep me on nothin’, an’ as the murphies was all sp’iled wi’ the rot, I had to lave or starve.”

At last, after a long search, Frank Morton found a spot pretty well adapted for their purpose. It was an elevated plot of gravel, which was covered with a thin carpet of herbage, and surrounded by a belt of willows which proved a sufficient shelter against the wind. A low and rather shaggy willow-tree spread its branches over the spot, and gave to it a good deal of the feeling and appearance of shelter, if not much of the reality. This was of little consequence, however, as the night proved fine and comparatively mild, so that the black vault of heaven, spangled with hosts of brilliant stars, amply compensated for the want of a leafy canopy.

Under the willow-tree, Frank and La Roche busied themselves in spreading a very small white tent for Mr Stanley and his family. Frank himself, although entitled from his position in the Company’s service to the luxury of a tent, scorned to use one, preferring to rough it like the men, and sleep beneath the shelter of the small canoe. Meanwhile, Mr Stanley proceeded to strike a light with his flint and steel; and Bryan, having deposited his burden near the tent, soon collected a sufficiency of driftwood to make a good fire. Edith and her mother were not idle in the midst of this busy scene. They collected a few bundles of dried twigs to make the fire light more easily, and after the blaze was casting its broad glare of light over the camp, and the tent was pitched, they assisted La Roche in laying the cloth for supper. Of course, in a journey like this, none but necessary articles were taken, and these were of the most homely character. The kettle was the tea-pot, the cups were tin pannikins, and the table-cloth was a large towel, while the table itself was the ground, from the damp of which, however, the party in the tent were protected by an ample oil-cloth.

When all the things were carried up, and the men assembled, the camp presented the following appearance: in the centre of the open space, which nature had arranged in the form of a circle, blazed the fire; and a right jovial, sputtering, outrageous fire it was, sending its sparks flying in all directions, like the artillery of a beleaguered fortress in miniature, and rolling its flames about in fierce and wayward tongues, that seemed bent on licking in and swallowing up the entire party, but more especially La Roche, who found no little difficulty in paying due attention to his pots and kettles. Sometimes the flames roared fiercely upwards, singeing off the foliage of the overhanging willow as they went, and then, bursting away from their parent fire, portions of them floated off for a few seconds on the night air. On the weather side of this fire stood Mr Stanley’s tent, under the willow-tree, as before described, its pure white folds showing strongly against the darkness of the sky beyond. The doorway, or curtain of the tent, was open, displaying the tea-equipage within, and the smiling countenances of Stanley and his wife, Frank and Eda, who, seated on blankets and shawls around the towel, were preparing to make an assault on the fat duck before mentioned. This duck had been split open and roasted on a piece of stick before the blaze, and now stood with the stumps of its wings and legs extended, as if demanding urgently to be eaten—a demand which Chimo, who crouched near the doorway, could scarce help complying with.

To the right of the tent was placed the small canoe, bottom up, so as to afford a partial protection to the bedding which Oostesimow was engaged in spreading out for Frank and himself and his comrade Ma-Istequan. Facing this, at the other side of the fire, and on the left of the tent, the largest canoe was turned up in a similar manner, and several of the men were engaged in covering the ground beneath it with a layer of leaves and branches, above which they spread their blankets; while others lounged around the fire and smoked their beloved pipes, or watched with impatient eyes the operations of Bryan, who, being accustomed to have familiar dealings with the fire, had been deemed worthy of holding the office of cook to the men, and was inducted accordingly.

It is due to Bryan to say that he fully merited the honour conferred upon him; for never, since the days of Vulcan, was there a man seen who could daringly dabble in the fire as he did. He had a peculiar sleight-of-hand way of seizing hold of and tossing about red-hot coals with his naked hand, that induced one to believe he must be made of leather. Flames seemed to have no effect whatever on his sinewy arms when they licked around them; and as for smoke, he treated it with benign contempt. Not so La Roche: with the mercurial temperament of his class he leaped about the fire, during his culinary operations, in a way that afforded infinite amusement to his comrades, and not unfrequently brought him into violent collision with Bryan, who usually received him on such occasions with a strong Irish growl, mingled with a disparaging or contemptuous remark.

Beyond the circle of light thrown by the fire was the belt of willows which encompassed the camp on all sides except towards the sea, where a narrow gap formed a natural entrance and afforded a glimpse of the ocean with its fields and hummocks of ice floating on its calm bosom and glancing in the faint light of the moon, which was then in its first quarter.

“How comfortable and snug everything is!” said Mrs Stanley, as she poured out the tea, while her husband carved the duck.

“Yes, isn’t it, Eda?” said Frank, patting his favourite on the head, as he held out her plate for a wing. “There, give her a bit of the breast too,” he added. “I know she’s ravenously hungry, for I saw her looking at Chimo, just before we landed, as if she meant to eat him for supper without waiting to have him cooked.”

“O Frank, how can you be so wicked?” said Eda, taking up her knife and fork and attacking the wing with so much energy as almost to justify her friend’s assertion.

“Snug, said you, Jessie? yes, that’s the very word to express it,” said Stanley. “There’s no situation that I know of (and I wasn’t born yesterday) that is so perfectly snug, and in all respects comfortable, as an encampment in the woods on a fine night in spring or autumn.”

“Or winter,” added Frank, swallowing a pannikin of tea at a draught, nodding to Chimo, as much as to say, “Do that if you can, old fellow,” and handing it to Mrs Stanley to be replenished. “Don’t omit winter—cold, sharp, sunny winter. An encampment in the snow, in fine weather, is as snug as this.”

“Rather cold, is it not?” said Mrs Stanley.

“Cold! not a bit,” replied Frank, making a reckless dive with his hand into the biscuit-bag; “if you have enough wood to get up a roaring fire, six feet long by three broad and four deep, with a bank of snow five feet high all around ye, a pine-tree with lots of thick branches spreading overhead to keep off the snow, and two big green blankets to keep out the frost—(another leg of that widgeon, please)—you’ve no notion how snug it is, I assure you.”

“Hum!” ejaculated Stanley, with a dubious smile, “you forgot to add—a youthful, robust frame, with the blood careering through the veins like wildfire, to your catalogue of requisites. No doubt it is pleasant enough in its way; but commend me to spring or autumn for thorough enjoyment, when the air is mild, and the waters flowing, and the woods green and beautiful.”

“Why don’t you speak of summer, papa?” said Eda, who had been listening intently to this conversation.

“Summer, my pet! because—”

“Allow me to explain,” interrupted Frank, laying down his knife and fork, and placing the forefinger of his right hand in his left palm, as if he were about to make a speech. “Because, Eda, because there is such a thing as heat—long-continued, never-ending, sweltering heat. Because there are such reprehensible and unutterably detestable insects as mosquitoes, and sand-flies, and bull-dogs; and there is such a thing as being bitten, and stung, and worried, and sucked into a sort of partial madness; and I have seen such sights as men perpetually slapping their own faces, and scratching the skin off their own cheeks with their own nails, and getting no relief thereby, but rather making things worse; and I have, moreover, seen men’s heads swelled until the eyes and noses were lost, and the mouths only visible when opened, and their general aspect like that of a Scotch haggis; and there is a time when all this accumulates on man and beast till the latter takes to the water in desperation, and the former takes to intermittent insanity, and that time is—summer.—Another cup, please, Mrs Stanley. ’Pon my conscience, it creates thirst to think of it.”

At this stage the conversation of the party in the tent was interrupted by a loud peal of laughter mingled with not a few angry exclamations from the men. La Roche, in one of his frantic leaps to avoid a tongue of flame which shot out from the fire with a vicious velocity towards his eyes, came into violent contact with Bryan while that worthy was in the act of lifting a seething kettle of soup and boiled pork from the fire. Fortunately for the party whose supper was thus placed in jeopardy, Bryan stood his ground; but La Roche, tripping over a log, fell heavily among the pannikins, tin plates, spoons, and knives, which had been just laid out on the ground in front of the canoe.

“Ach! mauvais chien,” growled Gaspard, as he picked up and threw away the fragments of his pipe, “you’re always cuttin’ and jumpin’ about like a monkey.”

“Oh! pauvre crapaud,” cried François, laughing; “don’t abuse him, Gaspard. He’s a useful dog in his way.”

“Tare an’ ages! you’ve done it now, ye have. Bad luck to ye! wasn’t I for iver tellin’ ye that same. Shure, if it wasn’t that ye’re no bigger or heavier than a wisp o’ pea straw, ye’d have druve me and the soup into the fire, ye would. Be the big toe o’ St. Patrick, not to mintion his riverince the Pope—”

“Come, come, Bryan,” cried Massan, “don’t speak ill o’ the Pope, an’ down wi’ the kettle.”

“The kittle, is it? Sorra a kittle ye’ll touch, Massan, till it’s cool enough to let us all start fair at wance. Ye’ve got yer mouth and throat lined wi’ brass, I believe, an’ would ate the half o’t before a soul of us could taste it!”

“Don’t insult me, you red-faced racoon,” retorted Massan, while he and his comrades circled round the kettle, and began a vigorous attack on the scalding mess; “my throat is not so used to swallowin’ fire as your own. I never knowed a man that payed into the grub as you do.—Bah! how hot it is.—I say, Oolibuck, doesn’t it remember you o’ the dogs o’ yer own country, when they gits the stone kettle to clean out?”

Oolibuck’s broad visage expanded with a chuckle as he lifted an enormous wooden spoonful of soup to his ample mouth. “Me tink de dogs of de Innuit (Esquimaux) make short work of dis kettle if ’e had ’im.”

“Do the dogs of the Huskies eat with their masters?” inquired François, as he groped in the kettle with his fork in search of a piece of pork.

“Dey not eat wid der masters, but dey al’ays clean hout de kettle,” replied Moses, somewhat indignantly.

“Ha!” exclaimed Massan, pausing for a few minutes to recover breath; “yes, they always let the dogs finish off the feast. Ye must know, comrades, that I’ve seed them do it myself—anyways I’ve seed a man that knew a feller who said he had a comrade that wintered once with the Huskies, which is pretty much the same thing. An’ he said that sometimes when they kill a big seal, they boil it whole an’ have a rig’lar feast. Ye must understand, mes garçons, that the Huskies make thumpin’ big kettles out o’ a kind o’ soft stone they find in them parts, an’ some o’ them’s big enough to boil a whole seal in. Well, when the beast is cooked, they take it out o’ the pot, an’ while they’re tuckin’ into it, the dogs come and sit in a ring round the pot to wait till the soup’s cool enough to eat. They knows well that it’s too hot at first, an’ that they must have a deal o’ patience; but afore long some o’ the young uns can’t hold on, so they steps up somewhat desperate like, and pokes their snouts in. Of course they pulls them out pretty sharp with a yell, and sit down to rub their noses for a bit longer. Then the old uns take courage an’ make a snap at it now and again, but very tenderly, till it gits cooler at last, an’ then at it they go, worryin’, an’ scufflin’, an’ barkin’, an’ gallopin’, just like Moses there, till the pot’s as clean as the day it wos made.”

“Ha! ha! oh, ver’ goot, très bien; ah! mon coeur, just très splendiferous!” shouted La Roche, whose risibility was always easily tickled.

“It’s quite true, though—isn’t it, Moses?” said Massan, as he once more applied to the kettle, while some of his comrades cut up the goose that Frank had shot in the afternoon.

“Why, Moses, what a capacity you have for grub!” said François. “If your countrymen are anything like you, I don’t wonder that they have boiled seals and whales for dinner.”

“It’ll take a screamin’ kittle for a whale,” spluttered Bryan, with his mouth full, “an’ a power o’ dogs to drink the broth.”

“You tink you funny, Bryan,” retorted Moses, while an oily smile beamed on his fat, good-humoured countenance; “but you not; you most dreadful stupid.”

“Thrue for ye, Moses; I was oncommon stupid to let you sit so long beside the kittle,” replied the Irishman, as he made a futile effort to scrape another spoonful from the bottom of it. “Och! but ye’ve licked it as clane as one of yer own dogs could ha’ done it.”

“Mind your eye!” growled Gaspard, at the same time giving La Roche a violent push, as that volatile worthy, in one of his eccentric movements, nearly upset his can of water.

“Oh! pardon, monsieur,” exclaimed La Roche, in pretended sorrow, at the same time making a grotesque bow that caused a general peal of laughter.

“Why, one might as well travel with a sick bear as with you, Gaspard,” said François half angrily.

“Hold your jaw,” replied Gaspard.

“Not at your bidding,” retorted François, half rising from his reclining posture, while his colour heightened. Gaspard had also started up, and it seemed as if the little camp were in danger of becoming a scene of strife, when Dick Prince, who was habitually silent and unobtrusive, preferring generally to listen rather than to speak, laid his hand on Gaspard’s broad shoulder and pulled him somewhat forcibly to the ground.

“Shame on you, comrades!” he said, in a low, grave voice, that instantly produced a dead silence; “shame on you, to quarrel on our first night in the bush! We’ve few enough friends in these parts, I think, that we should make enemies o’ each other.”

“That’s well said,” cried Massan, in a very decided tone. “It won’t do to fall out when there’s so few of us.” And the stout voyageur thrust his foot against the logs on the fire, causing a rich cloud of sparks to ascend, as if to throw additional light on his remark.

“Pardon me, mes comrades,” cried François; “I did not intend to quarrel;” and he extended his hand to Gaspard, who took it in silence, and dropping back again to his recumbent posture, resumed his pipe.

This little scene was witnessed by the party in the tent, who were near enough to overhear all that was said by the men, and even to converse with them if they should desire to do so. A shade of anxiety crossed Mr Stanley’s countenance, and some time after, recurring to the subject, he said—

“I don’t feel quite easy about that fellow Gaspard. He seems a sulky dog, and is such a Hercules that he might give us a deal of trouble if he were high-spirited.”

A slight smile of contempt curled Frank’s lip as he said, “A strong arm without a bold heart is not of more value than that of my Eda here in the hour of danger. But I think better of Gaspard than you seem to do. He’s a sulky enough dog, ’tis true; but he is a good, hard worker, and does not grumble; and I sometimes have noticed traces of a better spirit than usually meets the eye. As for his bulk, I think nothing of it; he wants high spirit to make it available. François could thrash him any day.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Stanley; “I hope they won’t try their mettle on each other sooner than we expect. Not that I care a whit for any of the men having a round or two now and then and be done with it; but this fellow seems to ‘nurse his wrath to keep it warm.’ On such an expedition as ours, it behoves us to have a good understanding and a kindly feeling in the camp. One black sheep in the flock may do much damage.”

“He’s only piebald, not black,” said Frank, laughing, as he rose to quit the tent. “But I must leave you. I see that Eda’s eyes are refusing to keep open any longer, so good-night to you all, and a sound sleep.”

Frank’s concluding remarks in reference to him were overheard by Gaspard, who had risen to look at the night, and afterwards kneeled near the tent, in order to be at some distance from his comrades while he said his prayers; for, strange though it may seem, many of the rough and reckless voyageurs of that country, most of whom are Roman Catholics, regularly retire each night to kneel and pray beneath a tree before lying down on their leafy couches, and deem the act quite consistent with the swearing and quarrelling life that too many of them lead. Such is human nature. As Gaspard rose from his knees Frank’s words fell upon his ear, and when he drew his blanket over his head that night there was a softer spot in his heart and a wrinkle less on his brow.

When Frank stepped over to the place where his canoe lay, the aspect of the camp was very different from what it had been an hour before. The fire had burned low, and was little more than a mass of glowing embers, from which a fitful flame shot forth now and then, casting a momentary glare on the forms of the men, who, having finished their pipes, were all extended in a row, side by side, under the large canoe. As they possessed only a single green blanket each, they had to make the most of their coverings, by rolling them tightly around their bodies, and doubling the ends down under their feet and over their heads; so that they resembled a row of green bolsters, all their feet being presented towards the fire, and all their heads resting on their folded capotes. A good deal of loud and regular snoring proved that toil and robust health seldom court the drowsy god long in vain. Turning to his own canoe, Frank observed that his Indian friends were extended out under it, with a wide space between them, in which his own bedding was neatly arranged. The grave sons of the forest had lain down to rest long before their white comrades, and they now lay as silent and motionless as the canoe that covered their heads. Being a small canoe, it did not afford protection to their legs and feet; but in fine weather this was of no consequence, and for the morrow they cared not.

Before lying down Frank kneeled to commend himself and his comrades to the protection of God; then stirring up the embers of the fire, he pulled out a small Bible from his breast pocket and sat down on a log to read. Frank was a careless, rollicking, kind-hearted fellow, and how much there was of true religion in these acts none but himself could tell. But the habit of reading the Word, and of prayer, had been instilled into him from infancy by a godly mother, and he carried it with him into the wilderness.

When he drew his blanket over him and laid his head on his capote the stars were still twinkling, and the moon still sailed in a clear sky and gave silver edges to the ice upon the sea. All was calm and solemn and beautiful, and it seemed as if it could never be otherwise in such a tranquil scene. But nature does not always smile. Appearances are often deceitful.

Chapter Eight.

Bryan’s adventure with a polar bear, etcetera.

Ice, ice, ice! everything seemed to have been converted into ice when the day broke on the following morning and awoke the sleepers in the camp. A sharp frost during the night, accompanied by a fall of snow, had, as if by magic, converted spring into winter. Icy particles hung upon and covered, not only the young leaves and buds of the bushes, but the branches also, giving to them a white and extremely airy appearance. Snow lay on the upper sides of the canoes, and weighed heavily on the tent, causing its folds, once seemingly so pure and white, to look dirty by contrast. Snow lay on the protruding legs of the men, and encircled the black spot where rested the ashes of last night’s brilliant fire. Ice grated on the pebbles of the shore; ice floated on the sea; icy hummocks and mounds rose above its surface; and icebergs raised their pinnacles on the far-off horizon, and cut sharply into the bright blue sky.

It was cold, but it was not cheerless; for when Eda put out her head at the curtain doorway of the tent, and opened her eyes upon the magic scene, the sun’s edge rose above the horizon, as if to greet her, and sent a flood of light far and near through the spacious universe, converting the sea into glass, with islands of frosted silver on its bosom. It was a gorgeous scene, worthy of its great Creator, who in His mysterious working scatters gems of beauty oftentimes in places where there is scarce a single human eye to behold their excellence.

Although the sea was covered with ice, there were, nevertheless, several lanes of open water not far from the shore; so that when Stanley called a council, composed of Frank Morton, Dick Prince, and Massan, it was agreed unanimously that they should attempt to proceed. And it was well that they did so; for they had not advanced many miles, winding their way cautiously among the canals of open water, when they doubled a promontory, beyond which there was little or no ice to be seen, merely a few scattered fragments and fields, that served to enhance the beauty of the scene by the airy lightness of their appearance in contrast with the bright blue of the sea and sky, but did not interrupt the progress of the travellers. The three canoes always maintained their relative positions during the journey as much as possible. That is to say, Frank and the two Indians went first in the small canoe, to lead the way, while the two large canoes kept abreast of each other when the open water was wide enough to permit of their doing so. This, besides being more sociable, enabled the two crews to join in the chorus of those beautiful songs with which they frequently enlivened the voyage.

During all this day, and for many days following, they continued to enjoy fine weather and to make rapid progress. Sometimes the ice was pretty thick, and once or twice they narrowly escaped being nipped by collapsing masses, which caused them to jump out, hastily throw the baggage on the ice, and haul the canoes out of the water. On these occasions the men proved themselves to be sterling fellows, nearly all of them being cool, prompt, and collected in the moment of danger. No doubt there were exceptions. La Roche, when any sudden crisis of danger arose, usually threw himself blindly over the side of the canoe on to the ice with the lightness and agility of a harlequin. He recked not whether he came down on his head or his feet, and more than once nearly broke his neck in consequence of his precipitancy. But La Roche was no coward, and the instant the first burst of excitement was over he rushed to render effective assistance. Bryan, too, although not so mercurial as La Roche, was apt to lose self-command for about five minutes when any sudden danger assailed him, so that he frequently sat still, staring wildly straight before him, while the others were actively unloading the canoes; and once, when the danger was more critical than usual, having sat till the canoe was empty, and paid no attention to a prompt, gruff order to jump ashore, he had been seized by the strong arms of Gaspard and tossed out of the canoe like a puppy dog. On these occasions he invariably endeavoured to make up for his fault by displaying, on recovery, the most outrageous and daring amount of unnecessary recklessness,—uttering, at the same time, an amazing number of strange expressions, among which “Tare an’ ages!” “Och! murder!” and several others less lucid in signification, predominated. Chimo was always first ashore, and instantly wheeled round to greet Eda, who was also always second, thanks to the strong and prompt arm of François, who sat just in front, and by tacit agreement took her under his special charge. As for Mrs Stanley, the arm that was rightfully her own, and had been her shield in many a scene of danger, proved ever ready and able to succour the “first volunteer” to Ungava.

At times the sea was quite free of ice, and many miles were soon added to the space which separated the little band of adventurers from the rest of the human world. Their encampments varied according to the nature of the coast, being sometimes among pine-trees, or surrounded by dwarf willows; at other times on the bare sand of the sea-shore; and occasionally at the extremity of long-projecting capes and promontories, where they had to pitch their tent and make their beds in the clefts of the solid rock. But wherever they laid them down to rest—on the rock, or on the sand, or within the shade of the forest—it was always found, as Mrs Stanley remarked of the first night’s encampment, that they were extremely comfortable and eminently snug.

They were successful, too, in procuring an ample supply of fresh provisions. There were ducks and geese of various kinds, and innumerable quantities of plover, cormorants, gulls, and eider-ducks, the eggs of which they found in thousands. Many of these birds were good for food, and the eggs of most of them, especially those of the eider-duck, were excellent. Reindeer were also met with; and, among other trophies of his skill as a hunter, Frank one day brought in a black bear, parts of which were eaten with great gusto by the Esquimaux and Indians, to the immense disgust of Bryan, who expressed his belief that the “haythens was barely fit to live,” and were most justly locked out from society in “thim dissolate polar raygeons.” There were many seals, also, in the sea, which put up their ugly, grotesque heads ever and anon, gazed at the canoes with their huge, fishy eyes, as in surprise at the sight of such novel marine monsters, and then sank slowly beneath the wave. These animals were never molested, out of respect to the feelings of the two Indians, who believed them to be gods, and assured Stanley that the destruction of one would infallibly bring down ill-luck and disaster on the heads of the party. Stanley smiled inwardly at this, but gave orders that no seals should be shot—an order which all were very willing to obey, as they did not require the animals either for food or any other purpose. Several white polar bears were seen, but they also were spared, as they require a great deal of shot to kill them, if not hit exactly behind the ear; and besides, neither their bodies nor skins were of any use to the travellers.

Thus all went favourably for a time. But life is a chequered story, and the sun of prosperity does not always shine, as we shall see.

One fine morning, as they were paddling cheerfully along in the neighbourhood of Cape Jones, it struck Mr Stanley that he might prove the correctness of his sextant and other instruments before entering upon the country which to most of the party was terra incognita. This was the more necessary that he could not depend on the guidance of Oostesimow and Ma-Istequan, they having travelled only once, long ago, through part of the country, while the latter part of it was totally unknown to them. It was one of those beautiful mornings that are peculiar to arctic regions, when the air is inexpressibly still, and all inanimate nature seems hushed in profound repose—a repose which is rather rendered more effective than otherwise by the plaintive cries of wild-fowl or the occasional puffing of a whale. There was a peculiar brilliancy, too, in the atmosphere, caused by the presence of so many fields and hummocks of white ice, looming fantastically through a thin, dry, gauze-like haze, which, while it did not dim the brightness of the solar rays, lent an additional charm to every object by shrouding it in a veil of mystery.

On passing the point the men ceased rowing, and proceeded to solace themselves with a five-minutes’ pipe—an indulgence which voyageurs always claim as their due after a long spell at the oars or paddles.

“Put ashore here, Massan,” said Stanley, turning to the guide; “I shall take an observation, if possible, and you can set the men to hunt for eggs. We shall want them, as the larder is rather low just now.”

Massan muttered assent, and, shouting to the other canoe to put ashore, ran alongside the rocks.

“You’d better hail the little canoe,” said Stanley, as he landed. “I shall want Mr Morton to assist me.”

Massan stepped upon an elevated rock, and, shading his eyes with his hands, looked earnestly ahead where he observed the little canoe almost beyond vision, and just going to double a point of land. Transferring his hands to his mouth, he used them as a trumpet, and gave forth a shout the like of which had never startled the echoes of the place before.

“It’s no use, sir,” said Massan; “he’s past hearin’. I’m afeerd that they’re off in the direction o’ the White Bear Hills, in hopes o’ gittin’ a shot.”

“Try again, Massan,” urged Stanley; “raise your pipe a little higher. Perhaps it will reach them.”

Massan shook his head. “Try it, Bryan,” he said, turning to the Irishman, who was sitting on a rock leisurely filling his short, black pipe.

“Is it to halloo ye want me?” replied Bryan, rising. “Shure the great gun of Athlone itself could niver hold a candle to ye, Massan, at yellin’; but I’ll try, anyhow;” and putting his hands to his mouth he gave forth a roar compared to which Massan’s was nothing. There was a sort of crack in the tone of it, however, that was so irresistibly ridiculous that the whole party burst incontinently into a fit of laughter. Loud though it was, it failed to reach the ears of those in the little canoe, which in a few seconds doubled the point and disappeared.

“Ah, bad luck to it!” said Bryan, in disgust; “the pipe’s damaged intirely. Small pace to ye, Bob Mahone; for shure it was howlin’ and screechin’ at your wake like a born scrandighowl that broke it.”

“Never mind, lad; what remains of it is not bad,” said Stanley, laughing, as he proceeded to open the box containing his scientific instruments.

Meanwhile his wife and Edith wandered along the rocks picking up shells and pebbles; and the men dispersed, some to smoke and chat, others to search for eggs. Bryan and La Roche, who were both aspiring geniuses, and had formed a sort of rough attachment to each other, asked permission to take a walk to the point ahead, where they would wait for the canoes. Having obtained it, they set off at a good round pace, that would have been “throublesome to kape up,” as Bryan remarked, “with payse in yer shoes!”

“Why you come for to jine de company?” inquired La Roche, as they jogged along.

“Why? bekase I’d nothin’ else to do, as the ould song says. Ye see, Losh,” (Bryan had invented a contraction for his friend’s name, which he said was “convanient”)—“ye see, Losh, there may be more nor wan raison for a gintleman lavin’ his native land in order to thravel in furrin parts. It’s thrue I had nothin’ in the univarse to do, for I could niver git work nohow, an’ whin I got it I could niver kape it. I niver could onderstan’ why, but so it was. Nivertheless I managed to live well enough in the ould cabin wid the murphies—”

“Vat is murphies?” inquired La Roche.

“Bliss yer innocent face, don’t ye know it’s praties?”

“’Tis vat?”

“Praties, boy, or pit-taties, if I must be partic’lar.”

“Ah! goot, goot, I understan’—pettitoes. Oui, oui, ye call him pomme de terre.”

“Hum! well, as I was sayin’, I got on pretty well wid the pumdeterres an’ the pig, but the pig died wan day—choked hisself on a murphy—that is, a pumbleterre; an’ more betoken, it was the last murphy in the house, a powerful big wan that my grandmother had put by for supper. After this ivery thin’ wint to smithereens. The rot came, and I thought I should have to list for a sodger. Well, Bob Mahone died o’ dhrink and starvation, an’ we had a beautiful wake; but there was a rig’lar shindy got up, an’ two or three o’ the county p’lice misbehaved themselves, so I jist floored them all, wan after the other, an’ bolted. Well, I wint straight to Dublin, an’ there I met wid an ould friend who was the skipper o’ a ship bound for New York. Says he, ‘Bryan, will ye go?’ Says I, ‘Av coorse; ’an ’shure enough I wint, an’ got over the say to ’Meriky.’ But I could niver settle down, so, wan way or another, I came at last to Montreal and jined the Company; an’ afther knockin’ about in the Columbia and Mackenzie’s River for some years, I was sint to Moose, an’ here I am, Losh, yer sarvant to command.”

“Goot, ver’ goot, mais peculiaire,” said La Roche, whose intimacy with this son of Erin had enabled him to comprehend enough of his jargon to grasp the general scope of his discourse.

“Av ye mane that lavin’ the ould country was goot,” said Bryan, stooping to pick up a stone and skim it along the smooth surface of the sea, “p’raps ye’re right; but there’s wan thing I niver could make my mind aisy about,” and the blacksmith’s voice became deep and his face grave as he recalled these bygone days.

“Vat were dat?” inquired La Roche.

“Why, ye see, Losh, I was so hard druve by the p’lice that I was forced to lave wid-out sayin’ good day to my ould mother, an’ they tould me it almost broke her heart; but I’ve had wan or two screeds from the priest wid her cross at them since, and she’s got over it, an’ lookin’ out for my returnin’—bliss her sowl!—an’ I’ve sint her five pounds ivery year since I left: so ye see, Losh, I’ve great hope o’ seein’ her yit, for although she’s ould she’s oncommon tough, an’ having come o’ a long-winded stock, I’ve great hopes o’ her.”

Poor Bryan! it never entered into his reckless brain to think that, considering the life of almost constant peril he led in the land of his pilgrimage, there was more hope of the longevity of his old mother than of himself. Like many of his countrymen, he was a man of strong, passionate, warm feelings, and remarkably unselfish.

“Is your contry resemblance to dat?” inquired La Roche, pointing, as he spoke, towards the sea, which was covered with fields and mountains of ice as far out as the eye could discern.

“Be the nose o’ my great-grandmother (an’ that was be no manes a short wan), no!” replied Bryan, with a laugh. “The say that surrounds ould Ireland is niver covered with sich sugar-plums as these. But what have we here?”

As he spoke they reached the point at which they were to await the coming up of the canoes, and the object which called forth Bryan’s remark was the little canoe, which lay empty on the beach just beyond the point. From the manner in which it lay it was evident that Frank and his Indians had placed it there; but there was no sign of their presence save one or two footprints on the sand. While La Roche was examining these, his companion walked towards a point of rock that jutted out from the cliffs and intercepted the view beyond. On turning round this, he became suddenly rooted to the spot with horror. And little wonder, for just two yards before him stood an enormous polar bear, whose career was suddenly arrested by Bryan’s unexpected appearance. It is difficult to say whether the man or the beast expressed most surprise at the rencounter. They both stood stock still, and opened their eyes to the utmost width. But the poor Irishman was evidently petrified by the apparition. He turned deadly pale, and his hands hung idly by his sides; while the bear, recovering from his surprise, rose on his hind legs and walked up to him—a sure sign that he was quite undaunted, and had made up his mind to give battle. As for La Roche, the instant he cast his eyes on the ferocious-looking quadruped, he uttered a frightful yell, bounded towards a neighbouring tree, and ceased not to ascend until its topmost branches were bending beneath his weight. Meanwhile the bear walked up to Bryan, but not meeting with the anticipated grapple of an enemy, and feeling somewhat uneasy under the cataleptic stare of the poor man’s eyes—for he still stood petrified with horror—it walked slowly round him, putting its cold nose on his cheek, as if to tempt him to move. But the five minutes of bewilderment that always preceded Bryan’s recovery from a sudden fright had not yet expired. He still remained perfectly motionless, so that the bear, disdaining, apparently, to attack an unresisting foe, dropped on his forelegs again. It is difficult to say whether there is any truth in the well-known opinion that the calm, steady gaze of a human eye can quell any animal. Doubtless there are many stories, more or less authentic, corroborative of the fact; but whether this be true or not, we are ready to vouch for the truth of this fact—namely, that under the influence of the blacksmith’s gaze, or his silence it may be, the bear was absolutely discomfited. It retreated a step or two, and walked slowly away, looking over its shoulder now and then as it went, as if it half anticipated an onslaught in the rear.

We have already said that Bryan was no craven, and that when his faculties were collected he usually displayed a good deal of reckless valour on occasions of danger. Accordingly, no sooner did he see his shaggy adversary in full retreat, than the truant blood returned to his face with a degree of violence that caused it to blaze with fiery red, and swelled the large veins of his neck and forehead almost to bursting. Uttering a truly Irish halloo, he bounded forward like a tiger, tore the cap off his head and flung it violently before him, drew the axe which always hung at his belt, and in another moment stood face to face with the white monster, which had instantly accepted the challenge, and rose on its hind legs to receive him. Raising the axe with both hands, the man aimed a blow at the bear’s head; but with a rapid movement of its paw it turned the weapon aside and dashed it into the air. Another such blow, and the reckless blacksmith’s career would have been brought to an abrupt conclusion, when the crack of a rifle was heard. Its echo reverberated along the cliffs and floated over the calm water as the polar bear fell dead at Bryan’s feet.

“Hurrah!” shouted Frank Morton, as he sprang from the bushes, knife in hand, ready to finish the work which his rifle had so well begun. But it needed not. Frank had hit the exact spot behind the ear which renders a second ball unnecessary—the bear was already quite dead.

Chapter Nine.

A storm brewing—It bursts, and produces consequences—The party take to the water per force—All saved.

“Ah, Bryan! ‘a friend in need is a friend indeed,’” said Frank, as he sat on a rock watching the blacksmith and his two Indians while they performed the operation of skinning the bear, whose timely destruction has been related in the last chapter. “I must say I never saw a man stand his ground so well, with a brute like that stealing kisses from his cheek. Were they sweet, Bryan? Did they remind you of the fair maid of Derry, hey?”

“Ah! thrue for ye,” replied the blacksmith, as he stepped to a rock for the purpose of whetting his knife; “yer honour was just in time to save me a power o’ throuble. Bad skran to the baste! it would have taken three or four rounds at laste to have finished him nately off, for there’s no end o’ fat on his ribs that would have kep’ the knife from goin’ far in.”

Frank laughed at this free-and-easy way of looking at it. “So you think you would have killed him, do you, if I had not saved you the trouble?”

“Av coorse I do. Shure a man is better than a baste any day; and besides, had I not a frind at my back ridy to help me?” Bryan cast a comical leer at La Roche as he said this, and the poor Frenchman blushed, for he felt that his conduct in the affair had not been very praiseworthy. It is due to La Roche to say, however, that no sooner had he found himself at the top of the tree, and had a moment to reflect, than he slid rapidly to the bottom again, and ran to the assistance of his friend, not, however, in time to render such assistance available, as he came up just at the moment the bear fell.

In half an hour afterwards the two large canoes came up, and Bryan and his little friend had to undergo a rapid fire of witticism from their surprised and highly-amused comrades. Even Moses was stirred up to say that “Bryan, him do pratty well; he most good ’nuff to make an Eskimo!”

Having embarked the skin of the bear, the canoes once more resumed their usual order and continued on their way. The carcass of the bear being useless for food, was left for the wolves; and the claws, which were nearly as large as a man’s finger, were given by Frank to the blacksmith, that he might make them into a necklace, as the Indians do, and keep it in remembrance of his rencounter.

But the weather was now beginning to change. Dick Prince, whose black eye was ever roving about observantly, told Massan that a storm was brewing, and that the sooner he put ashore in a convenient spot the better. But Stanley was anxious to get on, having a long journey before him, at the termination of which there would be little enough time to erect a sufficient protection against the winter of the north; so he continued to advance along shore until they came to a point beyond which there was a very deep bay that would take them many hours to coast. By making a traverse, however, in a direct line to the next point, they might cross it in a much shorter time.

“How say you, Prince? shall we cross?” asked Stanley, as they rested on their paddles and cast furtive glances up at the dark clouds and across the still quiet bay.

Prince shook his head. “I fear we won’t have time to cross. The clouds are driving too fast and growin’ black.”

“Well, then, we had better encamp,” said Stanley.—“Is there a proper place, Massan, hereabouts?”

“No, sir,” replied the guide. “The stones on the beach are the only pillows within six mile o’ us.”

“Ho! then, forward, boys, make a bold push for it,” cried Stanley; “if it does begin to blow before we’re over, we can run back again at all events.”

In another moment the canoes swept out to sea, and made for the point far ahead like race-horses. Although the clouds continued to gather, the wind did not rise, and it seemed as though they would get over easily, when a sudden gust came off the shore—a direction whence, from the appearance of the clouds, it had not been expected. Ruffling the surface of the water for a few seconds, it passed away.

“Give way, boys, give way,” cried Massan, using his large steering paddle with a degree of energy that sent the canoe plunging forward. “We can’t go back, an’ if the storm bursts off the shore—”

A loud peal of thunder drowned the remainder of the sentence, and in a few seconds the wind that had been dreaded came whistling violently off the shore and covered the sea with foam. The waves soon began to rise, and ere long the frail barks, which were ill calculated to weather a storm, were careering over them and shipping water at every plunge.

It now became a matter of life and death with them that they should gain the point, for, deeply loaded as they were, it was impossible that they could float long in such a sea. It is true that a wind off the shore does not usually raise what sailors would consider much of a sea; but it must be remembered that, although it was off shore, the bay which they were crossing extended far inland, so that the gale had a wide sweep of water to act upon before it reached them. Besides this, as has already been explained, canoes are not like boats. Their timbers are weak, the bark of which they are made is thin, the gum which makes their seams tight is easily knocked off in cold water, and, in short, they cannot face a sea on which a boat might ride like a sea-gull.

For a considerable time the men strained every nerve to gain the wished-for point of land, but with so little success that it became evident they would never reach it. The men began to show signs of flagging, and cast uneasy glances towards Stanley, as if they had lost all hope of accomplishing their object, and waited for him to suggest what they should do. Poor Mrs Stanley sat holding on to the gunwale with one hand and clasping Edith round the waist with the other, as she gazed wistfully towards the cape ahead, which was now almost lost to view under the shadow of a dark cloud that rolled towards them like a black pall laden with destruction.

“God help us!” murmured Stanley, in an undertone, as he scanned the seaward horizon, which was covered with leaden clouds and streaks of lurid light, beneath which the foaming sea leaped furiously.

“Call upon Me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver thee,” said Mrs Stanley, who overheard the exclamation.

Stanley either heard her not or his mind was too deeply concentrated on the critical nature of their position to make any reply. As she buried her face in her hands, Edith threw her trembling arms round her mother and hid her face in her bosom. Even Chimo seemed to understand their danger, for he crept closer to the side of his young mistress and whined in a low tone, as if in sympathy. The waves had now increased to such a degree that it required two of the men to bail incessantly in order to prevent their being swamped, and as Stanley cast a hurried glance at the other canoes, which were not far off, he observed that it was as much as they could do to keep afloat. “Could we not run back, Massan?” asked Stanley, in despair.

“Unposs’ble, sir,” replied the guide, whose voice was almost drowned by the whistling of the wind. “We’re more nor half-way over, an’ it would only blow us farther out to sea if we was to try.”

While the guide spoke, Stanley was gazing earnestly in the direction of the horizon.

“Round with you, Massan,” he exclaimed suddenly; “put the canoe about and paddle straight out to sea.—Hallo!” he shouted to the other canoes, “follow us out to sea—straight out.”

The men looked aghast at this extraordinary order. “Look alive, lads,” continued their leader; “I see an island away there to leeward. Perhaps it’s only a rock, but any way it’s our only chance.”

The canoes’ heads were turned round, and in another moment they were driving swiftly before the wind in the direction of the open sea.

“Right, right,” murmured Dick Prince, as they made towards this new source of hope; “mayhap it’s only a bit o’ ice, but even that’s better than nothin’.”

“If ’tis only ice,” cried La Roche, “ye have ver’ pauvre chance at all.”

“Shure, an’ if we are to go ashore at all, at all,” said Bryan, whose spirits had suddenly risen with this gleam of hope from fifty degrees below to fifty above zero—“if we are to go ashore at all, at all, it’s better to land on the ice than on the wather.”

With such a breeze urging them on, the three canoes soon approached what appeared to be a low sand-bank, on which the sea was dashing in white foam. But from the tossing of the waves between them and the beach, it was difficult to form a conjecture as to its size. Indeed, at times they could scarcely see it at all, owing to the darkness of the day and the heavy rain which began to fall just as they approached; and more than once Stanley’s heart sank when he lost sight of the bank, and he began to think that he had made a mistake, and that they were actually flying out to the deep sea, in which case all hope would be gone for ever. But God’s mercy was extended to them in this hour of peril. The island appeared to grow larger as they neared it, and at last they were within a stone’s-throw of the shore. But a new danger assailed them here. The largest canoe, which neared the island first, had begun to leak, and took in water so fast that the utmost efforts of those who bailed could not keep it under, and from the quantity that was now shipped they made very little way. To add to the horror of the scene, the sky became very dark, and another crash of thunder pealed forth accompanied by a blinding flash of lightning.

“Paddle, boys, paddle for your lives!” cried Stanley, throwing off his coat, and seizing a tin dish, with which he began to throw out the water.

The canoe rose on a huge wave which broke all round it. This nearly filled it with water, and carried it towards the shore with such velocity that it seemed as if they should be dashed in pieces; but they fell back into the trough of the sea, and lay motionless like a heavy log, and in a sinking condition.

“Now, lads, look out for the next wave, and give way with a will,” cried Massan. The worthy steersman acted rather too energetically on his own advice, for he dipped his paddle with such force that it snapped in two.

“Be ready to jump out,” cried Dick Prince, standing up in the bow in order to give more power to his strokes.

As he spoke, Stanley turned to his wife, and said, “Jessie, hold on by my collar; I’ll take Eda in my arms.” At that instant the canoe gave a lurch, and before Stanley could grasp his child, they were all struggling in the sea! At this awful moment, instead of endeavouring to do as her husband directed, Mrs Stanley instinctively threw her arms around Edith, and while the waves were boiling over her, she clasped the child tightly to her bosom with her left arm, while with her right she endeavoured to raise herself to the surface. Twice she succeeded, and twice she sank, when a box of merchandise providentially struck her arm. Seizing this, she raised herself above the water, and poor Edith gasped convulsively once or twice for air. Then the box was wrenched from her grasp by a wave, and with a wild shriek she sank again. Just then a strong arm was thrown around her, her feet touched the ground, and in a few seconds she was dragged violently from the roaring waves and fell exhausted on the beach.

“Thanks be to God, we are saved!” murmured Mrs Stanley, as her husband assisted her to rise and led her beyond the reach of the waves, while Edith still clung with a deadly grasp to her mother’s neck.

“Ay, Jessie, thank God indeed! But for His mercy we should have all been lost. I was floundering about beside the canoe when your scream showed me where you were, and enabled me to save you. But rest here, in the lee of this bale.—I cannot stay by you. Frank is in danger still.”

Without waiting for a reply, he sprang from her side and hurried down to the beach. Here everything was in the utmost confusion. The two large canoes had been saved and dragged out of the reach of the waves, and the men were struggling in the boiling surf to rescue the baggage and provisions, on which latter their very lives depended. As Stanley reached the scene of action, he observed several of the men watching the small canoe which contained Frank and his two Indians. It had been left some distance behind by the others, and was now approaching with arrow speed on the summit of a large wave. Suddenly the top of the billow curled over, and in another moment the canoe was turned bottom up! Like a cork it danced on the wave’s white crest, then falling beneath the thundering mass of water, it was crushed to pieces and cast empty upon the beach. But Frank and his men swam like otters, and the party on shore watched them with anxious looks as they breasted manfully over the billows. At last a towering wave came rolling majestically forward. It caught the three swimmers in its rough embrace, and carrying them along on its crest, launched them on the beach, where it left them struggling with the retreating water. Those who have bathed in rough weather on an exposed coast know well how difficult it is to regain a firm footing on loose sand while a heavy wave is sweeping backward into its parent ocean. Frank and the two Indians experienced this; and they might have struggled there till their strength had been exhausted, were it not for Stanley, Prince, and Massan, who rushed simultaneously into the water and rescued them.

As the whole party had now, by the goodness of God, reached the land in safety, they turned their undivided energies towards the bales and boxes which were rolling about in the surf. Many of these had been already collected, and were carried to the spot where Mrs Stanley and Edith lay under the shelter of a bale. As the things were successively brought up they were piled around the mother and child, who soon found themselves pretty well sheltered from the wind, though not from the rain, which still fell in torrents. Soon after Frank came to them, and said that all the things were saved, and that it was time to think of getting up some sort of shelter for the night. This was very much needed, for poor Edith was beginning to shiver from the wet and cold.

“Now then, François, Massan,” shouted Frank, “lend a hand here to build a house for Eda. We’ll be all as snug as need be in a few minutes.”

Despite the cold and her recent terror, the poor child could not help smiling at the idea of building a house in a few minutes, and it was with no little curiosity that she watched the operations of the men. Meanwhile Mr Stanley brought some wine in a pannikin, and made Edith and his wife drink a little. This revived them greatly, and as the rain had now almost ceased they rose and endeavoured to wring the water out of their garments. In less than half an hour the men piled the bales and boxes in front of the largest canoe, which was turned bottom up, and secured firmly in that position by an embankment of sand. Over the top of all, three oil-cloths were spread and lashed down, thus forming a complete shelter, large enough to contain the whole party. At one end of this curious house Mr Stanley made a separate apartment for his wife and child, by placing two large bales and a box as a partition; and within this little space Edith soon became very busy in arranging things, and “putting the house to rights,” as she said, as long as the daylight lasted, for after it went away they had neither candles nor fire, as the former had been soaked and broken, and as for the latter no wood could be found on the island. The men’s clothes were, of course, quite wet, so they cut open a bale of blankets, which had not been so much soaked as the other goods, having been among the first things that were washed ashore.

At the time they were wrecked the dashing spray and the heavy rain, together with the darkness of the day, had prevented the shipwrecked voyageurs from ascertaining the nature of the island on which they had been cast; and as the night closed in while they were yet engaged in the erection of their temporary shelter, they had to lie down to rest in ignorance on this point. After such a day of unusual fatigue and excitement, they all felt more inclined for rest than food; so, instead of taking supper, they all lay down huddled together under the canoe, and slept soundly, while the angry winds whistled round them, and the great sea roared and lashed itself into foam on the beach, as if disappointed that the little band of adventurers had escaped and were now beyond the reach of its impotent fury.

Chapter Ten.

The sand-bank—Dismal prospects—Consultations—Internal arrangements exposed and detailed.

Of all the changes that constantly vary the face of nature, the calm that succeeds a storm is one of the most beautiful, and the most agreeable, perhaps, to the feelings of man. Few conditions of nature convey to the mind more thoroughly the idea of complete repose—of deep rest after mortal strife, of sleep after exhausting toil; and those who have passed through the violence of the storm and done battle with its dangers are, by the physical rest which they enjoy after it is over, the more fitted to appreciate and sympathise with the repose which reigns around them.

When the sun rose, on the morning after the storm, it shone upon a scene so calm and beautiful, so utterly unconnected with anything like the sin of a fallen world, and so typical, in its deep tranquillity, of the mind of Him who created it, that it seemed almost possible for a moment to fancy that the promised land was gained at last, and that all the dark clouds, the storms and dangers, the weary journeyings and the troubles of the wilderness, were past and gone for ever. So glorious was the scene that when Edith, rising from her rude couch and stepping over the prostrate forms of her still slumbering companions, issued from the shelter of the canoe and cast her eyes abroad upon the glassy sea, she could not restrain her feelings, and uttered a thrilling shout of joy that floated over the waters and reverberated among the glittering crags of the surrounding icebergs.

The island on which the travellers had been cast was a mere knoll of sand, not more than a few hundred yards in circumference, that scarcely raised its rounded summit above the level of the water, and at full tide was reduced to a mere speck, utterly destitute of vegetation. The sea around it was now smooth and clear as glass, though undulated by a long, regular swell, which rolled, at slow, solemn intervals, in majestic waves towards the sand-bank, where they hovered for a moment in curved walls of dark-green water, then, lipping over, at their crests, fell in a roar of foam that hissed a deep sigh on the pebbles of the beach, and left the silence greater than before. Masses of ice floated here and there on the surface of the deep, the edges and fantastic points of which were tipped with light. Not far from the northern extremity of the sand-bank a large iceberg had grounded, from the sides of which several pinnacles had been hurled by the shock and now lay stranded on the beach.

The shout with which Edith had welcomed the morning roused the whole party, and in a few minutes they were all assembled outside of their little hut, some admiring the scene, others—of a less enthusiastic and more practical turn—examining the circumstances of their position, and considering the best course that should be pursued in their difficulty.

Mr Stanley, Dick Prince, and Massan, as was their wont, held a council upon the existing state of things, and after much gazing round at the sea and up at the sky, and considerable grunting of his deep voice and rubbing of his capacious chin, on the part of the latter, he turned to Dick Prince, as if appealing to his superior sagacity, and said—

“Well, ye see, my ’pinion’s jist this: yonder’s the mainland there” (pointing to the eastward, where, about ten miles distant, the rocks and trees were seen distorted and faintly looming through a tremulous haze), “an’ there’s our canoes there” (jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the large canoes, whose torn sides and damaged ribs, as they lay exposed on the sand, bore sad testimony to the violence of the previous night’s storm), “and there’s the little canoe yonder,” (glancing towards the craft in question, which lay on the beach a hopelessly-destroyed mass of splinters and shreds of bark that projected and bristled in all directions, as in uncontrollable amazement at the suddenness and entirety of its own destruction). “Now, that bein’ the case, an’ the baggage all wet, an’ the day parfitly beautiful, an’ the sun about hot enough to bile the sea, we can’t do better nor stay where we are, an’ mend the canoes, dry the goods, an’ start fair to-morrow mornin’.”

Stanley looked at Prince, as if expecting a remark from him; but the grave countenance of the silent bowman indicated that he was absorbed in contemplation.

“’Tis quite evident, Massan,” said Stanley, “that we must repair the canoes; but a few hours could do that, and I don’t like the idea of staying another night on a strip of sand like this, which, I verily believe, another stiff nor’-wester would blow away altogether.—But what say you, Prince? Do you advise our remaining?”

“Yes,” replied Dick, “I do. Ye see there’s no fear of another storm soon. ’Tis a good chance for dryin’ the goods, so I vote for stoppin’.”

“Well, then, we shall stay,” replied Stanley. “To say truth, I agreed with you at first, Massan, but it’s always advisable to look at both sides of a question—”

“Yes, and ‘in the multitude of counsellors there is wisdom,’” said Frank Morton, coming up at the moment, and tapping his friend on the shoulder. “If you will include me in your confabulation, you shall have the benefit of deep experience and far-sighted sagacity.”

“Come, then, Master Frank,” replied Stanley, “what does your sagacity advise on the point of our staying on this sandbank? Shall we spend another night on it in order to dry the goods, or shall we up and away to terra firma as soon as the canoes are seaworthy?”

“Stay, of course,” said Frank. “As to the sand-bank, ’tis firm enough, to my mind, after resisting the shock of the wave that dashed me ashore last night. Then we have everything we need—shelter and food, and even fuel.” As Frank mentioned the last word, he glanced round with a rueful countenance and pointed to the bark and timbers of his broken canoe.

“True, Frank, we have wherewith to boil the kettle, and as the water-cask was full when we started yesterday morning, there will be enough at least for one or two days.”

“By the way, that reminds me that Eda and your wife are particularly desirous of having breakfast,” said Frank. “In fact they sent me specially to lay their melancholy case before you; and I have great fears that Eda will lay violent hands on the raw pork if her morning meal is delayed much longer. As for Chimo, he is rushing about the island in a state of ravenous despair; so pray let us be going.”

“Be it so, Frank,” said Stanley, taking his friend’s arm, and sauntering towards the canoe, while Massan and Prince went to inform their comrades of the determination of their leader.

In an hour after the above discourse breakfast was over, and the men, under Stanley’s inspection, arranged and examined the baggage, which, considering that it had been rolled about by the surf for a considerable time, was not so much soaked as might have been expected. The two kegs of gunpowder were first inspected, being the most valuable part of the cargo, as on them depended much of their future livelihood. They were found to be quite dry, except a small portion of powder at the seams of the staves, which, having caked with the moisture, had saved the rest from damage. Some of the bales, however, containing knives and other hardware, were very wet, and had to be opened out and their contents wiped and spread out to dry. Blankets, too, and other woollen garments that had suffered, were also spread out on the sand, so that in a short time the little island was quite covered with a strange assortment of miscellaneous articles, that gave to it the appearance of a crowded store. The entire wealth of the fur-traders was now exposed to view, and it may perhaps be interesting to enumerate the different articles, in order to give some idea of the outfit deemed necessary on such an expedition.

And, first, there were two kegs of gunpowder, as before mentioned, containing each thirty pounds, with four bags of ball and three of shot of various sizes—in all, about 250 pounds of lead. Six nets of four and a half inch mesh. A large quantity of twine for making nets—most of the men being able to construct these useful articles. A small bag of gun-flints. Sixty pounds of roll tobacco. Twelve large axes. Six augers. Seven dozen scalping-knives. Six pounds of variously-coloured beads. Two dozen fire-steels, and a pretty large assortment of awls, needles, thread, nails, and such like small articles, which, though extremely useful, were too numerous and comparatively insignificant to mention in detail. Besides these, there was a small bale containing gaudy ornaments and attractive articles, which were intended as propitiatory presents to the Esquimaux when they should be met with. Then there were two runlets of salt pork, containing about ninety pounds each, and in the centre of each runlet were two hams. A barrel of flour and a barrel of oatmeal constituted all their provision, if we except a small cask of hard biscuit, and a little tea and sugar, which were the private property of Stanley and Frank Morton. There was also a large deerskin tent, capable of holding from twenty to thirty men, which was intended to be used while they were engaged in building their winter residence at Ungava. As to arms, each man had one of the long single-barrelled fowling-pieces that are supplied by the Fur Company to the natives, and are styled Indian guns. Stanley had a double-barrelled flint fowling-piece; and Frank had a rifle, besides a single gun of a description somewhat finer than that supplied to the Indians. Of course each man carried a scalping-knife and an axe in his belt, not for the purpose of self-defence, but for carving their food and cutting their fuel.

It may be well to remark here that the goods and provisions which we have detailed above were merely intended as a supply for their immediate necessities, and to enable them to commence active operations at once on arriving at their destination, while the heavy stores and goods necessary for the year’s trade were to be forwarded in a small sloop from the depot direct through Hudson’s Straits to Ungava Bay.

When the work of unpacking and exposing the things to dry in the sun was accomplished, it was long past noon, and high time for dinner; so a fire was lighted by Bryan, who cut up another portion of Frank’s canoe for the purpose. A rasher of pork and a flour cake were disposed of by each of the party in a surprisingly short time, and then the men bestirred themselves in mending the canoes. This was a more troublesome job than they expected, but being accustomed not only to mend but to make canoes, they worked with a degree of skill and diligence that speedily put all to rights. In Massan’s canoe there was a hole large enough, as Bryan remarked, to stick his head through, though it was a “big wan, an’ no mistake.” Taking up a roll of bark, which was carried with them for the purpose, Massan cut from it a square patch, which he sewed over the hole, using an awl for a needle and the fibrous roots of the pine tree, called wattape, for thread. After it was firmly sewed on, the seams were covered with melted gum, and the broken spot was as tight and strong as ever. There were next found several long slits, one of them fully three feet, which were more easily managed, as they merely required to be sewed and covered with gum. Several broken ribs, however, were not so easily repaired. Had there been any wood on the island, Massan’s quick knife would have soon fashioned new ribs; as it was, he had to make the best job he could, by splicing the old ones with several pieces abstracted from Frank’s little canoe.

It was sunset before all was put in complete order, the goods repacked, and placed in readiness for a start at daybreak on the following morning. After all was done, the remains of the small canoe were converted into a bonfire, round which the tired and hungry travellers assembled to smoke and chat, while supper was being prepared by the indefatigable Bryan and his friend La Roche. As the day faded away the stars came out, one by one, until they glittered in millions in the sky, while the glare of the fire became every moment more and more intense as the darkness deepened. It was a strange, wild scene,—especially when viewed from the extremity of the little sand-bank, which was so low as to be almost indiscernible in the dark night, and seemed scarce a sufficient foundation for the little busy group of human beings who stood radiant in the red light of their camp-fire, like a blazing gem cast upon the surface of the great, cold sea.

Chapter Eleven.

Start afresh—Superstitious notions—The whirlpool—The interior—Fishing in the old way on new ground, and what came of it—A cold bath—The rescue—Saved—Deeper and deeper into the wilderness.

As if to make amends for its late outrageous conduct, the weather, after the night of the great storm, continued unbrokenly serene for many days, enabling our travellers to make rapid progress towards their destination: It would be both tiresome and unnecessary to follow them step by step throughout their journey, as the part of it which we have already described was, in many respects, typical of the whole voyage along the east coast of Hudson’s Bay. Sometimes, indeed, a few incidents of an unusual character did occur. Once they were very nearly being crushed between masses of ice; twice the larger canoe struck on a hummock, and had to be landed and repaired; and frequently mishaps of a slighter nature befell them. Their beds, too, varied occasionally. At one time they laid them down to rest on the sand of the sea-shore; at another, on the soft turf and springy moss of the woods. Sometimes they were compelled to content themselves with a couch of pebbles, few of which were smaller than a man’s fist; and, not unfrequently, they had to make the best they could of a flat rock, whose unyielding surface seemed to put the idea of anything like rest to flight, causing the thin men of the party to growl and the fat ones to chuckle. Bryan was one of the well-favoured, being round and fleshy; while his poor little friend La Roche possessed a framework of bones that were so sparingly covered with softer substance, as to render it a matter of wonder how he and the stones could compromise the matter at all, and called forth from his friend frequent impertinent allusions to “thridpapers, bags o’ bones, idges o’ knives, half fathoms o’ pump water,” and such like curious substances. But whatever the bed, it invariably turned out that the whole party slept soundly from the time they lay down till the time of rising, which was usually at the break of day.

Owing to the little Indian canoe having been wrecked on the sand-bank, Frank and his men had to embark in the smaller of the large canoes; a change which was in some respects a disadvantage to the party, as Frank could not now so readily dash away in pursuit of game. However, this did not much matter, as, in a few days afterwards, they arrived at the mouth of the river by which they intended to penetrate into the interior of the country. The name of the river is Deer River, and it flows into Richmond Gulf, which is situated on the east shore of Hudson’s Bay, in latitude 56 degrees North. Richmond Gulf is twenty miles long, and about the same in breadth; but the entrance to it is so narrow that the tide pours into it like a torrent until it is full. The pent-up waters then rush out on one side of this narrow inlet while they are running in at the other, causing a whirlpool which would engulf a large boat and greatly endanger even a small vessel. Of course it was out of the question to attempt the passage of such a vortex in canoes, except at half flood or half ebb tide, at which periods the waters became quiet. On arriving at the mouth of the gulf, the travellers found the tide out and the entrance to it curling and rolling in massive volumes, as if all the evil water-spirits of the north were holding their orgies there. Oostesimow and Ma-Istequan, being by nature and education intensely superstitious, told Stanley—after they had landed to await the flow of the tide—that it was absolutely necessary to perform certain ceremonies in order to propitiate the deities of the place, otherwise they could not expect to pass such an awful whirlpool in safety. Their leader smiled, and told them to do as they thought fit, adding, however, that he would not join them, as he did not believe in any deities whatever, except the one true God, who did not require to be propitiated in any way, and could not be moved by any other means than by prayer in the name of Jesus Christ. The red men seemed surprised a little at this, but, with their proverbial stoicism, refrained from any further or more decided expression of feeling.

Nevertheless, the Indians sufficiently showed their faith in their own doctrines by immediately setting about a series of curious and elaborate ceremonies, which it was impossible to comprehend, and decidedly unprofitable to describe. They appeared, however, to attach much importance to their propitiatory offerings, the chief among which seemed to be a few inches of tobacco, with which it was fondly hoped the deities of the gulf would condescend to smoke the pipe of peace while their red children ventured to trespass a little on their domain; and hard indeed must have been the hearts of the said spirits had they refused so valuable an offering, for tobacco is the life and marrow, the quintessence of terrestrial felicity, the very joy and comfort of a voyageur, and the poor Indians had but little of it to spare.

While this was going on, Bryan stood with his back to the fire, a remarkably short and peculiarly black pipe in his mouth, and his head inclined sagaciously to one side, as if he designed, by dint of a combination of intense mental abstraction, partial closing of his eyes, severe knitting of his brows, and slow but exceedingly voluminous emission of smoke, to come to a conclusion in regard to the unfathomable subject of Indian superstition. La Roche, steeped in unphilosophic indifference on such matters, and keenly alive to the gross cravings of hunger, busied himself in concocting a kettle of soup; while the rest of the party rambled about the beach or among the bushes in search of eggs. In this latter search Frank and Edith were very successful, and returned with pockets laden with excellent eggs of the eider-duck, which were immediately put into the kettle, and tended not a little to increase the excellence of the soup and the impatience of the men.

Meanwhile the tide rose, the power of the current was gradually checked, and towards noon they passed the dangerous narrows in safety. From the view that was now obtained of the interior, it became evident that the worst of their journey yet lay before them. On arriving at the mouth of Deer River, the mountains were seen to rise abruptly and precipitously, while far away inland their faint blue peaks rose into the sky. Indeed from this point the really hard work of the voyage may be said to have commenced; for scarcely had they proceeded a few miles up the river, when their further progress, at least by water, was effectually interrupted by a rapid which came leaping madly down its rocky bed, as if the streams rejoiced to escape from the chasms and mountain gorges, and find rest at last on the ample bosom of the great deep.

“What think ye of that, boy?” said Stanley to Frank Morton, as they leaped from their respective canoes, and stood gazing at the rugged glen from which the rapid issued, and the wild appearance of the hills beyond. “It seems to me that report spoke truly when it said that the way to Clearwater Lake was rugged. Here is no despicable portage to begin with; and yonder cliffs, that look so soft and blue in the far distance, will prove to be dark and hard enough when we get at them, I warrant.”

“When we get at them!” echoed Mrs Stanley, as she approached, leading Edith by the hand. “Get at them, George! Had any one asked me if it were possible to pass over these mountains with our canoes and cargoes, I should have answered, ‘Decidedly not!’”

“And yet you were so foolish and reckless as to be the first to volunteer for this decidedly impossible expedition!” replied Stanley.

“There you are inconsistent,” said Mrs Stanley, smiling. “If reckless, I cannot be foolish, according to your own showing; for I have heard you give it as your opinion that recklessness is one of the most essential elements in the leaders of a forlorn hope. But really the thing does seem to my ignorant mind impossible.—What think you, Eda?”

Mrs Stanley bent down and looked into the face of her child, but she received no reply. The expanded eyes, indeed, spoke volumes; and the parted lips, on which played a fitful, exulting smile, the heightened colour, and thick-coming breath, told eloquently of her anticipated delight in these new regions, which seemed so utterly different from the shores of the bay: but her tongue was mute.

And well might Mrs Stanley think the passage over these mountains impossible; for, except to men accustomed to canoe travelling in the American lakes and rivers, such an attempt would have appeared as hopeless as the passage of a ship through the ice-locked polar seas in winter.

Not so thought the men. Already several of the most active of them were scrambling up the cliffs with heavy loads on their backs; and, while Stanley and his wife were yet conversing, two of them approached rapidly, bearing the large canoe on their shoulders. The exclamation that issued from the foremost of these proved him to be Bryan.

“Now, bad luck to ye, Gaspard! can’t ye go stidy? It’s mysilf that’ll be down on me blissid nose av ye go staggerin’ about in that fashion. Sure it’s Losh, the spalpeen, that would carry the canoe better than you.”

Gaspard made no reply. Bryan staggered on, growling as he went, and in another minute they were hid from view among the bushes.

“What do you see, Frank?” inquired Stanley; “you stare as earnestly as Bryan did at the white bear last week. What is’t, man? Speak!”

“A fish,” replied Frank. “I saw him rise in the pool, and I’m certain he’s a very large one.”

“Very likely, Frank; there ought to be a fish of some sort there. I’ve been told—hist! there he’s again. As I live, a salmon! a salmon, Frank! Now for your rod, my boy.”

But Frank heard him not, for he was gone. In a few minutes he returned with a fishing-rod, which he was busily engaged in putting up as he hurried towards the rocks beside the pool.

Now, Frank Morton was a fisher. We do not mean to say that he was a fisher by profession; nor do we merely affirm that he was rather fond of the gentle art of angling, or generally inclined to take a cast when he happened to be near a good stream. By no means. Frank was more than that implies. He was a steady, thorough-going disciple of Izaak Walton; one who, in the days of his boyhood, used to flee to the water-side at all seasons, in all weathers, and despite all obstacles. Not only was it his wont to fish when he could, or how he could, but too often was he beguiled to fish at times and in ways that were decidedly improper; sometimes devoting those hours which were set apart expressly for the acquirement of Greek and Latin, to wandering by mountain stream or tarn, rod in hand, up to the knees in water, among the braes and woodlands of his own native country. And Frank’s enthusiasm did not depend entirely on his success. It was a standing joke among his school-fellows that Frank would walk six miles any day for the chance of a nibble from the ghost of a minnow. Indeed he was often taunted by his ruder comrades with being such a keen fisher that he was quite content if he only hooked a drowned cat during a day’s excursion. But Frank was good-natured; he smiled at their jests, and held on the even tenor of his way, whipping the streams more pertinaciously than his master whipped him for playing truant; content alike to bear ignominy and chastisement, so long as he was rewarded by a nibble, and overjoyed beyond expression when he could return home with the tail of a two-pounder hanging over the edge of his basket. Far be it from us to hold up to ridicule the weakness of a friend, but we cannot help adding that Master Frank made the most of his tails. His truthful and manly nature, indeed, would not stoop to actual deception, but he had been known on more than one occasion to offer to carry a friend’s waterproof fishing-boots in his basket, when his doing so rendered it impossible to prevent the tails of his trout from protruding arrogantly, as if to insinuate that there were shoals within. Another of Frank’s weaknesses was, upon the hooking of every fish, to assert, with overweening confidence and considerable excitement, that it was a tremendously big one. Experience had, during all his piscatorial career, contradicted him ninety-nine times out of every hundred; but Frank’s firm belief in his last minnow being a big trout—at least until it lay gasping on the bank at his feet—was as unshaken after long years of mistaken calculation as when first he sallied forth to the babbling brook with a willow branch, a fathom of twine, and a crooked pin!

Such untiring devotion, of course, could not fail to make Frank particularly knowing in all the details and minutiae of his much-loved sport. He knew every hole and corner of the rivers and burns within fifteen miles of his father’s house. He became mysteriously wise in regard to the weather; knew precisely the best fly for any given day, and, in the event of being unhappily destitute of the proper kind, could dress one to perfection in ten minutes. As he grew older and taller, and the muscles on his large and well-made limbs began to develop, Frank slung a more capacious basket on his back, shouldered a heavier rod, and, with a pair of thick shoes and a home-spun shooting suit, stretched away over the Highland hills towards the romantic shores of the west coast of Scotland. Here he first experienced the wild excitement of salmon-fishing; and here the Waltonian chains, that had been twining and thickening around him from infancy, received two or three additional coils, and were finally riveted for ever. During his sojourn in America, he had happened to dwell in places where the fishing, though good, was not of a very exciting nature; and he had not seen a salmon since the day he left home, so that it is not matter for wonder that his stride was rapid and his eye bright while he hurried towards the pool, as before mentioned.

He who has never left the beaten tracks of men, or trod the unknown wilderness, can have but a faint conception of the feelings of a true angler as he stands by the brink of a dark pool which has hitherto reflected only the antlers of the wild deer—whose dimpling eddies and flecks of foam have been disturbed by no fisher since the world began, except the polar bear. Besides the pleasurable emotions of strong hope, there is the additional charm of uncertainty as to what will rise, and of certainty that if there be anything piscatine beneath these fascinating ripples it undoubtedly will rise—and bite too! Then there is the peculiar satisfaction of catching now and then a drop of spray from, and hearing the thunder of, a cataract, whose free, surging bound is not yet shackled by the tourist’s sentimental description; and the novelty of beholding one’s image reflected in a liquid mirror whose geographical position is not yet stereotyped on the charts of man. Alas for these maps and charts! Despite the wishes of scientific geographers and the ignorance of unscientific explorers, we think them far too complete already; and we can conceive few things more dreadful or crushing to the enterprising and romantic spirits of the world than the arrival of that time (if it ever shall arrive) when it shall be said that terra incognita exists no longer—when every one of those fairy-like isles of the southern seas, and all the hidden wonders of the polar regions, shall be put down, in cold blood, on black and white, exposed profanely on the schoolroom walls, and drummed into the thick heads of wretched little boys who don’t want to learn, by the unsympathising hands of dominies who, it may be, care but little whether they do or not!

But to return. While Frank stood on the rocks, attaching to the line a salmon-fly which he had selected with much consideration from his book, he raised his eyes once or twice to take a rapid glance at his position and the capabilities of the place. About fifty yards further up the river the stream curled round the base of a large rock, and gushed into a pool which was encircled on all sides by an overhanging wall, except where the waters issued forth in a burst of foam. Their force, however, was materially broken by another curve, round which they had to sweep ere they reached this exit, so that when they rushed into the larger pool below they calmed down at once, and on reaching the point where Frank stood, assumed that oily, gurgling surface, dimpled all over with laughing eddies, that suggests irresistibly the idea of fish not only being there, as a matter of course, but being there expressly and solely for the purpose of being caught! A little further down, the river took a slight bend, and immediately after, recurring to its straight course, it dashed down, for a distance of fifty yards, in a tumultuous rapid, which swept into sudden placidity a few hundred yards below. Having taken all this in at a glance, Frank dropped the fly into the water and raised his rod to make a cast. In this act he almost broke the rod, to his amazement; for, instead of whipping the fly lightly out of the water, he dragged a trout of a pound weight violently up on the bank.

“Bravo!” cried Stanley, laughing heartily at his friend’s stare of mingled wonder and amazement,—“bravo, Frank! I’m no fisher myself, but I’ve always understood that fish required a little play before being landed. However, you have convinced me of my ignorance. I see that the proper way is to toss them over your head! A salmon must be rather troublesome to toss, but no doubt, with your strong arms, you’ll manage it easily, hey?”

“Why, what an appetite they must have!” replied Frank, answering his friend’s badinage with a smile. “If the little fellows begin thus, what will not the big ones do?”

As he spoke, he disengaged the fish and threw it down, and made the next cast so rapidly, that if another trout was waiting to play him a similar trick, it must have been grievously disappointed. The line swept lightly through the air, and the fly fell gently on the stream, where it had not quivered more than two seconds when the water gurgled around it. The next moment Frank’s rod bent like a hoop, and the line flew through the rings with whirring rapidity, filling these lonely solitudes for the first time with the pleasant “music of the reel.” Almost before Frank had time to take a step in a downward direction, fifty yards were run out, the waters were suddenly cleft, and a salmon sprang like a bar of burnished silver twice its own height into the air. With a sounding splash it returned to its native element; but scarcely had its fins touched the water, when it darted towards the bank. Being brought up suddenly here, it turned at a tangent, and flashed across the pool again, causing the reel to spin with renewed velocity. Here the fish paused for a second, as if to collect its thoughts, and then coming, apparently, to a summary determination as to what it meant to do, it began steadily to ascend the stream, not, indeed, so rapidly as it had descended, but sufficiently so to give Frank some trouble, by means of rapidly winding up, to keep the line tight. Having bored doggedly towards the head of the rapid, the fish stopped and began to shake its head passionately, as if indignant at being foiled in its energetic attempts to escape. After a little time, it lay sulkily down at the bottom of the pool, where it defied its persecutor to move it an inch.

“What’s to be done now?” asked Stanley, who stood ready to gaff the fish when brought near to the bank.

“We must rouse him up,” said Frank, as he slowly wound up the line. “Just take up a stone and throw it at him.”

Stanley looked surprised, for he imagined that such a proceeding would frighten the fish and cause it to snap the line; but seeing that Frank was in earnest, he did as he was directed. No sooner had the stone sunk than the startled fish once more dashed across the river; then taking a downward course, it sped like an arrow to the brink of the rough water below. To have allowed the salmon to go down the rapid would have been to lose it, so Frank arrested the spinning of his reel and held on. For a second or two the rod bent almost in a circle, and the line became fearfully rigid.

“You’ll break it, Frank,” cried Stanley, in some anxiety.

“It can’t be helped,” said Frank, compressing his lips; “he must not go down there. The tackle is new; I think it will hold him.”

Fortunately the tackle proved to be very good. The fish was arrested, and after one or two short runs, which showed that its vigour was abated, it was drawn carefully towards the rocks. As it drew near it rolled over on its side once or twice—an evident sign of being much exhausted.

“Now, Stanley, be careful,” said Frank, as his friend stepped cautiously towards the fish and extended the gaff. “I’ve seen many a fine salmon escape owing to careless gaffing. Don’t be in a hurry. Be sure of your distance before you strike, and do it quickly. Now, then—there—give it him! Hurrah!” he shouted, as Stanley passed the iron hook neatly into the side of the fish, and lifted it high and dry on the rocks.

The cheer to which Frank gave vent, on this successful termination to the struggle, was re-echoed heartily by several of the men, who, on passing the spot with their loads, had paused and become deeply interested spectators of the sport.

“Powerful big fish, sir,” said Bryan, throwing down his pack and taking up the salmon by the gills. “Twinty pounds at laste, av it’s an ounce.”

“Scarcely that, Bryan,” said Stanley; “but it’s not much less, I believe.”

“Ah! oui, ’tis ver’ pritty. Ver’ superb for supper,” remarked La Roche.

The little Frenchman was right in saying that it was pretty. Unlike the ordinary salmon, it was marked with spots like a trout, its head was small and its shoulders plump, while its silvery purity was exceedingly dazzling and beautiful.

“’Tis a Hearne-salmon,” said Massan, approaching the group. “I’ve seed lots o’ them on the coast to the south’ard o’ this, an’ I’ve no doubt we’ll find plenty o’ them at Ungava.”

While the men were discussing the merits of the fish, Frank had hooked another, which, although quite as large, gave him much less trouble to land; and before the men had finished carrying the canoes and goods over the portage, he had taken three fish out of the same pool. Wishing, however, to try for a larger one nearer the sea, he proceeded to take a cast below the rapid.

Meanwhile, La Roche, whose activity had enabled him to carry over his portion of the cargo long before his comrades, came to the pool which Frank had just left, and seating himself on a large stone, drew forth his tobacco-pouch. With a comical leer at the water which had so recently been deprived of its denizens, he proceeded leisurely to fill a pipe.

It is impossible to foresee, and difficult to account for, the actions of an impulsive human being. La Roche sat down to smoke his pipe, but instead of smoking it, he started to his feet and whirled it into the river. This apparently insane action was followed by several others, which, as they were successively performed, gradually unfolded the drift of his intentions. Drawing the knife which hung at his girdle, he went into the bushes, whence he quickly returned, dragging after him a large branch. From this he stripped the leaves and twigs. Fumbling in his pocket for some time, he drew forth a piece of stout cord, about four yards long, with a cod-hook attached to the end of it. This line had been constructed some weeks before when the canoes were wind-bound at a part of the coast where La Roche, desirous of replenishing the kettle, had made an unsuccessful attempt at sea-fishing. Fastening this line to the end of his extemporised rod, La Roche proceeded to dress his hook. This he accomplished by means of the feather of a duck which Frank shot the day before, and a tag from his scarlet worsted belt; and, when finished, it had more the appearance of some hideous reptile than a gay fly. However, La Roche surveyed it for a moment or two with an expression of deep satisfaction, and then, hurrying to the brink of the water, made a violent heave.

“Oh! cent milles tonnerres!” he exclaimed angrily, as the enormous hook caught in the leg of his trousers. The large and clumsy barb was deeply imbedded, so there was no help for it but to use the knife. The second throw was more successful, and the hook alighted in the water with a splash that ought to have sent all the fish in the pool away in consternation. Instead of this, however, no sooner did the reptile trail upon the stream than a trout dashed at it in such violent haste that it nearly missed it altogether. As it was, it hooked itself very slightly, and the excitable Frenchman settled the matter by giving the line a violent tug, in his anxiety to land the fish, that pulled the hook entirely out of its mouth.

“Ah! c’est dommage, ver’ great; mais try it encore, my boy,” exclaimed the mortified angler. The next throw, although well accomplished, produced nothing; but at the third attempt, ere the reptile had settled on the water for a second, it was engulfed by a salmon fully six pounds weight, and La Roche’s rod was almost drawn out of his grasp.

“Hilloa, Losh! what have ye got there?” exclaimed Bryan, as, with several of the men, he approached to where the Frenchman and the salmon strove in uncertain conflict.

“By the mortial, he’s hucked a whale! Out with it, boy, afore it pulls ye in!” said the Irishman, running to the rescue.

Just then the salmon gave a pull of more than ordinary vigour, at the same moment La Roche slipped his foot, and, ere Bryan could lay hold of him, fell headlong into the water and disappeared. Bryan’s hands hung helplessly down, his jaw dropped, and his eyes opened wide, as he gazed in mute wonderment at the spot where his friend’s toes had vanished. Suddenly he wrenched off his cap and flung it down, and proceeded to tear off his coat, preparatory to leaping into the river to the rescue, when his arms were pinioned to his sides by the powerful grip of Massan.

“Come, Bryan,” said he, “you know very well that you can’t swim; you’d only make things worse.”

“Och! murder! he can’t swim neither. Let me go, ye black villain. Thunder an’ turf! will ye see the poor lad drownded forenint yer two eyes?” cried the poor Irishman, as he made violent but unavailing struggles to get free. But Massan knew that to allow him to escape would only add to the number requiring to be saved, and as he himself could not swim, he saw at once that the only service he could render under the circumstances would be to hold the Irishman down. Clasping him, therefore, as in a vice, he raised his head and gave a shout for help that rolled in deep echoes among the overhanging cliffs. Another shout was uttered at the same instant. Edith, who happened to come up just as La Roche’s head emerged from the water gasping for breath, uttered a wild shriek that made more than one heart among the absentees leap as they flew to the rescue.

Meanwhile La Roche rose and sank several times in the surges of the pool. His face on these occasions exhibited a mingled expression of terror and mischievous wildness; for although he could not swim a stroke, the very buoyancy of his mercurial temperament seemed partially to support him, and a feeling of desperate determination induced him to retain a death-like gripe of the rod, at the end of which the salmon still struggled. But his strength was fast going, and he sank for the fourth time with a bubbling cry, when a step was heard crashing through the adjacent bushes, and Dick Prince sprang down the slope like a deer. He did not pause when the scene burst upon his view, but a smile of satisfaction played upon his usually grave face when he saw Edith safe on the banks of the stream. Another spring and an agile bound sent him headlong into the pool about a yard from the spot where La Roche had last sunk. Scarcely had he disappeared when the dog Chimo bounded towards the scene of action, and, with what intent no one could tell, leaped also into the water. By this time Frank, Stanley, and nearly all the party had assembled on the bank of the river, ready to render assistance. In a few seconds they had the satisfaction of seeing Dick Prince rise, holding poor La Roche by the collar of his capote with his left hand, while he swam vigorously towards the shore with his right. But during the various struggles which had taken place they had been gradually sucked into the stream that flowed towards the lower rapid, and it now became apparent to Prince that his only chance of safety was in catching hold of the point of rock that formed the first obstruction to the rush of water. Abandoning all effort, therefore, to gain the bank beside him, he swam with the current, but edged towards the shore as he floated down.

“Hallo! La Roche!” he exclaimed loudly. “Do you hear? do you understand me?”

“Ah! oui, vraiment. I not dead yit.”

“Then let go that rod and seize my collar, and mind, sink deep in the water. Show only enough o’ your face to breathe with, or I’ll drown ye.”

The Frenchman obeyed to the extent of seizing Dick’s collar and sinking deep in the water, so as not to overburden his friend; but nothing could induce him to quit the rod to which he had clung so long and so resolutely. Prince’s arms being now free, one or two powerful strokes placed him beyond the influence of the strong current, and as he passed the rocks before mentioned, he seized an overhanging branch of a small shrub, by which he endeavoured to drag himself ashore. This, however, he found to be impossible, partly owing to the steepness of the shelving rock, and partly to the fact that Chimo, in his ill-directed attempts to share in the dangers of his friends, had seized La Roche by the skirts of the coat in order to prevent himself from going down the stream. Those on shore, on seeing Prince make for the rock, ran towards the spot; but having to make a slight détour round the bend of the river, they did not reach it until he seized the branch, and when Frank, who was the first, sprang down, the slope to the rescue, he found them streaming out and waving to and fro in the current, like some monstrous reptile—Dick holding on to the branch with both hands, La Roche holding on to Dick, Chimo holding on by his teeth to La Roche, and the unfortunate salmon holding on to the line which its half-drowned captor scorned to let go.

A few seconds sufficed to drag them dripping from the stream; and the energetic little Frenchman no sooner found his feet on solid ground than he hauled out his fish and landed it triumphantly with his own hand.

“’Tis a pretty fish, La Roche,” said Frank, laughing, as he busied himself in taking down his rod, while several of the men assisted Dick Prince to wring the water out of his clothes, and others crowded round La Roche to congratulate him on his escape—“’tis a pretty fish, but it cost you some trouble to catch it.”

“Throuble, indeed!” echoed Bryan, as he sat on a rock smoking his pipe; “troth it’s more nor him came to throuble by that same fish: it guve me the throuble o’ bein’ more nor half choked by Massan.”

“Half choked, Bryan! what mean you?” asked Frank.

“Mane? I just mane what I say; an’ the raison why’s best known to himself.”

A loud peal of laughter greeted Massan’s graphic explanation of the forcible manner in which he had prevented the Irishman from throwing himself into the river.

The party now turned earnestly to the more serious duties of the journey. Already too much time had been lost in this “playing themselves with fish,” as Stanley expressed it, and it behoved them to embark as speedily as possible. About a mile above the pool which had nearly proved fatal to La Roche was the head of a series of insurmountable rapids, which extended all the way down to the waterfall. Beyond this was a pretty long reach of calm water, up which they proceeded easily; but as they advanced the current became so strong that no headway could be made with the paddles, and it was found necessary to send a party of the men ashore with a long line, by means of which the canoes were slowly dragged against the current. At length they came to shallow water, which necessitated another portage; and as it was about sunset when they reached it, Stanley ordered the tent to be pitched for the night, and the fire lighted, under the shadow of a stupendous mountain, the rocky sides of which were sprinkled with dwarf pine trees, and partially covered with brush and herbage. Here Edith and her mother discovered multitudes of berries, the most numerous being cloud and crow berries; both of which were found to be good, especially the former, and a fragrant dish of these graced the towel that evening at supper.

Thus, day by day, our adventurous travellers penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of the wilderness, which became more savage and mountainous as they left the coast. Stanley drew forth his quadrant and compass, wherewith he guided the party towards their future home. At night, after the labour of the day was over, he and Frank would spread their charts in the blaze of the camp fire, and study the positions of the land so far as it was laid down; while Edith sat beside her mother, helping her to repair the torn and way-worn habiliments of her husband and Frank, or listening with breathless interest to the men, as they recounted their experiences of life in the different regions through which they had travelled. Many of these tales were more or less coloured by the fancy of the narrators, but most of them were founded on fact, and proved an unfailing source of deep interest to the little child. Frank’s fishing-rod was frequently in requisition, and often supplied the party with more than enough of excellent fish; and at every new bend and turn of the innumerable lakes and rivers through which they passed, reindeer were seen bounding on the mountain-sides, or trotting down the ravines to quench their thirst and cool their sides in the waters; so that food was abundant, and their slender stock of provisions had not to be trenched upon, while the berries that grew luxuriantly everywhere proved a grateful addition to their store. Thus, day by day, they slowly retreated farther and farther from the world of mankind—living in safety under the protection of the Almighty, and receiving the daily supply of all their necessities from His fatherly and bountiful hand; thus, day by day, they rose with the sun, and lay down at night to rest upon the mountain’s side or by the river’s bank; and thus, day by day, they penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of the unknown wilderness.

Chapter Twelve.

A new scene—The Esquimau—Deer-slaying—Enemies in the bush.

Turn we now to another, a more distant, and a wilder scene. Near the bleak shores of Hudson’s Straits there flows a river which forms an outlet to the superfluous waters of the almost unknown territory lying between the uninhabited parts of Labrador and that tract of desert land which borders Hudson’s Bay on the east, and is known to the fur-traders by the appellation of East Main. This river is called the Caniapuscaw, and discharges itself into Ungava Bay.

The scene to which we would turn the reader’s attention is upwards of twenty miles from the mouth of this river, at a particular bend, where the stream spreads itself out into a sheet of water almost worthy of being called a lake, and just below which two bold cliffs shut out the seaward view, and cause an abrupt narrowing of the river. The scene is peculiar, and surpassingly grand. On each side of the stream majestic mountains raise their bald and rugged peaks almost into the clouds. Little herbage grows on the more exposed places, and nothing, save here and there a stunted and weather-worn pine, breaks the sharp outline of the cliffs. But in the gorges and dark ravines—for there are no valleys—clumps of small-sized spruce—fir and larch trees throw a softness over some of the details of a spot whose general aspect is one of sterility. The mountains rise in a succession of irregular steps or terraces, whose faces are so precipitous that they cannot be ascended. To accomplish the feat of scaling the mountain-tops it would be necessary to clamber up a ravine until the first terrace should be gained, then, walking along that, ascend the next ravine, and so on. At the upper end of the lake (as we shall hereafter call this wide part of the river) lies a low island, fringed with a scanty growth of willows; and not far from this, on the eastern bank of the river, lies a small patch of level sand. This spot is somewhat peculiar, inasmuch as it is backed by a low platform of rock, whose surface is smooth as a table. At the foot of this rock bubbles a little spring, which, meandering through a tangled spot of stunted shrubbery ere it mingles with the sand, gives unusual green-ness and vitality to the surrounding herbage. On the edge of this rocky platform sat the figure of a man.

It was evening. The declining sun shot its last few rays over the brow of the opposite mountains, and bathed him in mellow light, as he sat apparently contemplating the scene before him. The man’s costume bespoke him a native of the savage region in the midst of which he seemed the only human being. But although an Esquimau, he exhibited several physical peculiarities not commonly supposed to belong to that people. To an altitude of six feet three he added a breadth of shoulder and expansion of chest seldom equalled among men of more highly-favoured climes; and his real bulk being very greatly increased by his costume, he appeared to be a very giant—no unfitting tenant of such giant scenery. The said costume consisted of an extremely loose coat or shirt of deerskin, having the hair outside, and a capacious hood, which usually hung down behind, but covered his head at this time, in order to protect it from a sharp north-west breeze that whirled among the gullies of the mountains, and surging down their sides, darkened the surface of the water. A pair of long sealskin boots encased his limbs from foot to thigh; and a little wallet or bag of sealskin, with the hair outside, hung from his shoulders. Simple although this costume was, it had a bulky rotundity of appearance that harmonised well with the giant’s frank, good-humoured countenance, which was manly, firm, and massive, besides being rosy, oily, and fat. In the latter peculiarity he partook of the well-known characteristic of his tribe; but the effeminacy in appearance that is produced by a round, fat face was done away in the case of our giant by a remarkably black though as yet downy moustache and beard, of a length suitable to twenty-three winters. His hair was long, straight, and black, besides being uncommonly glossy—an effect attributable to the prevalence of whale-oil in these regions. On the forehead the locks were cut short, so as to afford free scope to his black eyes and sturdy-looking nose. By his side lay a long hunting spear, and a double-bladed paddle, fully fifteen feet long; which latter belonged to a kayak, or Esquimau canoe, that lay on the sand close to the water’s edge. Sitting there, motionless as the rocks around him, the giant looked like a colossal statue of an Esquimau. He was no figure of stone, however, but a veritable human being, as was proved by his starting suddenly from his reverie and hastening towards the spring before mentioned, at which he stooped and drank rapidly, like one who had to make up for lost time.

After a few hurried gulps, the man strode towards his canoe; but as he went his restless eye became fixed on the branching antlers of a deer, that were tossed in the air on the summit of a neighbouring cliff. Like one who is suddenly paralysed, the Esquimau stood transfixed in the attitude in which he had been arrested. He did not even seem to breathe, as the antlers moved to and fro, clearly defined against the blue sky. At length they disappeared, and the animal to which they belonged slowly descended a ravine towards the river. Then, as if set free from a spell, the man glided into his kayak, and swept rapidly but noiselessly behind a projecting point of rock, where he waited patiently till the deer took to the water. He had not long to wait, however, for in a few minutes afterwards the deer, followed by several companions, walked out upon the patch of sand, snuffed the air once or twice, and entered the stream with the intention of crossing.

But there was an enemy near whom they little dreamed of—not an enemy who would dash excitedly into the midst of them, or awaken the thunders of the place with his noisy gun, but a foe who could patiently bide his time, and take cool and quiet advantage of it when it came. When the deer had proceeded about a hundred yards into the river, the Esquimau dipped his paddle twice, and the narrow, sharp-pointed canoe, which, at a short distance, seemed little more than a floating plank, darted through the water and ranged alongside of the startled animals. The fattest of the herd was separated from its fellows and driven towards the shore from which it had started, while the others struggled across the river. Once or twice the separated deer endeavoured to turn to rejoin its comrades—an attempt which was frustrated by the Esquimau, who could paddle infinitely faster over the water in his skin canoe than the deer could swim. As they neared the shore, the giant cast on it one or two glances, and having made up his mind as to the most convenient spot for landing, he urged the point of his canoe between the antlers of the deer, and steered it in this manner to the sand-bank. The deer, thus directed, had no resource but to land where its persecutor chose; but no sooner did its foot touch ground, than it sprang convulsively forward in the vain hope to escape. The same instant its captor’s canoe shot beside it. Grasping the long lance before mentioned in his hand, he placed its glittering point on the deer’s side, tickled it slowly to ascertain that it was between two ribs, and, with a quick thrust, stabbed it to the heart. A convulsive shudder, as the deer’s head sank in the stream, proved that, though cold-blooded in appearance, the action was more effective and less cruel than many other more approved methods of killing game.

Our Esquimau thought neither of the method of slaying his deer nor of man’s opinion regarding it. His sole object was to procure supper, having tasted nothing since early morning; and the manner in which he ate showed at once the strength of his appetite and his total indifference to cookery, for he ate it raw. There was a certain appearance of haste in all his actions which, however, seemed unaccountable, considering the peaceful nature of the vast solitudes around him. Scarcely had he cut off and devoured a portion of the deer than he hastened again to his canoe, and darted like an arrow from the shore. This is no exaggerated simile. The long, thin, sharp Esquimau kayak is highly suggestive of an arrow in its form, and much more so in its extraordinary speed. It consists of an extremely light framework of wood covered with sealskin parchment, which is stretched upon it all over as tight as a drum. The top of the canoe being covered as well as the bottom, it is thus, as it were, decked; and a small hole in the middle of this deck admits its occupant. The kayak can only hold one person. The paddle, as already said, is a long pole with a blade at each end. It is dipped alternately on each side, and is used not only to propel the kayak, but to prevent it from upsetting. Indeed, so liable is it to upset that nothing but the wonderful adroitness of its occupant prevents it from doing so with every swing of his body.

Quick, however, though the kayak sped over the rippling wave, it could not have escaped the messenger of death that seemed about to be dispatched after it by a dark-skinned, red-painted Indian, who, at the moment the vessel left the shore, leapt from behind a rocky point, and, levelling a long gun, took a steady aim at the unconscious Esquimau. A little puff of powder answered to the click of the lock, as the gun missed fire. With an exclamation of anger the savage seized his powder-horn to reprime, when a rude grasp was laid on his shoulder, and another Indian, who, from the eagle feather in his hair, and his general bearing, appeared to be a chief, exclaimed—

“Fool! you have the impatience of a woman, and you have not yet shown that you have the heart of a man. Would the scalp of yon Eater-of-raw-flesh pay us for coming so far from our hunting-grounds? If your gun had spoken among these mountains, we would have found the empty wigwams of his people, instead of fringing our belts with their scalps.”

With a frown of anger the chief turned on his heel and retraced his steps into the ravine from which he had emerged, followed by his abashed and silent companion.

Meanwhile the Esquimau, ignorant of the fate from which he had just escaped, continued to ply his paddle with right good will. The little craft, obedient to the powerful impulse, combined as it was with the current of the ebb-tide, flew rather than floated toward the narrows, through which it passed, and opened up a view of the ice-encumbered waters of Ungava Bay. Directing his course along the western shores of the river, the Esquimau speedily reached the coast at a point where several low, rough-built summer huts clustered near the shore. Here he ran his kayak into a little creek, and, having lifted it beyond tide mark, betook himself to his dwelling.

Chapter Thirteen.

Savage love—A wife purchased—The attack—The flight—The escape—The wounded man.

Scarcely had the stout Esquimau proceeded a few steps along the shore, when he was met by a young girl who laid her hand on his arm. Taking her gently by the shoulders, he drew her towards him and kissed her on both cheeks—an action which caused her to blush deeply as, with a half smile half frown on her face, she pushed him away.

Love is the same all the world over, whether it glows beneath the broad-cloth and spotless linen of a civilised gentleman, or under the deerskin coat of a savage. And its expression, we suspect, is somewhat similar everywhere. The coy repulse of pretended displeasure came as naturally from our plump little arctic heroine as it could have done from the most civilised flirt, and was treated with well-simulated contrition by our arctic giant, as they walked slowly towards the huts. But the Esquimau had other matters than love in his head just then, and the girl’s face assumed a grave and somewhat anxious look as he continued to whisper in her ear.

At the little hamlet they separated, and the maiden went to her grandfather’s abode; while her lover, lifting the skin-curtain door of a rudely-constructed hut, entered his own humble dwelling. The room was empty, and its owner did not seem as if he meant to cheer it with his presence long. In one corner lay a pile of miscellaneous articles, which he removed, and, taking the tusk of a walrus which lay near his hand, began to dig with it in the sand. In a few seconds it struck a hard substance, and the Esquimau, putting his hand into the hole, drew forth a glittering axe, upon which he gazed with supreme satisfaction.

Now be it known to you, reader, that among the Esquimaux of the frozen north iron is regarded with about as much delight as gold is by ourselves. And the reason is simple enough. These poor people live entirely upon the produce of the chase. Polar bears, seals, walruses, and whales are their staff of life. To procure these animals, spears are necessary; to skin and cut them up, knives are needful. But bone and stone make sorry knives and spears; so that, when a bit of iron, no matter how poor its quality or small its size, can be obtained, it is looked on as the most valuable of possessions; and the ingenuity displayed by Esquimaux in fashioning the rudest piece of metal into the most useful of implements is truly astonishing, proving, in the most satisfactory way, that necessity is indeed the mother of invention. The precious metal is obtained in two ways: by the discovery of a wreck, which is extremely rare; and by barter with those tribes which sometimes visit the Moravian settlements of Labrador. But neither source is very productive. Even a nail is treasured as a blessing, while an axe is a fortune! When our giant, therefore, drew forth the shining implement, and gazed with delight at its keen edge, he experienced as great satisfaction as a miser does when gloating over his banker’s book!

Having satisfied himself that the axe was free from all approximation to rust, he stuck it into a belt of raw hide, which he put on for the express purpose of sustaining it, as Esquimaux do not generally wear belts. He then sallied forth, and walked with the air of a man who wears the grand cross of the Legion of Honour. As he went to the hut in which lived the oldest man of the tribe, the shade of anxiety, which had clouded his brow more than once during the day, again rested on his face. On entering, he observed the old Esquimau listening with anxious countenance to the young girl whom we have already introduced to the reader.

Now this girl—Aneetka by name—was by no means an angel in Esquimau habiliments. Among civilised folk probably she would not have been deemed even pretty. Nevertheless, in the eyes of her lover she was most decidedly beautiful, and round, and fat, and rosy, and young, awkward, and comfortable! And the giant loved her—never so strongly, perhaps, as when he saw her striving to allay the fears of her old grandfather. But this same grandfather was obstinate. He wanted her to become the wife of an Esquimau who lived far to the westward, and who once had dealings with the fur-traders, and from whom he expected to derive considerable advantages and gifts of bits of hoop-iron and nails. But she wanted to become the giant’s wife; so there the matter stood.

“The spirits o’ the wind and sea protect us, and may the god o’ the mist cover us!” said the old man, as the young Esquimau sat down on a dead seal beside him. “Is it true that you saw the men of fire?”

This was, of course, said in the language of the Esquimaux, and we render it as literally as possible.

“Yes, it is true,” replied the young man. “I saw them at the rapid water in Caniapuscaw, and I took kayak to bring the news.”

Various exclamations of mingled surprise and anger escaped from the compressed lips of several stalwart natives, who had crowded into the tent on hearing of the arrival of their comrade.

“Yes,” continued the young man, “we must go away this night. They had fire-tubes, and there were thirty men. We have only ten.”

Again a murmur ran through the listeners, but no one spoke for a few seconds.

“Did they see you?” asked the old man anxiously.

“No. I came on them suddenly, when I was chasing deer, and almost ran into their camp; but I saw, and fell in the grass. I thought the chief raised his head quickly when I fell; but he looked down again, and I crawled away.”

In this the young Esquimau was mistaken. He knew little of the craft and the quickness of the Red Indian, and easily fell into the snare of his savage enemy, who, having been momentarily startled by the sudden sound of the Esquimau approach, had endeavoured to throw him off his guard, by pretending that although he heard the sound he thought nothing of it. But no sooner had the Esquimau retired than he was closely followed and watched by the whole party. They could have easily shot him, but refrained from doing so, that he might unwittingly be their guide to the habitations of his people. The rapid flight of his kayak distanced his pursuers at first, but they made up for this during an hour or two in the night, when the tired Esquimau allowed himself a short season of repose to recruit his energies for the following day’s journey. During this period the Indians shot far ahead of him, and when he arrived at the coast next day they were not much in the rear.

“And now, old man,” said our young Esquimau, “it is time that I should have my wife. If the Allat (see note 1) come here to-night, as I know they will, I want to have a right to defend her, and carry her away when we flee. Are you willing?”

The young giant said this with a degree of roughness and decision that at any other time would have made the obstinate old grandfather refuse point blank; but as there was every probability of having to flee for his life ere the break of another day, and as his old heart trembled within him at the thought of the dreaded guns of the Indians, he merely shook his head and pondered a little.

“What will you give me?” he said, looking up.

The young man answered by drawing the axe from his belt and laying it on the ground before him. The old man’s eyes glistened with pleasure as he surveyed the costly gift.

“Good; that will do. Take her and go.”

A second bidding was not needed. The young man arose hastily, took his blushing bride by the hand, and led her from the tent of her grandfather towards his own. Here she set to work instantly to assist her husband in hurriedly packing up their goods and chattels; and, immediately afterwards, the little village became a perfect Babel of confusion, as the alarmed inhabitants, on learning the threatened danger, prepared for instant flight. In less than an hour the most of them were ready. The men launched their kayaks, while the women, having loaded their oomiaks with their goods, tossed their dogs and children on the top of them.

The oomiak, or women’s boat, is quite a different affair from the kayak, in which the men travel singly. It is usually made large and capacious, in order to hold the entire household of the Esquimau. Like the kayak it is made of skin, but has no covering above, and is propelled by means of short single-bladed paddles, which are worked by the women, upon whom devolves the entire care and management of the oomiak. It is a clumsy affair to look at, but, like the boats of savages generally, it is uncommonly useful and a good sea-boat.

While the Esquimaux were busied in completing their arrangements, one of the dogs rushed towards the bushes that lined the shore just behind the village, and barked vociferously. Instantly it was joined by the whole pack, and the Esquimaux, who, ever since they had heard of the proximity of their Indian foes, were in a state of the utmost trepidation, made a general rush towards their canoes. Before they reached them, however, a volley of musketry was fired from the bushes, and three of their number—a man and two women—filled the air with their death-shriek, as they fell dead upon the beach; while the Indians sprang from their concealment, and, brandishing their knives and tomahawks, rushed with a fearful yell upon the terror-stricken Esquimaux.

Shrill and terrible though the Indian war-cry is proverbially known to be, it was excelled in appalling wildness by the shriek which arose from the Esquimaux, as they hurried tumultuously into their canoes and put off to sea. These poor creatures were naturally brave—much more so, indeed, than their assailants; but the murderous effects of the terrible gun caused the sternest brow among them to blanch and the stoutest heart to quail. The arrow and the spear, however rapid, could be avoided, if observed in time; but this dreaded implement of destruction was so mysterious to them, and its death-dealing bullet so quick, and the smoke, the fire, and the loud report so awful, that they shuddered even when they thought of it. No wonder, then, that they uttered a despairing cry when it actually sounded in their ears.

When the dogs first gave tongue, our tall Esquimau was alone in his hut, having just sent his wife down with a bundle to the oomiak. When the volley rang in his ears, he rushed towards the beach, supposing that she was there before him. This was not the case, however. Aneetka had gone towards her grandfather’s hut, and when the Indians fired she rushed in to assist him to fly. But the old man was already gone. Turning instantly, she sprang nimbly towards the shore. At that moment a single shot was fired, and she saw her husband stumble forward and fall headlong to the earth, where he lay motionless. Her first impulse was to run towards the body and throw herself upon it; but this intention was effectually checked by a strong, dark-skinned arm which encircled her waist, and, despite her cries and struggles, bore her away into the bushes. Her captor was the Indian whose gun once before on that day had been levelled at her lover’s head.

When the young Esquimau fell, as already related, he was so close to the water that he stumbled into it, and, fortunately, not a yard distant from an oomiak which the women were frantically thrusting into the sea. They had no time to lift so heavy a weight on board, but, as the light craft darted from the shore, an old woman, who had often received kind attentions from the good-natured youth, leant over the stern and seized him by the hair. In this manner he was dragged through the water until they were out of gun-shot, when he was lifted inside and laid beside the dogs and children.

Meanwhile the Indians had rushed into the water up to their middle, in the hope of catching the last of the little fleet, but without success. Mad with disappointed rage, they waded back to the shore, and, standing in a line along the edge of the waves, reloaded their guns with the utmost rapidity. The poor Esquimaux knew well what would follow, and strained every nerve to increase their distance. Once more the guns belched forth their leaden shower, which went skipping over the water towards the flotilla. Only one kayak was hit by the discharge. It was that of the old grandfather already mentioned. The ball ripped up the side of the canoe, which filled and upset, and the poor old man would certainly have been drowned but for the opportune coming up of the oomiak containing his wounded grandson. The old woman who had already saved the life of the young giant of the tribe, again put forth her skinny hand and grasped the patriarch, who was soon hauled on board in safety. A few minutes more placed the whole party out of danger.

In the meantime, the Indians, furious with disappointment, scalped the three dead bodies and tossed them into the sea; after which they went into the huts in order to collect all the valuables that might have been left behind. Very little, however, was to be found, as the entire property of an Esquimau is not worth much to a red man. The most useful thing they laid hands on was the axe which the old grandfather had left behind in his hurried flight. Having taken all they could carry, the savages destroyed the rest; and then, setting fire to the village, they returned to the bush. Here a fire was made, and a council of war held.

When the Indian who had captured the Esquimau girl led her forward towards the fire, there was a general yell of indignation. Tomahawks were grasped, and more than one knife was unsheathed. But the chief commanded silence.

“What does White Heart mean to do with the Eater-of-raw-flesh?” he inquired, turning to the young man.

“He will take her to the hunting-grounds of the Crees.”

“That cannot be,” said the chief. “The girl must die, and White Heart must kill her.”

The young man made no reply.

“If,” continued the chief sarcastically, “White Heart is afraid to see blood on his knife, another warrior will show him how to do it!”

As he spoke, a dark-visaged savage drew his scalping-knife, and, with one stride, stood beside the trembling girl, who, during the consultation of the savages, had stood silently beside her captor listening intently to the words which she did not comprehend.

Seizing her by the shoulder, the savage plunged his knife at her bosom; but, ere the keen point reached it, the arm was caught by the young Indian, and the scowling savage was hurled violently back. With dilated eye and expanded nostril, the young man, not deigning to bestow a glance upon his fallen comrade, turned to his chief and said—

“Did not I take her? The girl is mine. I will carry her to my tent and make her my wife.”

“Be it so,” replied the chief abruptly. Then turning to his followers, he gave orders to start immediately.

In a few minutes all was ready. The chief led the way into the bush. The Esquimau girl and her captor followed; and the whole band, silently and in single file, commenced to retrace their steps to the far distant hunting-grounds of the Cree Indians.

Chapter Fourteen.

The pursuit—Seal-spearing—The giant’s despair.

When the young Esquimau began to recover from the lethargic state into which his wound had thrown him, he found himself lying at the bottom of the women’s oomiak with his old grandfather by his side, and a noisy crew of children and dogs around him. Raising himself on his elbow, he brushed the clotted blood and hair from his temples, and endeavoured to recall his scattered faculties. Seeing this, the old crone who had saved his life laid down her paddle and handed him a sealskin cup of water, which he seized and drank with avidity. Fortunately the wound on his forehead, although it had stunned him severely at first, was trifling, and in a few minutes after partaking of the cool water, he recovered sufficiently to sit up and look around him.

Gradually his faculties returned, and he started up with a troubled look.

“Where are the Allat? Where is my wife?” he exclaimed vehemently, as his eye fell on the prostrate form of his still insensible grandfather.

“Gone,” answered several of the women.

“Gone!” repeated the youth, gazing wildly among the faces around him in search of that of his wife. “Gone! Tell me, is she in one of the other oomiaks?”

The women trembled as they answered, “No.”

“Have the Allat got her?”

There was no reply to this question, but he did not need one. Springing like a tiger to the stern of the oomiak, he seized the steering paddle, and turning the head of the boat towards the shore, paddled with all his energy. Nearly two hours had elapsed since they had commenced their flight, and as all danger of pursuit was over the moment the Indians turned their backs on the sea, the Esquimaux had gradually edged in-shore again, so that a few minutes sufficed to run the prow of the oomiak on the shingle of the beach. Without saying a word, the young man sprang over the side, drew a hunting-spear from the bottom of the boat, and hurried back in the direction of the deserted village at the top of his speed. The women knew that nothing could stop him, and feeling that he was quite able to take care of himself, they quietly put to sea again, and continued their voyage.

The limbs of the young Esquimau, as we have already said, were gigantic and powerful, enabling him to traverse the country at a pace which few of his fellows could keep up with; and although a stern-chase is proverbially a long one, and the distance between two parties travelling in opposite directions is amazingly increased in a short space of time, there is no doubt that he would have overtaken his Indian foes ere many hours had passed, but for the wound in his head, which, although not dangerous, compelled him more than once to halt and sit down, in order to prevent himself from falling into a swoon. Hunger had also something to do with this state of weakness, as he had eaten nothing for many hours. In his hasty departure from the boat, however, he had neglected to take any provisions with him, so that he had little hope of obtaining refreshment before arriving at the village, where some scraps might perhaps be picked up.

Slowly, and with a reeling brain, he staggered on; but here no relief awaited him, for every scrap of food had been either taken away or destroyed by the Indians, and it was with a heavy sigh and a feeling akin to despair that he sat down beside the blackened ruins of his late home.

But Esquimaux, more than other men, are accustomed to reverses of fortune, and the sigh with which he regarded the ruins of his hut had no reference whatever to the absence of food. He knew that about this time the mouth of the river would be full of ice, carried up by the flood-tide, and that seals would, in all probability, be found on it; so he started up, and hastening along the beach soon gained the floes, which he examined carefully. A glance or two sufficed to show him that he was right in his conjecture. On a sheet of ice not more than a couple of hundred yards from shore were two seals fast asleep. These he prepared to stalk. Between the floe and the shore ran a stream of water twenty yards broad. Over this he ferried himself on a lump of loose ice; and, on reaching the floe, he went down on his hands and knees, holding the spear in his right hand as he advanced cautiously towards his victim.

The Esquimau seal-spear is a curious weapon, and exhibits in a high degree the extraordinary ingenuity of the race. The handle is sometimes made of the horn of the narwal, but more frequently of wood. It has a movable head or barb, to which a long line of walrus hide or sealskin is attached. This barb is made of ivory tipped with iron, and is attached to the handle in such a way that it becomes detached from it the instant the animal is struck, and remains firmly imbedded in the wound with the line fastened to it, while the handle floats away on the water or falls on the ice, as the case may be.

When the Esquimau had approached to within a hundred yards, he lay down at full length and slowly worked himself forward. Meanwhile the seals raised their heads, but seeing, as they imagined, a companion coming towards them, they did not make for their holes, which were a few yards distant from them. Having drawn near enough to render the animals suspicious, the young giant now sprang up, rushed forward, and got between one seal and its hole just as its more active companion dived into the water. In another moment the deadly lance transfixed its side and killed it. This was a fortunate supply to the Esquimau, whose powers of endurance were fast failing. He immediately sat down on his victim, and cutting a large steak from its side, speedily made a meal that far exceeded the powers of any alderman whatsoever! It required but a short time to accomplish, however, and a shorter time to transfer several choice (junks) chunks to his wallet; with which replenished store he resumed his journey.

Although the man’s vigour was restored for a time, so that he travelled with great speed, it did not last long, owing to the wound in his head, which produced frequent attacks of giddiness, and at last compelled him, much against his will, to halt for a couple of hours’ repose. Glancing round, in order to select a suitable camping ground, he soon observed such a spot in the form of a broad, overhanging ledge of rock, beneath which there was a patch of scrubby underwood. Here he lay down with the seal blubber for a pillow, and was quickly buried in deep, untroubled slumber. In little more than two hours he awoke with a start, and, after a second application to the contents of the wallet, resumed his solitary march. The short rest seemed to have quite restored his wonted vigour, for he now stalked up the banks of the river at a rate which seemed only to accelerate as he advanced. As has been already said, these banks were both rugged and precipitous. In some places the rocks jutted out into the water, forming promontories over which it was difficult to climb; and frequently these capes terminated in abrupt precipices, necessitating a détour in order to advance. In other places the coast was indented with sandy bays, which more than doubled the distance the traveller would have had to accomplish had he possessed a kayak. Unfortunately in his hasty departure he neglected to take one with him; but he did his best to atone for this oversight by making almost superhuman exertions. He strode over the sands like an ostrich of the desert, and clambered up the cliffs and over the rocks—looking, in his hairy garments, like a shaggy polar bear. The thought of his young and pretty bride a captive in the hands of his bitterest foes, and doomed to a life of slavery, almost maddened him, and caused his dark eye to flash and his broad bosom to heave with pent-up emotion, while it spurred him on to put forth exertions that were far beyond the powers of any member of his tribe, and could not, under less exciting circumstances, have been performed even by himself. As to what were his intentions should he overtake the Indians, he knew not. The agitation of his spirits, combined with the influence of his wound, induced him to act from impulse; and the wild tumult of his feelings prevented him from calculating the consequences or perceiving the hopelessness of an attack made by one man, armed only with knife and spear, against a body of Indians who possessed the deadly gun.

Alas! for the sorrows of the poor human race. In all lands they are much the same, whether civilised or savage—virtue and vice alternately triumphing. Bravery, candour, heroism, in fierce contest with treachery, cowardice, and malevolence, form the salient points of the record among all nations, and in all ages. No puissant knight of old ever buckled on his panoply of mail, seized his sword and lance, mounted his charger, and sallied forth singlehanded to deliver his mistress from enchanted castle, in the face of appalling perils, with hotter haste or a more thorough contempt of danger than did our Esquimau giant pursue the Indians who had captured his bride; but, like many a daring spirit of romance, the giant failed, and that through no fault of his.

On arriving at the rocky platform beside the spring where we first introduced him to the reader, the Esquimau sat down, and, casting his spear on the ground, gazed around him with a look of despair. It was not a slight matter that caused this feeling to arise. Notwithstanding his utmost exertions, he had been unable to overtake the Indians up to this point, and beyond this point it was useless to follow them. The mountains here were divided into several distinct gorges, each of which led into the interior of the country; and it was impossible to ascertain which of these had been taken by the Indians, as the bare, rocky land retained no mark of their light, moccasined feet. Had the pursuer been an Indian, the well-known sagacity of the race in following a trail, however slight, might have enabled him to trace the route of the party; but the Esquimaux are unpractised in this stealthy, dog-like quality. Their habits and the requirements of their condition render it almost unnecessary; so that, in difficult circumstances, their sagacity in this respect is not equal to the emergency. Add to this the partial confusion created in the young giant’s brain by his wound, and it will not appear strange that despair at length seized him, when, after a severe journey, he arrived at a spot where, as it were, half a dozen cross-roads met, and he had not the most distant idea which he had to follow. It is true the valley of the river seemed the most probable route; but after pursuing this for a whole day without coming upon a vestige of the party, he gave up the pursuit, and, returning to the spring beside the rock, passed the night there with a heavy heart. When the sun rose on the following morning he quitted his lair, and, taking a long draught at the bubbling spring, prepared to depart. Before setting out, he cast a melancholy glance around the amphitheatre of gloomy hills; shook his spear, in the bitterness of his heart, towards the dark recesses which had swallowed up the light of his eyes, perchance for ever; then, turning slowly towards the north, with drooping head, and with the listless tread of a heart-broken man, he retraced his steps to the sea-coast, and, rejoining his comrades, was soon far away from the banks of the Caniapuscaw River.

Chapter Fifteen.

End of the voyage—Plans and prospects—Exploring parties sent out.

Three weeks alter the departure of the Esquimaux from the neighbourhood of Ungava Bay, the echoes of these solitudes were awakened by the merry song of the Canadian voyageurs, as the two canoes of Stanley and his comrades swept down the stream and approached the spring at the foot of the flat rock.

As the large canoe ran its bow lightly on the sand, the first man who leaped ashore was La Roche. He seemed even more sprightly and active than formerly, but was a good deal darker in complexion, and much travel-stained. Indeed, the whole party bore marks of having roughed it pretty severely for some time past among the mountains. Edith’s face was decidedly darker than when she left Moose, and her short frock considerably shorter in consequence of tear and wear.

“Bad luck to ye, Losh! Out o’ the way, an’ let yer betters land before ye,” exclaimed Bryan, as he jumped into the water, and dragged the canoe towards the beach.

The only marks that rough travelling had put on Bryan were one or two additional wrinkles in his battered white hat; as for his face, it was already so thoroughly bronzed by long exposure, that a week or two more or less made no difference in its hue.

“Jump into my arms, Miss Edith,” said François, as he stood in the water beside the canoe.

“Steady, boy; mind the gum,” cried Massan, as Oolibuck strained the canoe roughly in shouldering a package.

“Look out ashore, there,” cried Dick Prince, throwing the tent poles on the beach as he spoke.

Regardless of the warning, Gaspard did not “look out,” and received a rap on the leg from one of the poles, whereat he growled savagely, and threw down a sack, which rested on his shoulder, so violently that it nearly knocked over Ma-istequan, who was passing at the time with the camp-kettle in his hand.

“What an ould buffalo it is!” exclaimed Bryan, pushing Gaspard rudely aside with his left shoulder, and hitching off La Roche’s cap with his right, as he sprang back to the canoe for another load. “Pardonay mwa, Losh, may garson,” he exclaimed, with a broad grin. “Now thin, boys, out wid the fixin’s. Faix it’s mysilf is plazed to git ashore anyhow, for there’s nothin’ gone into my intarior since brickfust this mornin’.”

At this moment the bow of the other canoe grated on the sand, and Frank Morton leaped ashore.

“Capital place to camp, Frank,” said Stanley, who had just finished pitching the tent on the scrimp herbage that forced its way through the sand. “There’s a splendid spring of pure water below yonder rock. I’ve just left my wife and Eda busy with the tea-cups, and La Roche preventing them from getting things ready, by way of helping them.”

“It does indeed seem a good place,” replied Frank, “and might do for temporary headquarters, perhaps, while we make excursions to the coast to fix on a spot for our new home.”

Stanley gazed contemplatively around him as his friend spoke. “Hand me the telescope, Frank; it strikes me we are nearer the sea than you think. The water here is brackish, and yonder opening in the mountains might reveal something beyond, if magnified by the glass.”

After a lengthened survey of the surrounding hills, Frank and Stanley came to the conclusion that they could make nothing of it, at least that night; and as it was becoming gradually dark, they resolved to postpone all further consideration of the subject till the next day.

Meanwhile, the men busied themselves in preparing supper, and Chimo unexpectedly lent them some assistance by bringing into camp a ptarmigan which he had just killed. True, Chimo had, in his innocence, designed this little delicacy of the season for his own special table; but no sooner was he seen with the bird between his teeth, than it was snatched from him and transferred to the pot forthwith.

The following day was an era in the existence of the travellers. For the first time since commencing their arduous voyage, the cargoes were left behind, and the canoes paddled away, light and buoyant, on a trip of investigation. Stanley had rightly judged that they were now near the sea, and the great breadth of the river led him to believe that there might be water sufficient to float the vessel in which the goods for the station were to be forwarded. If this should turn out as he expected, there could not be a better spot for establishing a fort than that on which they had encamped, as it was situated just below the last rapids of the river; had a fine spring of fresh water in its vicinity; and was protected from the cold blasts of winter, to some extent at least, by the surrounding mountains.

“Now, Frank,” added Mr Stanley, after stating his opinion on this point, “what I mean to do is this: I shall take the large canoe, with Dick Prince, François, Gaspard, La Roche, and Augustus—the last to interpret should we fall in with Esquimaux, whom I am surprised not to have found hereabouts. With these I will proceed to the sea, examine the coast, observe whether there be any place suitable for building on, and, if all goes well, be back to supper before sunset. You will take the other canoe, with Bryan, Massan, Oolibuck, and Ma-istequan, and proceed down the opposite side of the river a short way. Examine the shores there, and above the island; see whether there be any place better than where we stand for a permanent residence; and at night we shall compare notes. My wife and Eda shall remain in camp under the care of Oostesimow and Moses.”

“And pray who is to defend your poor wife and innocent child in the event of an attack by a band of savage natives?” inquired Mrs Stanley, as she joined her husband and Frank.

“No fear of the wife and child,” replied Stanley, patting his better half on the shoulder. “If Indians should find out the camp, Oostesimow can palaver with them; and should Esquimaux pay you a visit, Moses will do the polite. Besides, had you not interrupted, I was going to have given special instructions to Frank regarding you. So, Master Frank, be pleased to take Eda off your shoulder, and give ear to my instructions. While you are examining the other side of the water, you will keep as much as possible within eye-shot, and always within ear-shot, of the camp. In a still day like this a gun-shot can be heard five or six miles off; and should you see any sign of the natives having been here recently, return instantly to the camp.”

Frank promised implicit obedience to these instructions, and the whole party then set to work to pile the goods on a ledge in the steep cliffs behind the spring, so that a fortress was soon formed, which, with two such stout and courageous men as Moses and Oostesimow, armed with two guns each, a brace of pistols, two cutlasses, and an ample supply of ammunition, could have stood a prolonged siege from much more practised enemies than Indians or Esquimaux. After having completed these defensive arrangements, and provided occupation for those who remained in camp, by laying on them the duty of having the goods examined, in order to see that nothing had been damaged by wet or rough usage, the two canoes pushed from the shore, and bounded lightly away, while the men sang merrily at their easy labour; for now that the canoes were light, they might have been propelled by two men. Frank directed his course obliquely up the river, towards the island already alluded to, and Stanley proceeded with the current towards the narrows beyond which he expected to catch sight of the sea.

After passing above the island, which was found to be low and thinly covered with vegetation and a few scrubby bushes, Frank and his men pushed over to the other side and proceeded carefully to examine the coast. It was found to be much the same as that which they had just left. A narrow belt of sandy and shingly beach extended along the margin of the river, or, as it might be more appropriately termed, the lake, at least in as far as appearance went. This strip or belt was indented here and there with numerous bays and inlets, and in many places was intersected by rocky capes which jutted out from the mountains. These mountains were bare and precipitous, rising abruptly, like those on the other side, from the edge of the sand, and ascending in a succession of terraces, whose faces were so steep that it was almost impossible to scale them. They could be ascended in succession, however, by means of the ravines and numerous gullies which rose in rugged and zigzag lines from the beach to the mountain tops. In the very first of these gullies in which the exploring party landed, they found the remains of an Esquimau summer encampment. These consisted of a few stunted trees, which appeared to have been built in the form of rude huts; but they were thrown about in some confusion, and altogether bore evidence of having remained in a state of ruin for many years. Another discovery of a more satisfactory kind was made—namely, the tracks of deer, which were so fresh as to induce Frank to take his rifle and mount the ravine in search of the animals, accompanied by Massan, whose natural temperament was exceedingly prone to enjoy the excitement of the chase. So much, indeed, was this the case, that the worthy guide had more than once been on the point of making up his mind to elope to the backwood settlements of the States, purchase a rifle and ammunition there, don a deerskin hunting-shirt, and “make tracks,” as he styled it, for the prairies, there to dwell and hunt until his eye refused to draw the sight and his finger to pull the trigger of a Kentucky rifle. But Massan’s sociable disposition came in the way of this plan, and the thought of leading a solitary life always induced him to forego it.

“It’s my ’pinion, sir,” remarked the guide, as he followed Frank up the ravine, the sheltered parts of which were covered with a few clumps of stunted pines—“it’s my ’pinion that we’ll have to cut our logs a long bit up the river, for there’s nothin’ fit to raise a fort with hereabouts.”

“True, Massan,” replied Frank, glancing from side to side, hunter fashion, as he walked swiftly over the broken ground; “there’s not a tree that I can see big enough to build a backwoods shanty with.”

“Well, master, ’twill do for firewood, if it’s fit for nothin’ else, and that’s a blessin’ that’s not always to be comed by everywhere. Let’s be thankful for small matters. I see sticks growin’ up them gullies that’ll do for stakes for the nets, an’ axe handles, an’ paddles, an’ spear shafts, an’—”

The honest guide’s enumeration of the various articles into which the small timber of the place might be converted was brought to a sudden pause by Frank, who laid his hand on his shoulder, and while he pointed with the butt of his rifle up the ravine, whispered, “Don’t you see anything else up yonder besides trees, Massan?”

The guide looked in the direction indicated, and by an expressive grunt showed that his eye had fallen on the object referred to by his companion. It was a deer which stood on an overhanging ledge of rock, high up the cliffs—so high that it might easily have been mistaken for a much smaller animal by less practised sportsmen. Below the shelf on which it stood was a yawning abyss, which rendered any attempt to get near the animal utterly hopeless.

“What a pity,” said Frank, as he crouched behind a projecting rock, “that it’s out of shot! It would take us an hour at least to get behind it, and there’s little chance, I fear, of its waiting for us.”

“No chance whatever,” replied Massan decidedly. “But he’s big enough to cover from where we stand.”

“To cover! Ay, truly, I could point straight at his heart easy enough—indeed I would think it but slight boasting to say I could cover his eye from this spot—but the bullet would refuse to go, Massan; it’s far beyond shot.”

“Try, sir, try,” exclaimed the guide quickly, for as they spoke the deer moved. “I’ve been huntin’ on the Rocky Mountains afore now, an’ I know that distance cheats you in sich places. It’s not so far as you think—”

He had scarcely finished speaking when Frank’s rifle poured forth its contents. The loud echoes of the crags reverberated as the smoke floated away to leeward. The next instant the deer sprang with one wild bound high into the air—over the cliff—and descending with lightning speed through the dark space, was dashed almost in pieces on the rocks below.

Massan gave a low chuckle of satisfaction as he walked up to the mangled animal, and pointing to a small round hole just over its heart, he said, “The old spot, Mr Frank; ye always hit them there.”

Having paid Frank this compliment, Massan bled the animal, which was in prime condition, with at least two inches of fat on its flanks, and having placed it on his shoulders, returned with his companion to the canoe.

While Frank was thus engaged, Stanley had descended towards the shores of Ungava Bay, which he found to be about twenty-five miles distant from the encampment beside the spring. He made a rapid survey of the coast as they descended, and sounded the river at intervals. When he reached its mouth he had made two important discoveries. The one was, that there did not seem to be a spot along the whole line of coast so well fitted in all respects for an establishment as the place whereon their tents were already pitched. The other was, that the river, from its mouth up to that point, was deep enough to float a vessel of at least three or four hundred tons burden. This was very satisfactory, and he was about to return to the camp when he came upon the deserted Esquimau village which, a few weeks before, had been the scene of a murderous attack and a hasty flight. On a careful examination of the place, the marks of a hasty departure were so apparent that Stanley and his men made a pretty near guess at the true state of affairs; and the former rightly conjectured that, having made a precipitate flight in consequence of some unexpected attack, there was little probability of their returning soon to the same locality. This was unfortunate, but in the hope that he might be mistaken in these conjectures, and that the natives might yet return before winter, he set up a pole on a conspicuous place, and tied to the top of it a bag containing two dozen knives, one dozen fire-steels, some awls and needles, several pounds of beads, and a variety of such trinkets as were most likely to prove acceptable to a savage people.

While Bryan was engaged in piling a heap of stones at the foot of this pole to prevent its being blown down by the wind, the rest of the party re-embarked, and prepared to return home; for although the camp beside the spring was scarcely one day old, the fact that it was likely to become the future residence of the little party had already invested it with a species of homelike attraction. Man is a strange animal, and whatever untravelled philosophers may say to the contrary, he speedily makes himself “at home” anywhere!

“Hallo, Bryan!” shouted Stanley from the canoe, “look sharp; we’re waiting for you!”

“Ay, ay, yer honour,” replied the Irishman, lifting a huge mass of rock; “jist wan more, an’ it’ll be stiff an’ stidy as the north pole himself.” Then in an undertone he added, “‘Look sharp,’ is it ye say? It’s blunt ye are to spake that way to yer betters. Musha! but it’s mysilf wouldn’t give a tinpinny for all that bag houlds, twinty times doubled; an’ yit thim haythens, thim pork-faced Huskimos, ’ll dance round this here pole wi’ delight till they’re fit to dhrop. Och! but salvages is a quare lot; an’, Bryan, yer a cliver boy to come this far all the way to see thim.”

With this self-complimentary conclusion, Bryan resumed his place at the paddle, and the party returned to the camp.

Here they found things in a most satisfactory state. Frank and his party had returned, and the deer, now cut up into joints and steaks, was impaled on a number of stakes of wood, and stuck up to roast round a large and cheering fire. The savoury steam from these, with the refreshing odour of the tea-kettle, produced a delectable sensation in the nostrils of the hungry explorers. Stanley’s tent was erected with its back towards the mountains and its open door towards the fire, which lighted up its snug interior, and revealed Mrs Stanley and Edith immersed in culinary operations, and Chimo watching them with a look of deep, grave sagacity—his ears very erect, and his head a good deal inclined to one side, as if that position favoured the peculiar train of his cogitations. La Roche was performing feats of agility round the fire, that led one to believe he must be at least half a salamander. At a respectful distance from Stanley’s tent, but within the influence of the fire, the men were employed in pitching, for the first time, the large skin tent which was to be their residence until they should build a house for themselves; and on a log, within dangerous proximity to the mercurial La Roche, sat Frank Morton, busily employed in entering in his journal the various events of the day.

There was much talk and loud laughter round the fire that night, for the different parties had much to tell and much to hear regarding the discoveries that had been made, and discussions as to the prospects of the expedition were earnest and long. It was generally admitted that first appearances were, upon the whole, favourable, although it could not be denied that the place looked dreadfully barren and rugged. Under the happy influence of this impression, and the happier influence of the savoury steaks on which they had supped, the entire party lay down to rest, and slept so profoundly that there was neither sound nor motion to indicate the presence of human beings in the vast solitudes of Ungava, save the fitful flame of the fire as it rose and fell, casting a lurid light on the base of the rugged mountains, and a sharp reflection on the dark waters.

Chapter Sixteen.

Resources of the country begin to develop—Bryan distinguishes himself—Fishing extraordinary.

There is a calm but deep-seated and powerful pleasure which fills the heart, and seems to permeate the entire being, when one awakens to the conviction that a day of arduous toil is about to begin—toil of an uncertain kind, perhaps connected with danger and adventure, in an unexplored region of the earth. Ignorance always paints coming events in glowing colours; and the mere fact that our adventurers knew not the nature of the country in which their tent was pitched—knew not whether the natives would receive them as friends or repel them as foes—knew not whether the nature and capabilities of the country were such as would be likely to convert the spot on which they lay into a comfortable home or a premature grave;—the mere fact of being utterly ignorant on these points was, in itself, sufficient to fill the poorest spirit of the band (had there been a poor spirit among them) with a glow of pleasurable excitement, and a firm resolve to tax their powers of doing and suffering to the uttermost.

When the sun rose on the following morning the whole party was astir, the fire lighted, and an early breakfast in course of preparation. Much had to be done, and it behoved them to set about it with energy and at once, for the short autumn of these arctic regions was drawing on apace, and a winter of great length and of the utmost severity lay before them.

There was also one consideration which caused some anxiety to Stanley and Frank, although it weighed little on the reckless spirits of the men, and this was the possibility of the non-arrival of the ship with their winter supply of provisions and goods for trade. Without such a supply a winter on the shores of Ungava Bay would involve all the hardships and extreme perils that too often fall to the lot of arctic discoverers; and he who has perused the fascinating journals of those gallant men, knows that these hardships and perils are neither few nor light. The leaders of the expedition were not, indeed, men to anticipate evils, or to feel unduly anxious about possible dangers; but they would have been more or less than human had they been able to look at Mrs Stanley and little Edith without a feeling of anxiety on their account. This thought, however, did not influence them in their actions; or, if it did, it only spurred them on to more prompt and vigorous exertions in the carrying out of their undertaking.

After breakfast Stanley assembled his men, and gave each special directions what to do. One of the most important points to ascertain was whether there were many fish in the river. On this hung much of the future comfort and well-being, perhaps even the existence, of the party. Gaspard was, therefore, ordered to get out his nets and set them opposite the encampment. Oolibuck, being officially an interpreter of the Esquimau language, and, when not employed in his calling, regarded as a sort of male maid-of-all-work, was ordered to assist Gaspard. The next matter of primary importance was to ascertain what animals inhabited the region, and whether they were numerous. Dick Prince, being the recognised hunter of the party, was directed to take his gun and a large supply of ammunition, and sally forth over the mountains in search of game; and as Massan was a special friend of his, a good shot, and, moreover, a sagacious fellow, he was ordered to accompany him. They were also directed to observe particularly the state of the woods and the quality of the timber growing therein; but as this last required special attention, the style and size of the future fort being dependent on it, François, the carpenter, was appointed to make a journey of observation up the Caniapuscaw River, in company with Augustus the Esquimau and Ma-istequan the Indian—it being thought probable that if natives were to be met with at all, they would be on the banks of the river rather than in the mountains. It was further arranged that Frank Morton should ascend the mountains in company with Bryan, and ascertain if there were any lakes, and whether or not they contained fish. As for Mr Stanley, he resolved to remain by the camp. On entering his tent after dispatching the several parties, he said to his wife—

“I’m going to stay by you to-day, Jessie. All the men, except Moses, Oostesimow, Gaspard, and La Roche, are sent off to hunt and fish in the mountains, and I have kept these four to paddle about this neighbourhood, in order to take soundings and examine the coast more carefully; because, you see, it would be an unfortunate thing if we began our establishment in a place not well suited for it.”

Mrs Stanley and Edith were, of course, quite pleased with this arrangement, and while the males of the party were absent, the former employed herself in dressing the skin of the deer that had been shot the day before. She accomplished this after the Indian fashion, by scraping and rubbing it with the animal’s brains. Afterwards she smoked it over a fire of green wood, and in this way produced a soft, pliant substance similar to chamois leather, but coarser and stouter. As for Edith, she rambled at will among the bushes of the nearest ravine, under the faithful guardianship of Chimo, and hurried back to the camp almost every hour, laden with cloudberries, cranberries, blaeberries, and crowberries, which grew in profusion everywhere.

Opposite to the camp the water was found to be eight fathoms deep. This was of great importance, as affording facility for unloading the ship abreast of the establishment. Higher up the river the ground was more favourable for building, both on account of its being more sheltered and better wooded with timber fit for the construction of houses; but the water was too shallow to float the ship, and the island before mentioned, which was named Cross Island, proved an effectual barrier to the upward progress of any craft larger than a boat. But as Stanley surveyed the spot on which the tent was pitched, and observed the sheltering background of mountains, with their succession of terraces; the creek or ravine to the right, with its growth of willows and stunted pines; the level parcel of greensward, with the little fountain under the rock; and the fine sandy bay in which Gaspard and Oolibuck were busily engaged in setting a couple of nets,—when he surveyed all this, he felt that, although not the best locality in the neighbourhood, it was, nevertheless, a very good one, and well suited in many respects for the future establishment.

“Please, sir, the net him set,” shouted Oolibuck from the shore to his master, who floated in the bay at the distance of a hundred yards, busily engaged with the sounding-line. On receiving this piece of information, Stanley ran the canoe on the beach, and said to his follower—

“Oolibuck, I have been thinking much about that river which we saw yesterday, off the mouth of this one; and I cannot help fearing that the ship will run into it, instead of into this, for the land is very deceptive.”

“Me t’ink dat is true,” answered the Esquimau, with a look of grave perplexity. “If de ship go into dat riv’r he t’ink we no arrive, and so he go ’way, and we all starve!”

“Nay, Oolibuck, I trust that such would not be the sad result of the ship failing to find us; but in order to prevent this, if possible, I intend to send you down to the coast, with a few days’ provisions, to keep a look-out for the ship, and light a fire if you see her, so that she may be guided to the right place. So get a blanket and your gun as fast as you can, and be off. I can only afford you four days’ provisions, Oolibuck, so you will have to prove yourself a good hunter, else you’ll starve. Will four days’ provisions do?”

Oolibuck’s eyes disappeared. We do not mean to say that they flew away, or were annihilated. But Oolibuck was fat—so fat that, when he laughed, his eyes reduced themselves into two little lines surrounded by wrinkles; a result which was caused by a physical incapacity to open the mouth and eyes at the same time. As a general rule, when Oolibuck’s mouth was open his eyes were shut, and when his eyes were open his mouth was shut. Being a good-humoured fellow, and of a risible nature, the alternations were frequent. It was the idea of Stanley doubting the sufficiency of four days’ provisions that closed the eyes of the Esquimau on the present occasion.

“Two days’ grub more dan ’nuff,” said Oolibuck. “Give me plenty powder and shot, and me no starve—no fear.”

“Very well,” rejoined Stanley, laughing, “take as much ammunition as you require, but be careful of it; if the ship fails us we shall need it all. And don’t be too eager after the deer, Oolibuck; keep a sharp look-out seaward, be on the hill-tops as much as you can, and keep your eyes open.”

Oolibuck replied by closing the said eyes with a smile, as he hurried towards the tent to prepare for his expedition. In the meantime Stanley directed Oostesimow and La Roche to set about building a small canoe out of the birch bark which they had carried with them for the purpose, the large canoes being too cumbrous for the purpose of overhauling the nets.

The nets had been set by Gaspard in the usual way—that is, with stones attached to the lower lines to act as sinkers, and floats attached to the upper lines to keep them spread; and it was with no little impatience that the party in the camp awaited the issue. Indeed they scarcely permitted an hour to pass without an inspection being ordered; but to their chagrin, instead of finding fish, they found the nets rolled up by the conflicting currents of the river and the tide into the form of two ropes.

“This will never do,” cried Stanley, as they brought the nets ashore. “We must set stake-nets immediately. It is nearly low tide now, so if we work hard they may be ready to set up before the tide has risen much.”

In pursuance of this plan, Stanley and his men went to the ravine, of which mention has been already made, and proceeded to cut stakes for the nets; while Oolibuck, having explained to Mrs Stanley and Edith that he was “going to look hout for de ship,” shouldered his wallet and gun, and ascending the ravine, speedily gained the first terrace of the mountains, along which he hastened in the direction of the sea-coast.

While the party in the camp were thus engaged, Frank Morton and Bryan instituted a thorough investigation of the country that lay directly in the rear of the camp, in the course of which investigation they made sundry interesting discoveries.

After ascending the ravine in which we left Stanley and his men cutting stakes for the nets, Frank and Bryan reached the first terrace, and proceeded along it in the opposite direction from that pursued by Oolibuck. A walk of a quarter of a mile, or less, brought them to another ravine, into which they turned, and the first thing that greeted them as they pushed their way through the stunted willows that thickly covered this gorge in the mountains was a covey of ptarmigan. These birds are similar in form and size to ordinary grouse, perhaps a little smaller. In winter they are pure white—so white that it is difficult to detect them amid the snow; but in summer their coats become brown, though there are a few of the pure white feathers left which never change their colour. Being unaccustomed to the sight of man, they stood gazing at Frank and Bryan in mute surprise, until the latter hastily threw forward his gun, when they wisely took to flight. But Frank arrested his follower’s arm.

“Don’t waste your powder and shot, Bryan, on such small game. There may be something more worthy of a shot among the mountains; and if you once raise the echoes among these wild cliffs, I fear the game will not wait to inquire the cause thereof.”

“Maybe not, sir,” replied Bryan, as he fell back a pace, and permitted Frank to lead the way; “but there’s an ould proverb that says, ‘A bird in the hand’s worth two in the buss,’ an’ I’ve great belaif in that same.”

“Very true, Bryan, there is much wisdom in old proverbs; but there are exceptions to every rule, and this is a case in point, as you will admit if you cast your eyes over yonder valley, and observe the edge of the mountain-top that cuts so clear a line against the sky.”

Frank pointed, as he spoke, to the shoulder or spur of one of the mountains which rose at a considerable distance in the interior, and from which they were separated by a dark glen or gorge; for none of the ravines in this part of the country merited the name of valley, save that through which flowed the Caniapuscaw River. The ravine up which they had been toiling for some time led into this darksome glen, and it was on rounding a bold precipice, which had hitherto concealed it from view, that Frank’s quick eye caught sight of the object to which he directed the attention of his companion.

“’Tis a crow,” said Bryan, after a gaze of five minutes, during which he had gone through a variety of strange contortions—screwing up his features, shading his eyes with his hand, standing on tip-toe, although there was nothing to look over, and stooping low, with a hand on each knee, though there was nothing to look under, in the vain hope to increase by these means his power of vision.

Frank regarded him with a quiet smile, as he said, “Look again, Bryan. Saw you ever a crow with antlers?”

“Anthlers!” exclaimed the Irishman, once more wrinkling up his expressive face, and peering under his palm; “anthlers, say you? Sorra a thing duv I see ’xcept a black spot on the sky. If ye see anthlers on it, ye’re nothin’ more nor less than a walkin’ spy-glass.”

“Nevertheless I see them, Bryan; and they grace the head of a noble buck. Now, you see, it is well you did not fire at the ptarmigan. Away with you, lad, down into that ravine, and clamber up the mountain through yonder gap with the fallen rock in the middle of it—d’ye see?—and wait there, lest the deer should turn back. In the meantime I’ll run round by the way we came, and descend to the water’s edge, to receive him when he arrives there. Now don’t lose yourself, and take care not to fire at smaller game.”

As Frank concluded these orders, which he issued in a quick low voice, he threw his gun into the hollow of his left arm and strode rapidly away, leaving his companion gazing after him with an expression of blank stupidity on his face. Gradually his cheeks and brow were overspread with a thousand wrinkles and a smile took possession of his lips.

“‘Don’t lose yersilf!’ Faix, Master Frank, ye’re free an’ aisy. Arrah now, Bryan dear, don’t lose yersilf; you that’s crossed the salt saes, an’ followed the Red Injins to the prairie, and hunted in the Rocky Mountains, and found yer way to Ungava—not to mintion havin’ comed oraginally from ould Ireland—which ov itsilf secures ye agin mistakes of every kind whatsumdiver. Lose yersilf! Musha, but ye had better git some wan to look after ye, Bryan boy. Take care now; go softly and kape yer eyes open, for fear ye lose yersilf!”

As Bryan mumbled forth this bantering soliloquy, he lifted up a large bag which contained a couple of fishing-lines and a few hooks, and throwing it across the stock of his gun, and both across his shoulder, he took his way down the rugged but well-beaten deer-path which led to the ravine or glen. The idea of losing himself seemed to have taken such a hold of Bryan’s mind, and afforded him so much amusement and such scope for the continued flow of bantering soliloquy to which he was in truth much addicted, that he failed to note the fact that he was walking along the edge of a steep declivity, at the foot of which lay a small, dark sheet of water, which was connected by a short river or strait with a larger lake, whose wavelets rippled at the base of the mountain beyond. The scene was magnificently wild and lonely, and would have riveted the attention and excited the admiration of any one less absent than Bryan. High, rugged, and to all appearance inaccessible mountains surrounded the vale on all sides; and although there were several outlets from it, these were so concealed by the peculiar formation of the wild mountains that they could not be seen until they were actually entered.

Had Bryan’s eyes been more active, he would have seen that the fringe of bushes by the side of the deer-track, along which he walked, concealed a declivity so steep that it almost merited the name of a precipice. But Bryan was lost in philosophic contemplation, and the first thing that awakened him to the fact was the slipping of a stone, which caused him to trip and fall headlong over the bank! The Irishman grasped convulsively at the bushes to arrest his fall, but the impetus with which he had commenced the descent tore them from his grasp, and after one or two unpleasant bounds and a good deal of crashing through shrubs that tore his garments sadly, he found himself stretched at full length on the margin of the river that connected the two lakes. So nearly had he been hurled into this strait by the violence of his descent that his head was hanging over the bank ere he stopped! Being partially stunned by the fall, Bryan lay for a few seconds motionless. As his shaken faculties returned, however, he became aware of the fact that a fish of fully two feet long lay at the bottom of the pool over which his head hung. Starting up, and totally forgetting his bruises, he turned to look for the bag containing the fishing-lines, and observing it lying on the ground not far distant, still wrapped round the gun, he ran to pick it up.

“Oh! wow! poor thing!” he exclaimed, on lifting up his gun, which, though fortunately not broken, was sadly bent, “ye’re fit for nothin’ but shootin’ round the corner now! It’s well for you, Bryan, ye spalpeen, that your backbone is not in the same fix.”

While he thus muttered to himself, Bryan drew from the bag a stout cod-line, to which he fastened a hook of deadly dimensions, and dressed it into the form of a fly, much in the same manner as was formerly done by La Roche. This line and fly he fastened to the end of a short stout pole which he cut from a neighbouring tree, and approaching cautiously to the bank of the strait—for there was too little motion in it to entitle it to be called a stream—he cast the fly with a violent splash into the water. The violence was unintentional—at least the exclamations of reproach that followed the cast would lead us to suppose so. The fish here were as tame as those caught in Deer River. In a few seconds the fly was swallowed, and Bryan, applying main force to the pole, tossed a beautiful trout of about two pounds weight over his head.

“Och! ye purty crature,” exclaimed the delighted Irishman, rubbing his hands with glee as he gazed at the fish after having unhooked it. “Shure ye’ll make a beautiful fagure in the kittle this night. An’ musha! there’s wan o’ yer relations to kape ye company,” he added, as, exerting an enormous degree of unnecessary force, he drew another trout violently from the water. The second trout was larger than the first, and Bryan soon became so excited in the sport that he totally forgot Frank’s orders, and the deer, and everything else in the world, for the time being. Having caught six or seven trout, varying from two to four pounds in weight, he changed his position a little, and made a cast over a deep pool nearer to the large lake. As heretofore, the fly was engulfed the instant it fell on the water; but Bryan did not, as heretofore, haul the fish violently out of its native element. It is true he attempted to do so, but the attempt proved utterly futile; moreover, the fish darted with such velocity and strength towards the lake, that the angler, albeit entirely ignorant of his art, experienced an inward conviction that the thick cord would snap altogether if not eased of the enormous strain. He therefore followed the fish at the top of his speed, uttering incomprehensible sounds of mingled rage and amazement as he went, and tripping over rocks and bushes in his headlong career. After a smart run of half a minute the fish stopped, turned, and darted back so rapidly that Bryan tripped in turning and fell into the water! The place was shallow, but having fallen on his back, he was thoroughly drenched from head to foot. He did not lose the grasp of his rod, however. Spluttering, and gasping, and dripping, he followed the fish in its wild career until it turned again at a tangent, and darted towards the bank on which he stood. There was a shelving bed of pebbles, where the water shoaled very gradually. Bryan saw this. Availing himself of the fish’s impetus, and putting all his force to the rod, he dragged it into two inches of water, when the line broke. Instantly the fish struggled towards deep water; but it was so large, and the place to which it had been dragged so shallow, that it afforded the excited angler time to rush forward and throw himself bodily on the top of it!

The battle that now ensued was of an energetic and deadly character on the part of both man and fish. Those who have not grasped a live salmon in their arms have no conception of the strength of a fish; and perhaps it may be said with equal truth that those who have never wielded a forehammer have but a faint conception of the strength of a blacksmith’s knuckles. Bryan had thrown his whole weight on the fish, and grasped it, as with a vice, in both hands; but at every struggle of its powerful frame he felt how uncertain was the hold he had of its slippery body. Once it almost escaped, and dashed the spray over its adversary’s face with its tail, as it wriggled out of his grasp; but with a desperate plunge Bryan seized it by the head and succeeded in thrusting his thumb under its gill and choking it, while himself was well-nigh choked at the same moment by unintentionally swallowing a gulp of the muddy compound which they had stirred up in their struggles. Slowly and with caution Bryan rose on one knee, while he crushed the fish against the bottom with both hands; then making a last exertion, he hurled it up the bank, where it fell beyond all hope of return to its native element.

The fish thus captured was a beautiful trout of about twenty pounds weight. The lake trout of North America are, some of them, of enormous size, being not unfrequently taken of sixty pounds weight, so that as a specimen of those inhabiting these lakes this was by no means a large one. Nevertheless it was a splendid fish, and certainly the largest that had ever been captured by the worthy son of Vulcan.

The thick coat of liquid mud with which his face was covered could not entirely conceal the smile of intense satisfaction with which he regarded his prize, as he sat down on the bank before it.

“Kape quiet now, honey!” he exclaimed, as the trout made a last fluttering attempt to escape; “kape quiet. Have patience, darlint. It’s o’ no manner o’ use to hurry natur’. Just lie still, an’ it’ll be soon over.”

With this consolatory remark, Bryan patted the fish on the head, and proceeded to wring the water from his upper garments, after which he repaired his broken tackle, and resumed his sport with an eagerness and zest that cold and water and mud could not diminish in the smallest degree.

Chapter Seventeen.

Successes and encouragement—Bryan lost and found.

It was evening before the tide began to fall and uncover the stake-nets, which were eagerly and earnestly watched by those who had remained in the camp. Mrs Stanley and Edith were seated on an empty box by the margin of the sandy bay; Mr Stanley sat on a nail-keg beside them; La Roche and the Indian were still working at the small canoe a few yards from the tent; and Gaspard, with folded arms, and an unusual smile of good humour playing on his countenance, stood close behind Stanley.

None of the hunting and exploring parties had returned, although the sun had long since disappeared behind the mountains, and the mellow light of evening was deepening over the bay.

“There’s a tail, sir,” said Gaspard, as he hurried towards the net.

“So it is!” cried Stanley, leaping up. “Come along, Eda, and take the first fish.”

Edith needed no second invitation, but bounded towards the edge of the water, which was now gradually leaving the nets. Gaspard had already disengaged a white fish from the mesh, and wading to the beach, gave it to the little girl, who ran with it joyously to her mother. Meanwhile, another and another fish was left by the tide, and Stanley soon after brought up a splendid salmon of about twenty-five pounds weight, and laid it at Edith’s feet.

“Oh, how very beautiful!” cried the child, as she gazed in delight at the silvery scales of the fish.

“My mind is much relieved by this, Jessie,” said Stanley, reseating himself on the keg, while Oostesimow and La Roche carried the fish ashore as Gaspard freed them from the nets. “I now see that there are plenty of fish in the river, and if the hunters bring in a good report to-night, our anxiety on the score of food will be quite removed.”

Although none of the party had ever set a net on stakes before, they had frequently heard of this manner of fishing, and their first attempt proved eminently successful. At low tide stakes had been driven into the sand, extending from the edge of the water towards high-water mark. On these the nets had been spread, and thus the misfortune which had attended the setting of the nets with floats and sinkers was avoided. The quantity of fish taken gave promise of an ample supply for the future. There were two Hearne-salmon (that is, spotted like trout), and one large common salmon, besides thirty white-fish, averaging between two to six pounds weight each, all of which were in excellent condition. The white-fish is of the salmon species, but white in the flesh, and being less rich than the salmon, is much preferred by those who have to use it constantly as an article of food.

“This is a most fortunate supply,” remarked Stanley, “and will prevent the necessity of putting the men on short allowance.”

“Short allowance!” exclaimed his wife; “I thought we had more than enough of food to last us till the arrival of the ship.”

“Ay, so we have. But until now I did not feel at liberty to use it; for if through any accident the ship does not come, and if there had chanced to be no fish in the river, the only course open to us would be to retrace our steps, and as that would be a long and slow process, we would require to economise our food. In fact, I had resolved to begin operations by putting the men on short allowance; but this haul of fish shows me that we shall have more than enough.

“But who comes here?” he added, on observing the figure of a man approaching the camp. “He seems to carry a burden on his back, as far as I can make out in the uncertain light.”

“Did any of the men go out alone?” inquired Mrs Stanley.

“No; but I suppose that this one must have separated from his comrade.—Hallo! who goes there?”

The man tossed the bundle from his shoulders, and hastening forward revealed the flushed countenance of Frank Morton.

“What! Frank! why, man, you seem to have had a hard day of it, if I may judge by your looks.”

“Not so hard but that a good supper will put its effects to flight,” replied Frank, as he rested his gun against a rock and seated himself on the keg from which Stanley had risen. “The fact is, I have slain a noble buck, and being desirous that the men should have as much of it as possible, I loaded myself rather heavily. The ground, too, is horribly bad; but pray send Gaspard for the bundle. I should have been here sooner but for the time required to dissect the animal.”

“Where is Bryan, Frank?” inquired Mrs Stanley. “You went away together.”

“Bryan! I know not. He and I parted in the mountains some hours ago; and as he failed to keep his appointment with me, I concluded that he must have become foot-sore and returned to camp.”

“He has not returned,” said Stanley; “but I have no fear for the honest blacksmith. He’s too old a nor’wester to lose himself, and he’s too tough to kill. But come, Frank, let us to our tent. I see that La Roche has already prepared our salmon for the kettle, and so—”

“Salmon!” interrupted Frank.

“Ay, lad, salmon! a twenty-five pounder too! But come, change your foot-gear, and then we shall have our supper, in the course of which we shall exchange news.”

As they proceeded towards the camp the voices of some of the men were heard in the distance; it was now too dark to see them. In a few minutes François, followed by Augustus and Ma-istequan, strode into the circle of light around the fire, and laying aside their guns proceeded to light their pipes, while they replied to the questions of Frank and Stanley.

“You do not come empty-handed,” remarked the latter, as François and his comrades threw down several fat ducks and a few grouse, which, after the fashion of hunters, they had carried pendent by the necks from their belts.

“We only shot a few, monsieur,” replied François, “to put in the kettle for supper. We might have loaded a canoe had we chosen.”

“That is well,” said Stanley; “but the kettle is full already, and supper prepared. See, Frank has shot a deer, so that we shall fare well to-night.—Ah, Prince! come along. What! more game?” he added, as Dick and Massan entered the halo of light, and threw down the choice morsels of a fat deer which they had killed among the mountains.

“Ah! oui, monsieur,” said Massan, chuckling as he laid aside his axe and gun; “we might ha’ killed three o’ them if we had been so minded; but we couldn’t ha’ brought them into camp, an’, as Dick said, ’tis a pity to kill deer to feed the wolves with.”

“Right!” exclaimed Frank; “but did any of you see Bryan? He gave me the slip in the mountains, and, I fear, has lost himself.”

To this the men replied in the negative, and some of them smiled at the idea of the blacksmith being lost.

“No fear, vraiment! He no lost,” cried La Roche with a laugh, as he lifted the huge kettle from the fire and placed it in the midst of the men, having previously abstracted the best portions for the special benefit of his master. “No fear of Bryan, certainment; he like one bad shilling—he come up toujours. Ah! mauvais chien, him give me all de trouble ov get supper ready mylone.”

“I trust it may be so,” said Stanley. “We are all here except him and Oolibuck, whom I have sent to the coast for a few days to watch for the ship. But let us have supper, La Roche, and spread ours nearer the fire to-night—it is rather cold; besides, I want to hear the reports of the men.”

In compliance with this order, the lively Frenchman spread the supper for his master’s family close beside that of the men, and in a few minutes more a most vigorous attack was made on the viands, during the first part of which the hungry travellers maintained unbroken silence. But as the cravings of nature began to be satisfied, their tongues found time to remark on the excellence of the fare. The salmon was superb. Even Edith, who seldom talked about what she ate, pronounced it very good. The white-fish were better than any of the party had ever eaten in their lives, although most of them had travelled over the length and breadth of the North American wilderness. The ducks were perfect. Even the ptarmigan were declared passable; and the venison, with an inch of fat on the haunches—words were not found sufficiently expressive to describe it. Those who are philosophically inclined may suspect that some of this super-excellence lay in the keen appetites of the men. Well, perhaps it did.

While the travellers were in the midst of this, and ere yet their tongues were fairly loosened, a loud unearthly shout rang with appalling reverberations among the surrounding cliffs, causing the entire party to start up and rush for their arms. Again the cry was heard.

“Ah! bad skran to ye, Losh!—Hould on, Moses, ye fat villain. Lave me wan mouthful, jist wan, to kape me from givin’ up the ghost intirely.”

A shout of laughter greeted the advent of Bryan’s voice, but it was nothing to the peals that burst forth on the appearance of that individual in propria persona. To say that he was totally dishevelled would convey but half the truth. Besides being covered and clotted with mud, he was saturated with water from head to foot, his clothes rent in a most distressing manner, and his features quite undistinguishable.

“Why, Bryan, what ails you? Where have you been?” inquired Stanley, in a tone of sympathy.

“Bin, is it? Sorra wan o’ me knows where I’ve bin. It’s mysilf is glad to be sartin I’m here, anyhow.”

“I’m glad you’re certain of it,” said Frank, “for if it were not for the sound of your voice, I should doubt it.”

“Ah monsieur,” said La Roche, “make your mind easy on dat. No von but Bryan ever regard de kettle dat way.”

“Taizy voo, ye petit varmint,” said Bryan, approaching the said kettle, and smiling rapturously through the mud that encrusted his face on beholding its contents. Without waiting to change his garments the hungry blacksmith began supper, having first, however, directed attention to the bag which he had brought in. From this bag La Roche now extracted about a dozen trout, some of which were of great size—especially one, whose bulk exceeded that of the large salmon.

“There’s plinty more where thim comed from,” said Bryan, through a mouthful of venison; “but I’ll tell ye ov it afther supper.”

“Ah, true! don’t let us interrupt him just now,” said Stanley. “In the meantime, François, since you seem to be about done, tell us what you have seen, and let us hear what you have to say of the country.”

François having lighted his pipe, cleared his throat and began:—

“Well, monsieur, after we had paddled a short bit beyond the point below the last rapid in Caniapuscaw River, we shoved the canoe ashore, and landed Prince and Massan, who set off to look for game, leavin’ Augustus, Ma-istequan, and me to paddle up the river as well as we could. But we soon found that three men in a big canoe could not make much way agin the strong current of the river, so we put ashore again and took to our legs.

“After making a long tramp up the banks o’ the river, we fell in with some good-sized pines; but although they are big for this part of the country, they are not big enough for building. Then we pushed into the gullies, which are sheltered from the cold winds off the bay, and here we found the trees a good deal bigger. There are pines and larch in abundance, and some of the larch are even bigger than we require.”

“Are they far inland?” inquired Stanley.

“No, monsieur, they are only a few hundred yards from the banks of the river, and growin’ on the edge of a small creek, which I noticed is deep enough to float them down.”

“Good, very good,” said Stanley, filling his pipe with a fresh charge of tobacco; “that is most fortunate, for it will save time, and take fewer men to bring them here. Go on, François.”

“Bien, monsieur. Then I felled one or two o’ the trees, to see what like they are; and I found that they are very tough and good. The pines are firmer and tougher than any I ever saw in the Indian country, owing, I suppose, to their stunted growth. While I was thus employed, Augustus shot the grouse we brought home, and we saw a great many coveys of them. In fact, we might have shot many more; but as we did not know how far we should have to walk, we thought it best not to burden ourselves too much. We also saw a great many ducks, and shot a few, as you see.”

“Did you see goose?” inquired La Roche, whose mind had a natural tendency to culinary matters.

“No,” replied François, “I saw no geese; but I did not go out of my way to look for them. I was more taken up with the timber than replenishing the kettle.”

“Ah! that ver’ great pity. Oui, grand dommage. De kittle toujours de most importance t’ing on de voyage. If you forget him, you goot for not’ing. Mais, François, did you look into the deep clear pool at de foot of de rapid?”

François emitted a cloud of smoke with a negative in the middle of it.

“An!” said La Roche with a sigh, “I thought not; mais it was pity. You see one goose for certain, if you have look straight down into dat pool.”

“Bien,” continued François, turning to Stanley. “I then went into one or two more gullies, and saw some more sticks fit for building; but after all it is only in the gullies they grow, and there are not very many. The trees on the banks of the river are chiefly pines, and only fit for firewood.”

“And an important item is firewood, as we shall find ere long,” remarked Stanley. “Your account of the timber is very satisfactory, François. Did you see traces of Indians or Esquimaux?”

“No; I saw none.”

“Perhaps you did, Prince,” continued Stanley, turning to that worthy, who was stretched, along with Massan, at full length before the blaze, and had been listening attentively to the conversation while he solaced himself with his pipe.

“Yes, sir, we seed the marks they left behind them,” answered Prince, while he glanced towards Massan, as if to invite him to give the desired information.

“Ay, we saw their marks, no doubt,” said the guide, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and raising himself from his reclining posture to that of a tailor, the more conveniently to recharge that beloved implement. “Ay, we saw their marks, and they was by no means pleasant to look on. After we had landed above the p’int, as François told ye, Dick Prince and me went up one o’ the gullies, an’ then gettin’ on one o’ them flat places that run along the face of all the mountains hereabouts, we pushed straight up the river. We had not gone far when, on turnin’ a p’int, we both clapped eyes at the same moment on the most ill-lookin’ blackguard of a wolf I ever saw. Up went both our guns at once, and I believe we were very near puttin’ a bullet in each of his eyes, when we noticed that these same eyes were not bookin’ at us, but starin’, most awful earnest like, up a gully in the mountains; so we looked up, an’, sure enough, there we saw a deer on the mountain-top, tossin’ its head and snuffin’ round to see that the coast was clear before it came down to the water. We noticed that a regular beaten deer-track passed down this gully, and master wolf, who knowed the walk very well, was on the lookout for his dinner; so we waited quiet till the deer came down, an’ Dick put a bullet in its heart, an’ I put one into the wolf’s head, so they both tumbled down the cliffs together. The shot made another deer, that we had not seen, start off into the river; but before it got a few yards from the shore, Dick loaded again and put a bullet into its head too, an’ it was washed ashore at the p’int below us.

“Havin’ fixed them off comfortably, we cut up the deer, and put all we could carry on our shoulders, for we knowed that if we left them we’d find nothin’ but the bones when we came back. About an hour after this we came upon a deserted camp of Indians. It was so fresh that we think they must have passed but a few weeks ago. The whole camp was strewed with bones of deer, as if the red varmints had been havin’ a feast. An’ sure enough, a little farther on we came upon the dead carcasses of ninety-three deer! The rascals had taken nothin’ but the tongues an’ tit-bits, leavin’ the rest for the wolves.”

“Ay, they’re a reckless, improvident set,” remarked Stanley. “I’ve been told that the Esquimaux are quite different in this respect. They never kill what they don’t require; but the redskins slaughter the deer by dozens for the sake of their tongues.”

“We also found the broken head of an Esquimau seal-spear, and this little bit of sealskin.” Massan handed these as he spoke to Stanley.

“I fear,” said Frank, “this looks as if they had made an attack on the Esquimaux very recently.”

“I fear it much,” said Stanley, examining the little shred of sealskin, which had beautifully glossy hair on one side, and on the other, which was dressed, there were sundry curious marks, one of which bore a rude resemblance to an Indian wigwam, with an arrow pointing towards it.

“I found the bit o’ sealskin hanging on a bush a little apart from the place where they camped, an’ from what I’ve seen o’ the ways o’ redskins, it’s my ’pinion that it was put there for some purpose or other.”

“Very likely.—Take care of it, Jessie,” said Stanley, throwing it to his wife; “it may be explained some day.—Well, Massan, did you see any other animals?”

“Yes, sir, lots o’ them. We saw deer on the hill-tops, and might ha’ shot more o’ them if we could have brought them into camp. An’ we saw porcupines in all the pine bluffs. An’ we saw fish in the lakes among the mountains. There are lots o’ them lakes—small things some o’ them—in all the gullies, and fish in most o’ them; but we had neither lines nor hooks, so we catched none.”

“Faix, if ye catched none, yer betters catched plinty,” said Bryan, who, having concluded supper and changed his garments, was now luxuriating in a smoke. The blacksmith pointed as he spoke to the bag of splendid trout which lay at a short distance from the fire. “’Tis mysilf’s the boy to catch them. I would have brought ye two times as much, if it wasn’t that I lost my hook and line. I think it must have bin a fresh-water whale, the last wan, bad luck to it! for it pulled me into the wather three times, an’ wint off at last with two fathom o’ cod-line trailin’ behind it.”

“So then, Bryan,” said Frank, “it must have been the yells with which you accompanied your fishing that frightened the deer I was after and caused me to lose him. However, as I got another soon afterwards which must have been frightened towards me by the same halloos, I forgive you.”

Frank now gave the party an account of what he had seen, but as his experience merely corroborated that of Dick Prince and Massan, we will not trouble the reader with the details. The evidence of the various exploring parties, when summed up, was undoubtedly most satisfactory, and while it relieved the mind of the leaders of the band, it raised and cheered the spirits of the men. Timber, although not plentiful or very large, was to be had close to the spot where they proposed to erect their fort; game of all kinds swarmed in the mountains in abundance; and the lakes and rivers were well stocked with excellent fish: so that, upon the whole, they considered that they had made an auspicious commencement to their sojourn in the land of the Esquimaux.

Chapter Eighteen.

Outpost-building—Fort Chimo—An unexpected arrival, which causes much joy.

The band of fur-traders now set earnestly about the erection of their winter dwelling. The season was so far advanced that the men could no longer be spared from the work to hunt or fish in the mountains, so that they lived chiefly on the produce of the stake-nets in front of the camp, and a small allowance of the provisions with which they had started from Moose Fort. Occasionally Frank sallied forth and returned with the best parts of a deer on his shoulders; but these excursions were rare, as both he and Stanley worked with the men in the erection of the fort. No one was idle for a moment, from the time of rising—shortly after daybreak—to the time of going to rest at night. Even little Edith found full occupation in assisting her mother in the performance of a host of little household duties, too numerous to recapitulate. The dog Chimo was the only exception to the general rule. He hunted the greater part of the forenoon, for his own special benefit, and slept when not thus occupied, or received with philosophical satisfaction the caresses of his young mistress.

The future fort was begun on the centre of the level patch of green-sward at the foot of the flat rock by the spring, where the party had originally encamped. A square was traced on the ground to indicate the stockade; and within this, Stanley marked off an oblong patch, close to the back stockade, for the principal dwelling-house, facing the river. Two other spaces were on either side of this—one for a store, the other for a dwelling for the men. When finished, the fort would thus have the form of three sides of a square surrounded by a stockade. In the centre of this, and the first thing that was erected, was a flag-staff, on which the H.B.C.—Hudson’s Bay Company—flag was hoisted, and saluted with three cheers as its crimson folds fluttered out in the breeze for the first time. The plan on which the houses were constructed was that on which all the dwellings of the fur-traders are built—namely, a framework of timber, the interstices of which are filled up with logs sliding into grooves cut in the main posts and beams. This manner of building is so simple that a house can be erected without any other instruments than an axe, an auger, and a large chisel; and the speed with which it is put up would surprise those whose notions of house-building are limited to stone edifices.

The axes of the wood-cutters resounded among the gullies and ravines of Ungava, and awakened the numerous echoes of the mountains. The encampment no longer presented a green spot, watered by a tiny rill, but was strewn with logs in all stages of formation, and chips innumerable. The frameworks of the dwelling-houses began to rise from the earth, presenting, in their unfinished condition, a bristling, uncomfortable appearance, suggesting thoughts in the beholder’s mind highly disparaging to art, and deeply sympathetic with outraged nature. The tents still stood, and the campfire burned, but the superior proportions of the rising fort threw these entirely into the shade. A rude wharf of unbarked logs ran from the beach into the river. It had been begun and finished in a couple of days, for the convenience of Gaspard while visiting his nets, as he sometimes did before the water left them. Everything, in short, bore evidence of the most bustling activity and persevering energy; and in a few weeks from the time of their first landing, the dwelling-houses were sufficiently weather-tight to be habitable, and the other portions of the establishment in an advanced condition.

The openings between the logs of the houses were caulked with a mixture of mud and moss, and left in that condition in the meantime, until the pit-saw could be set to work to produce boards for the better protection of the walls without and within. The window and door frames were also made, and covered temporarily with parchment, until the arrival of the ship should enable them to fill the former with glass and the latter with broad panels.

The effect of the parchment-covered door, however, was found to be somewhat troublesome. Being large, and tightly covered, it sounded, when shut violently, with a noise so strongly resembling the report of a distant cannon that, during the first day after its erection, the men more than once rushed down to the beach in the expectation of seeing the long and ardently wished-for ship, which was now so much beyond the time appointed for her arrival that Stanley began to entertain serious apprehensions for her safety. This ship was to have sailed from York Fort, the principal depôt of the fur-traders in Hudson’s Bay, with supplies and goods for trade with the Esquimaux during the year. She was expected at Ungava in August, and it was now September. The frost was beginning, even at this early period, to remind the expedition of the long winter that was at hand, and in the course of a very few weeks Hudson’s Straits would be impassable; so that the anxiety of the traders was natural.

Just before the partitions of the chief dwelling-house were completed, Stanley went to the tent in which his wife and child were busily employed in sewing.

“Can you spare Edith for a short time, wife?” said he, as his partner looked up to welcome him.

“Yes, for a short time; but she is becoming so useful to me that I cannot afford to spare her long.”

“I’m afraid,” said Stanley, as he took his child by the hand and led her away, “that I must begin to put in my claim to the services of this little baggage, who seems to be so useful. What say you, Eda; will you allow me to train you to shoot, and fish, and walk on snow-shoes, and so make a trader of you?”

“I would like very much, papa, to learn to walk on snowshoes, but I think the gun would hurt me—it seems to kick so. Don’t you think I am too little to shoot a gun off?”

Stanley laughed at the serious way in which the child received the proposal.

“Well, then, we won’t teach you to shoot yet, Eda; but, as you say, the snow-shoe walking is worth learning, for if you cannot walk on the long shoes when the snow falls, I fear you’ll not be able to leave the fort at all.”

“Yes, and François has promised to make me a pair,” said Edith gaily, “and to teach me how to use them; and mamma says I am old enough to learn now. Is it not kind of François? He is always very good to me.”

“Indeed it is very kind of him, my pet; but all the men seem to be very good to you—are they not?”

“Oh yes!—all of them. Even Gaspard is kind now. He never whips Chimo, and he patted me on the head the other day when I met him alone in the ravine—the berry ravine, you know, where I go to gather berries. I wonder if there are berries in all the other ravines?—but I don’t care much, for there are thousands and thousands of all kinds in my own ravine, and—where are you going, papa?”

This abrupt question was caused by her father turning into the square of the new fort, in which the most of the men were at work.

“I’m going to show you our house, Eda, and to ask you to fix on the corner you like best for your own room. The partitions are going to be put up, so we must fix at once.”

As he spoke they passed through the open doorway of the new dwelling, which was a long, low building; and, placing his little daughter in the centre of the principal hall, Stanley directed her to look round and choose a corner for herself.

For a few minutes Edith stood with an expression of perplexity on her bright face; then she began to examine the views from each of the corner windows. This could only be done by peeping through the bullet-hole in the parchment skins that in the meantime did duty for glass. The two windows at the back corners looked out upon the rocky platform, behind which the mountains rose like a wall, so they were rejected; but Edith lingered at one of them, for from it she saw the spring at the foot of the rock, with its soft bed of green moss and surrounding willow-bushes. From the front corner on the left hand Cross Island and the valley of the river beyond were visible; but from the window on the right the view embraced the whole sweep of the wide river and the narrow outlet to the bay, which, with its frowning precipices on either side, and its bold flanking mountains, seemed a magnificent portal to the Arctic Sea.

“I think this is the nicest corner,” said Edith, turning with a smile to her father.

“Then this shall be yours,” said Stanley.

“But,” exclaimed Edith, as a sudden thought occurred to her, “perhaps Frank would like this corner. I would not like to have it if Frank wants it.”

“Frank doesn’t want it, and Frank shan’t have it. There now, run to your mother, you little baggage; she can’t get on without you. Off you go, quick!”

With a merry laugh Edith bounded through the doorway, and disappeared like a sunbeam from the room.

On the 25th of September, Stanley was standing on the beach, opposite the fort, watching with a smile of satisfaction the fair, happy face of his daughter, as she amused herself and Chimo by throwing a stick into the water, which the latter dutifully brought out and laid at her feet as often as it was thrown in. Frank was also watching them.

“What shall we call the fort, Frank?” said his companion. “We have a Fort Good Hope, and a Fort Resolution, and a Fort Enterprise already. It seems as if all the vigorous and hearty words in the English language were used up in naming the forts of the Hudson’s Bay Company. What shall we call it?”

“Chimo! Chimo! Chimo!” shouted Edith to the dog, as the animal bounded along the beach.

Both gentlemen seemed to be struck with the same idea simultaneously.

“There’s an answer to your question,” said Frank; “call the fort ‘Chimo.’”

“The very thing!” replied Stanley; “I wonder it did not occur to me before. Nothing could be more appropriate. I salute thee, Fort Chimo,” and Stanley lifted his cap to the establishment.

In order that the peculiar appropriateness of the name may appear to the reader, it may be as well to explain that Chimo (the i and o of which are sounded long) is an Esquimau word of salutation, and is used by the natives when they meet with strangers. It signifies, Are you friendly? by those who speak first, and seems to imply, We are friendly, when returned as an answer. So well known is the word to the fur-traders who traffic with the natives of Hudson’s Straits that they frequently apply it to them as a name, and speak of the Esquimaux as Chimos. It was, therefore, a peculiarly appropriate name for a fort which was established on the confines of these icy regions, for the double purpose of entering into friendly traffic with the Esquimaux, and of bringing about friendly relations between them and their old enemies, the Muskigon Indians of East Main.

After playing for some time beside the low wharf, Edith and her dog left the beach together, and rambled towards a distant eminence, whence could be obtained a commanding bird’s-eye view of the new fort. She had not sat many minutes here when her eye was arrested by the appearance of an unusual object in the distance. Frank, who was yet engaged in conversation with Stanley on the beach, also noticed it. Laying his hand on the arm of his companion, he pointed towards the narrows, where a small, white, triangular object was visible against the dark cliff. As they gazed, a second object of similar form came into view; then a fore and top sail made their appearance; and, in another second, a schooner floated slowly through the opening! Ere the spectators of this silent apparition could give utterance to their joy, a puff of white smoke sprang from the vessel’s bow, and a cannon-shot burst upon the mountains. Leaping on from cliff to crag, it awakened a crash of magnificent echoes, which, after prolonged repetitions, died away in low mutterings like distant thunder. It was followed by a loud cheer from the schooner’s deck, and the H.B.C. flag was run up to the main, while the Union Jack floated at the peak.

“Now, Frank, give the word,” cried Stanley, taking off his cap, while the men ran down to the beach en masse.

“Hip, hip, hurrah!”

“Hurrah!” echoed the men, and a cheer arose among the cliffs that moved to the very centre the hearts of those who heard and gave it.

Again and again the stirring shout arose from the fort, and was replied to from the schooner. It was no matter of form, or cheer of ceremony. There was a deep richness and a prolonged energy in the tone, which proved that the feelings and lungs of the men were roused to the uttermost in its delivery. It told of long gathering anxieties swept entirely away, and of deep joy at seeing friendly faces in a sterile land, where lurking foes might be more likely to appear.

At all times the entrance of a ship into port is a noble sight, and one which touches the heart and evokes the enthusiasm of almost every human being; but when the ship arriving is almost essential to the existence of those who watch her snowy sails swelling out as they urge her to the land—when her keel is the first that has ever ploughed the waters of their distant bay—and when her departure will lock them up in solitude for a long, long year—such feelings are roused to their utmost pitch of intensity.

Cheer upon cheer rose and fell, and rose again, among the mountains of Ungava. Even Edith’s tiny voice helped to swell the enthusiastic shout; and more than one cheer was choked by the rising tide of emotion that forced the tears down more than one bronzed cheek, despite the iron wills that bade them not to flow.

Chapter Nineteen.

Bustle and business—A great feast, in which Bryan and La Roche are prime movers—New ideas in the art of cooking.

The scene at Fort Chimo was more bustling and active than ever during the week that followed the arrival of the schooner. The captain told Stanley, as they sat sipping a glass of Madeira in the hall of the new fort, that he had been delayed by ice in the straits so long, that the men were afraid of being set fast for the winter, and were almost in a state of mutiny, when they fortunately discovered the mouth of the river. As had been anticipated by Stanley, the ship entered False River by mistake, unseen by Oolibuck, notwithstanding the vigilance of his lookout. Fortunately he observed it as it came out of the river, just at the critical period when the seamen began to threaten to take the law into their own hands if the search were continued any longer. Oolibuck no sooner beheld the object of his hopes than he rushed to the top of a hill, where he made a fire and sent up a column of smoke that had the immediate effect of turning the vessel’s head towards him. Soon afterwards a boat was sent ashore, and took the Esquimau on board, who explained, in his broken English, that he had been watching for them for many days, and would be happy to pilot the vessel up to the fort.

“You may be sure,” continued the captain, “that I was too happy to give the ship in charge to the fellow, who seemed to understand thoroughly what he was about. He is already quite a favourite with the men, who call him Oily-buss, much to his own amusement; and he has excited their admiration and respect by his shooting, having twice on the way up shot a goose on the wing.”

“Not an unusual exhibition of skill among fur-traders,” said Stanley; “but I suppose your men are not much used to the gun. And now, captain, when must you start?”

“The moment the cargo is landed, sir,” replied the captain, who was distinguished by that thorough self-sufficiency and prompt energy of character which seem peculiar to sea-captains in general. “We may have trouble in getting out of the straits, and, after getting to Quebec, I am bound to carry a cargo of timber to England.”

“I will do my best to help you, captain. Your coming has relieved my mind from a load of anxiety, and one good turn deserves another, so I’ll make my fellows work night and day till your ship is discharged.”

Stanley was true to his word. Not only did the men work almost without intermission, but he and Frank Morton scarce allowed themselves an hour’s repose during the time that the work was going on. Night and day “yo heave ho” of the Jack Tars rang over the water; and the party on shore ran to and fro, from the beach to the store, with bales, kegs, barrels, and boxes on their shoulders. There were blankets and guns, and axes and knives, powder and shot, and beads and awls, and nets and twine. There were kettles of every sort and size; cloth of every hue; capotes of all dimensions, and minute etceteras without end: so that, had it been possible to prevail on the spirits of the ice to carry to the Esquimaux intelligence of the riches contained in the store at Chimo, an overwhelming flood of visitors would speedily have descended on that establishment. But no such messengers could be found—although Bryan asserted positively that more than “wan o’ them” had been seen by him since his arrival; so the traders had nothing for it but to summon patience to their aid and bide their time.

When the work of discharging was completed, and while Stanley and the captain were standing on the beach watching the removal of the last boat-load to the store, the former said to the latter: “Now, captain, I have a favour to request, which is that you and your two mates will dine with me to-morrow. Your men will be the better of a day’s rest after such a long spell of hard work. You could not well get away till the evening of to-morrow at any rate, on account of the tide, and it will be safer and more pleasant to start early on the day after.”

“I shall be most happy,” replied the captain heartily.

“That’s right,” said Stanley. “Dinner will be ready by four o’clock precisely; and give my compliments to your crew, and say that my men will expect them all to dinner at the same hour.”

Ten minutes after this, Stanley entered his private apartment in the fort, which, under the tasteful management of his wife, was beginning to look elegant and comfortable.

“Wife,” said he, “I will order La Roche to send you a box of raisins and an unlimited supply of flour, butter, etcetera, wherewith you will be so kind as to make, or cause to be made—on pain of my utmost displeasure in the event of failure—a plum-pudding large enough to fill the largest sized washing-tub, and another of about quarter that size; both to be ready boiled by four to-morrow afternoon.”

“Sir, your commands shall be obeyed. I suppose you intend to regale the sailors before they leave. Is it not so?”

“You have guessed rightly for once; and take care that you don’t let Eda drown herself in the compost before it is tied up. I must hasten to prepare the men.”

Two minutes later and Stanley stood in the midst of his men, who, having finished their day’s work, were now busy with supper in their new house, into which they had but recently moved.

“Lads,” said Stanley, “you have stuck to your work so hard of late that I think it a pity to allow you to fall into lazy habits again. I expect you all to be up by break of day to-morrow.”

“Och! musha!” sighed Bryan, as he laid down his knife and fork with a look of consternation.

“I have invited the ship’s crew,” continued Stanley, “to dine with you before they leave us. As the larder is low just now, you’ll all have to take to the hills for a fresh supply. Make your arrangements as you please, but see that there is no lack of venison and fish. I’ll guarantee the pudding and grog.”

So saying, he turned and left the house, followed by a tremendous cheer.

“Oh! parbleu! vat shall I do?” said La Roche, with a look of affected despair. “I am most dead for vant of sleep already. C’est impossible to cook pour everybody demain. I vill be sure to fall ’sleep over de fire, prehaps fall into him.”

“Och, Losh, Losh, when will ye larn to think nothin’ o’ yoursilf? Ye’ll only have to cook for the bourgeois; but think o’ me! All the min, an’ the ship’s crew to boot!”

The blacksmith concluded by knocking La Roche’s pipe out of his mouth, in the excess of his glee at the prospective feast; after which he begged his pardon solemnly in bad French, and ducked his head to avoid the tin can that was hurled at it by the indignant Frenchman.

At the first streak of dawn the following morning, and long before the sun looked down into the ravines of Ungava, Massan and Dick Prince were seen to issue with noiseless steps from the fort, with their guns on their shoulders, and betake themselves to the mountains. Half an hour later Bryan staggered out of the house, with a bag on his shoulder, scarcely half awake, rubbing his eyes and muttering to himself in a low tone, as he plunged rather than walked into the ravine which led to the first terrace on the mountain.

When the sun rose over the mountain-tops and looked down upon the calm surface of the river, there was not a man remaining in the fort, with the exception of Stanley and Frank, and their active servant La Roche.

A deep calm rested on the whole scene. The sailors of the vessel, having risen to dispatch breakfast, retired to their hammocks again and went to sleep; Stanley, Frank, and their household, were busy within doors; Chimo snored in the sunshine at the front of the fort; and the schooner floated on a sheet of water so placid, that every spar and delicate rope was clearly reflected. Nothing was heard save the soft ripple on the shore, the distant murmur of mountain streams, and, once or twice through the day, the faint reverberation of a fowling-piece.

But as the day advanced, evidences of the approaching feast began to be apparent. Early in the forenoon Massan and Prince returned with heavy loads of venison on their shoulders, and an hour later Bryan staggered into the fort bending under the weight of a well-filled bag of fish. He had been at his favourite fishing quarters in the dark valley, and was dripping wet from head to foot, having fallen, as usual, into the water. Bryan had a happy facility in falling into the water that was quite unaccountable—and rather enviable in warm weather. As the cooking operations were conducted on an extensive scale, a fire was kindled in the open air in the rear of the men’s house; round which fire, in the course of the forenoon, Bryan and La Roche performed feats of agility so extravagant, and apparently so superhuman, that they seemed to involve an element of wickedness from their very intensity. Of course no large dinner ever passed through the ordeal of being cooked without some accidents or misfortunes, more or less. Even in civilised life, where the most intricate appliances are brought to bear on the operation by artistes thoroughly acquainted with their profession, infallibility is not found. It would be unjust, therefore, to expect that two backwoodsmen should be perfectly successful, especially when it is remembered that their branch of the noble science was what might be technically termed plain cookery, the present being their first attempt in the higher branches.

Their first difficulty arose from the larger of the two plum-puddings, which La Roche had compounded under the directions of Mrs Stanley and the superintendence of Edith.

“I say, Losh,” cried Bryan to his companion, whose head was at the moment hid from view in a cloud of steam that ascended from a large pot over which he bent, apparently muttering incantations.

“Vell, fat you want?”

“Faix, and it’s just fat that I don’t want,” said Bryan, pointing, as he spoke, to the large pudding, which, being much too large for the kettle, was standing on the rim thereof like the white ball of foam that caps a tankard of double X. “It’s more nor twice too fat already. The kittle won’t hould it, no how.”

“Oh, stuff him down, dat is de way,” suggested La Roche.

“Stuff it down, avic, an’ what’s to come o’ the wather?” said Bryan.

“Ah! true, dat is perplexible, vraiment.”

At this moment the large pot boiled over and a cloud of scalding steam engulfed the sympathetic Frenchman, causing him to yell with mingled pain and rage as he bounded backwards.

“Musha! but ye’ll come to an early death, Losh, if ye don’t be more careful o’ yer dried-up body.”

“Taisez vous, donc,” muttered his companion, half angrily.

“Taisin’ ye? avic, sorra wan o’ me’s taisin’ ye. But since ye can’t help me out o’ me throubles, I’ll try to help mysilf.”

In pursuance of this noble resolve, Bryan went to the store and fetched from thence another large tin kettle. He then undid the covering of the unwieldy pudding, which he cut into two equal parts, and having squeezed them into two balls, tied them up in the cloth, which he divided for the purpose, and put them into the separate kettles, with the air of a man who had overcome a great difficulty by dint of unfathomable wisdom. It was found, however, that the smaller pudding, intended for Stanley’s table, was also too large for its kettle; but the energetic blacksmith, whose genius was now thoroughly aroused, overcame this difficulty by cutting off several pounds of it, and transferring the pudding thus reduced to the kettle, saying in an undertone as he did so, “There’s more nor enough for the six o’ ye yit, av yer only raisonable in yer appetites.”

But the superfluity of the pudding thus caused became now a new source of trouble to Bryan.

“What’s to be done wid it, Losh? I don’t like to give it to the dogs, an’ it’s too small intirely to make a dumplin’ of.”

“You better heat him raw,” suggested La Roche.

“Faix, an’ I’ve half a mind to; but it would spile my dinner. Hallo! look out for the vainison, Losh.”

“Ah, oui; oh! misere!” cried La Roche, springing over the fire, and giving a turn to the splendid haunch of venison which depended from a wooden tripod in front of the blaze, and, having been neglected for a few minutes, was beginning to singe.

“What have ye in the pot there?” inquired Bryan.

“Von goose, two duck, trois plovre, et von leetle bird—I not know de name of—put him in pour experiment.”

“Very good, Losh; out wid the goose and we’ll cram the bit o’ dumplin’ into him for stuffin’.”

“Ah! superb, excellent,” cried La Roche, laughing, as he lifted out the goose, into which Bryan thrust the mass of superfluous pudding; after which the hole was tied up and the bird re-consigned to the pot.

Everything connected with this dinner was strikingly suggestive of the circumstances under which it was given. The superabundance of venison and wild-fowl; the cooking done in the open air; the absence of women, and the performance of work usually allotted to them by bronzed and stalwart voyageurs; the wild scenery in the midst of which it took place; and the mixture of Irish, English, French, Indian, Esquimau, and compound tones, that fell upon the ear as the busy work went on,—all tended to fill the mind with a feeling of wild romance, and to suggest powerfully the idea of being, if we may so express it, far, far away! As the proceedings advanced towards completion, this feeling was rather increased than removed.

Tables and chairs were a luxury that still remained to be introduced at Fort Chimo, when the men found leisure from more urgent duties to construct them. Therefore the dining-table in Stanley’s hall was composed of three large packing-cases turned bottom up. There was no cloth wherewith to cover its rough boards; but this was a matter of little importance to the company which assembled round it, punctually at the hour of four. In place of chairs there were good substantial nail-kegs, rather low, it is true, and uncommonly hard, but not to be despised under the circumstances. Owing to the unusual demand for dishes, the pewter plates and spoons and tin drinking-cups—for they had little crockery—were of every form and size that the store contained; and the floor on which it all stood was the beaten ground, for the intended plank flooring was still growing in the mountain glens.

But if the equipage was homely and rude, the fare was choice and abundant; and an odour that might have gladdened the heart of an epicure greeted the nostrils of the captain and his two mates when they entered the hall, dressed in blue surtouts with bright brass buttons, white duck trousers, and richly flowered vests (waistcoats). There was a splendid salmon, of twenty pounds weight, at one end of the board; and beside it, on the same dish, a lake-trout of equal size and beauty. At the other end smoked a haunch of venison, covered with at least an inch of fat; and beside it a bowl of excellent cranberry jam, the handiwork of the hostess. A boiled goose and pease-pudding completed the catalogue. Afterwards, these gave place to the pudding which had caused Bryan so much perplexity, and several dishes of raisins and figs. Last, but not least, there was a bottle of brandy and two of port wine; which, along with the raisins and figs, formed part of the limited supply of luxuries furnished by the Hudson’s Bay Company to Stanley, in common with all the gentlemen in the service, in order to enable them, now and then, on great occasions, to recall, through the medium of a feast, the remembrance of civilised life.

The display in the men’s house was precisely similar to that in the hall. But the table was larger and the viands more abundant. The raisins and figs, too, were wanting; and instead of wine or brandy, there was a small supply of rum. It was necessarily small, being the gift of Stanley out of his own diminutive store, which could not, even if desired, be replenished until the return of the ship next autumn.

On the arrival of the guests a strange contrast was presented. The sailors, in white ducks, blue jackets with brass buttons, striped shirts, pumps, and straw hats, landed at the appointed hour, and in hearty good-humour swaggered towards the men’s house, where they were politely received by the quiet, manly-looking voyageurs, who, in honour of the occasion, had put on their best capotes, their brightest belts, their gayest garters, and most highly-ornamented moccasins. The French Canadians and half-breeds bowed, shook hands, and addressed the tars as messieurs. The sailors laughed, slapped their entertainers on the shoulders, and called them messmates. The Indians stood, grave and silent, but with looks of good-humour, in the background; while the Esquimaux raised their fat cheeks, totally shut up their eyes, and grinned perpetually, not to say horribly, from ear to ear. But the babel that followed is beyond the powers of description, therefore we won’t attempt it.

Here, however, the characteristic peculiarity of our scene ceases. The actual demolition of food is pretty much the same among all nations that are not absolutely savage; and, however much contrast might have been observed in the strange mixture of human beings assembled under the hospitable roof of Fort Chimo, there was none whatever in the manner in which they demolished their viands. As the evening advanced, a message was sent to Monsieur Stanley for the loan of his violin.

“Ay,” said he, as the instrument was delivered to Bryan, who happened to be the messenger and also the performer—“ay, I thought it would come to that ere long. Don’t be too hard on the strings, lad. ’Twill be a rough ball where there are no women.”

“Thrue, yer honour,” replied the blacksmith, as he received the instrument, “there’s a great want of faymales in thim parts; but the sailors have consinted to ripresint the purty craytures on the present occasion, which is but right, for, ye see, the most o’ thim’s shorter nor us, an’ their wide breeches are more like the pitticoats than our leggin’s.”

Many were the stories that were told and retold, believed, disbelieved, and doubted, on that memorable night; and loud were the songs and long and strong the dancing that followed. But it was all achieved under the influence of pure animal spirits, for the rum supplied afforded but a thimbleful to each. The consequence was that there were no headaches the following morning, and the men were up by break of day as fresh and light as larks. A feeling of sadness, however, gradually crept over the band as the dawn advanced and the schooner prepared for her departure.

By six o’clock the flood-tide turned, and a few minutes later all the sailors were aboard, hoisting the sails and anchor, while the men stood silently on the beach where they had just parted from their guests.

“Good-bye once more, Mr Stanley; good-bye, Mr Morton,” said the captain, as he stepped into his boat. “I wish you a pleasant winter and a good trade.”

“Thank you, thank you, captain,” replied Stanley; “and don’t forget us out here, in this lonely place, when you drink the health of absent friends at Christmas time.”

In a few minutes the anchor was up, and the schooner, bending round with a fair wind and tide, made for the narrows.

“Give them a cheer, lads,” said Frank.

Obedient to the command, the men doffed their caps and raised their voices; but there was little vigour in the cheer. It was replied to from the schooner’s deck. Just as the flying-jib passed the point a gun was fired, which once more awakened the loud echoes of the place. When the smoke cleared away, the schooner was gone.

Thus was severed the last link that bound the civilised world to the inhabitants of Fort Chimo.

Chapter Twenty.

Winter approaches—Esquimaux arrive—Effect of a word—A sucking baby—Prospects of trade.

For many days after the ship’s departure the work of completing the fort went forward with the utmost rapidity, and not until the houses and stores were rendered weather-tight and warm did Stanley consider it advisable to send out hunting and fishing parties into the mountains. Now, however, the frosts continued a great part of the day as well as during the night, so it was high time to kill deer and fish, in order to freeze, and so preserve them for winter’s consumption.

Up to this time no further traces of Esquimaux had been discovered, and Stanley began to express his fears to Frank that they had left the neighbourhood altogether, in consequence of the repeated attacks made upon them by Indians. Soon after this, however, the fur-traders were surprised by a sudden visit from a party of these denizens of the north.

It happened on the afternoon of a beautiful day towards the close of autumn, that charming but brief season which, in consequence of its unbroken serenity, has been styled the Indian summer. The men had all been dispatched into the mountains in various directions, some to fish, others to shoot; and none were left at the fort except its commandant with his wife and child, and Oolibuck the Esquimau. Stanley was seated on a stone at the margin of the bay, admiring the vivid alterations of light and shade, as the sun dipped behind the mountains of the opposite shore, when his eye was attracted towards one or two objects on the water near the narrows. Presently they advanced, and were followed by several others. In a few minutes he perceived that they were Esquimau canoes.

Jumping hastily up, Stanley ran to the fort, and bidding his wife and child keep out of sight, put two pair of pistols in his pockets and returned to the beach, where he found Oolibuck gazing at the approaching flotilla with intense eagerness.

“Well, Oolibuck, here come your countrymen at last,” said Stanley. “Do they look friendly, think you?”

“Me no can tell; they most too quiet,” replied the interpreter.

Esquimaux in general are extremely noisy and full of animated gesticulation on meeting with strangers, especially when they meet on decidedly friendly terms. The silence, therefore, maintained by the natives as they advanced was looked upon as a bad sign. The fleet consisted of nine kayaks, and three large oomiaks full of women and children; and a curious appearance they presented at a distance, for the low kayaks of the men being almost invisible, it seemed as if their occupants were actually seated on the water. The oomiaks being much higher, were clearly visible. On coming to within a quarter of a mile of the fort, the men halted to allow the women to come up; then forming in a crescent in front of the oomiaks, the whole flotilla advanced slowly towards the beach. When within a hundred yards or so, Stanley said, “Now, Oolibuck, give them a hail.”

“Chimo! Chimo! Chimo-o-o!” shouted the interpreter.

The word acted like a talisman.

“Chimo!” yelled the Esquimaux in reply, and the kayaks shot like arrows upon the sand, while the women followed as fast as they could. In another minute a loud chattering and a brisk shaking of hands was taking place on shore.

The natives were dressed in the sealskin garments with which arctic travellers have made us all more or less acquainted. They were stout burly fellows, with fat, oily, and bearded faces.

“Now tell them, Oolibuck, the reason of our coming here,” said Stanley.

Oolibuck instantly began, by explaining to them that they had come for the purpose of bringing about peace and friendship between them and the Indians; on hearing which the Esquimaux danced and shouted for nearly a minute with joy. But when the interpreter went on to say that they intended to remain altogether among them, for the purpose of trading, their delight knew no bounds; they danced and jumped, and whooped and yelled, tossed up their arms and legs, and lay down on the sand and rolled in ecstasy. In the midst of all this, Mrs Stanley rushed out of the house, followed by Edith, in great terror at the unearthly sounds that had reached her ears; but on seeing her husband and Oolibuck laughing in the midst of the grotesque group, her fears vanished, and she stood an amused spectator of the scene.

Meanwhile, Stanley went down and stepped into the midst of one of the oomiaks, with a few beads and trinkets in his hands; and while Oolibuck entertained the men on shore, he presented gifts to the women, who received them with the most childish demonstrations of joy. There was something irresistibly comic in the childlike simplicity of these poor natives. Instead of the stiff reserve and haughty demeanour of their Indian neighbours, they danced and sang, and leaped and roared, embraced each other and wept, with the most reckless indifference to appearances, and seemed upon all occasions to give instant vent to the feelings that happened to be uppermost in their minds. As Stanley continued to distribute his gifts, the women crowded out of the other oomiaks into the one in which he stood, until they nearly sank it; some of them extending their arms for beads, others giving a jolt to the hoods on their backs, which had the effect of bringing to light fat, greasy-faced little babies, who were pointed to as being peculiarly worthy of attention.

At length Stanley broke from them and leaped ashore, where he was soon followed by the entire band. But here new objects—namely, Mrs Stanley and Edith—attracted their wondering attention. Approaching towards the former, they began timidly to examine her dress, which was indeed very different from theirs, and calculated to awaken curiosity and surprise. The Esquimau women were dressed very much like the men—namely, in long shirts of sealskin or deerskin with the hair on, short breeches of the same material, and long sealskin boots. The hoods of the women were larger than those of the men, and their boots much more capacious; and while the latter had a short stump of a tail or peak hanging from the hinder part of their shirts, the women wore their tails so long that they trailed along the ground as they walked. In some cases these tails were four and six inches broad, with a round flap at the end, and fringed with ermine. It was, therefore, with no little surprise that they found Mrs Stanley entirely destitute of a tail, and observed that she wore her upper garment so long that it reached the ground. Becoming gradually more familiar, on seeing that the strange woman permitted them to handle her pretty freely, one of them gently lifted up her gown to see whether or not she wore boots; but receiving a somewhat prompt repulse, she began to caress her, and assured her that she did not mean to give offence.

By this time Frank and some of the men had joined the group on the shore, and as it was getting late Stanley commanded silence.

“Tell them I have somewhat to say to them, Oolibuck.”

The interpreter’s remark instantly produced a dead silence.

“Now ask them if they are glad to hear that we are going to stay to trade with them.”

A vociferous jabbering followed the question, which, by Oolibuck’s interpretation, meant that their joy was utterly inexpressible.

“Have they been long on the coast?”

“No; they had just arrived, and were on their way up the river to obtain wood for building their kayaks.”

“Did they see the bundle of presents we left for them at the coast?”

“Yes, they had seen it; but not knowing whom it was intended for, they had not touched it.”

On being told that the presents were intended for them, the poor creatures put on a look of intense chagrin, which, however, passed away when it was suggested to them that they might take the gifts on their return to the coast.

And now,” said Stanley, in conclusion, “’tis getting late. Go down to the point below the fort and encamp there for the night. We thank you for your visit, and will return it in the morning. Good-night.”

On this being translated, the Esquimaux gave a general yell of assent and immediately retired, bounding and shouting and leaping as they went, looking, in their gleesome rotundity, like the infant progeny of a race of giants.

“I like the look of these men very much,” said Stanley, as he walked up to the house with Frank. “Their genuine trustfulness is a fine trait in their character.”

“No doubt of it,” replied Frank. “There is much truth in the proverb, ‘Evil dreaders are evil doers.’ Those who fear no evil intend none. Had they been Indians, now, we should have had more trouble with them.”

“I doubt it not, Frank. You would have been pleased to witness the prompt alacrity with which the poor creatures answered to our cry of Chimo, and ran their kayaks fearlessly ashore, although, for all they knew to the contrary, the rocks might have concealed a hundred enemies.”

“And yet,” said Frank, with an air of perplexity, “the Esquimau character seems to me a difficult problem to solve. When we read the works of arctic voyagers, we find that one man’s experience of the Esquimaux proves them to be inveterate thieves and liars, while another speaks of them as an honest, truthful people—and that, too, being said of the same tribe. Nay, further, I have read of a tribe being all that is good and amiable at one time, and all that is bad and vile at another. Now the conduct of these good-natured fellows, in reference to the bundle of trinkets we left at the mouth of the river, indicates a degree of honesty that is almost too sensitive; for the merest exertion of common-sense would show that a bundle hung up in an exposed place to public view must be for the public good.”

“Nevertheless they seem both honest and friendly,” returned Stanley, “and I trust that our experience of them may never change. To-morrow I shall give them some good advice in regard to procuring furs, and show them the wealth of our trading store.”

When the morrow came the visit of the Esquimaux was returned by the entire force of Fort Chimo, and the childish delight with which they were received was most amusing. The childishness, however, was only applicable to these natives when expressing their strong feelings. In other respects, particularly in their physical actions, they were most manly; and the thick black beards and moustaches that clothed the chins of most of the men seemed very much the reverse of infantine. The children were so exactly like to their parents in costume that they seemed miniature representations of them. In fact, were a child viewed through a magnifying glass it would become a man, and were a man viewed through a diminishing glass he would become a child—always, of course, excepting the beard.

Bryan became a special favourite with the natives when it was discovered that he was a worker in iron, and the presents with which he was overwhelmed were of a most extraordinary, and, in some cases, perplexing nature. One man, who seemed determined to get into his good graces, offered him a choice morsel of broiled seal. “No, thankee, lad,” said Bryan; “I’ve had my brickfust.”

Supposing that the broiling had something to do with the blacksmith’s objection, the Esquimau hastily cut off a slice of the raw blubber and tendered it to him.

“D’ye think I’m a haythen?” said Bryan, turning away in disgust.

“Ah, try it, Bryan,” cried La Roche, turning from an Esquimau baby, in the contemplation of which he had been absorbed—“try it; ’tis ver’ goot, I ’sure you. Ver’ goot for your complaint, Bryan. But come, here, vitement.—Just regardez dat hinfant. Come here, queek!”

Thus urged, Bryan broke away from his host (who had just split open the shinbone of a deer, and offered him the raw marrow, but without success), and, going towards La Roche, regarded the baby in question. It was a remarkably fine child, seemingly about ten months old, with a round, rosy, oily face, coal-black hair, and large, round, coal-black eyes, with which it returned the stare of the two men with interest. But that which amused the visitors most was a lump of fat or blubber, with a skewer thrust through it, which its mother had given to the child to suck, and which it was endeavouring to thrust down its throat with both hands.

“Come here, Oolibuck; pourquoi is de stick?”

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Oolibuck. “Dat is for keep de chile quiet; and de stick is for no let him choke; him no can swallow de stick.”

“Musha! but it would stick av he did swallow it,” said Bryan, turning away with a laugh.

In the course of the day Stanley and Frank conducted the natives to the fort, and having given them all an excellent dinner and a few gifts of needles, scissors, and knives, led them to the store, where the goods for trade were ranged temptingly on shelves round the walls. A counter encompassed a space around the entrance-door, within which the natives stood and gazed on wealth which, to their unsophisticated minds, seemed a dream of enchantment.

Having given them time to imbibe a conception of the room and its treasures, Stanley addressed them through the interpreter; but as reference to this worthy individual is somewhat hampering, we will discard him forthwith—retaining his style and language, however, for the benefit of his fellow-countrymen.

“Now, you see what useful things I have got here for you; but I cannot give them to you for nothing. They cost us much, and give us much trouble to bring them here. But I will give them for skins and furs and oil, and the tusks of the walrus; and when you go to your friends on the sea-coast, you can tell them to bring skins with them when they come.”

“Ye vill do vat you vish. Ye most happy you come. Ye vill hunt very mush, and make your house empty of all dese t’ings if ye can.”

“That’s well. And now I am in need of boots for my men, and you have a good many, I see; so, if you can spare some of these, we will begin to trade at once.”

On hearing this, the natives dispatched several of their number down to the camp, who soon returned laden with boots. These boots are most useful articles. They are neatly made of sealskin, the feet or soles being of walrus hide, and perfectly waterproof. They are invaluable to those who have to walk much in ice-cold water or among moist snow, as is the case in those regions during spring and autumn. In winter the frost completely does away with all moisture, so that the Indian moccasin is better at that season than the Esquimau boot.

For these boots, and a few articles of native clothing, Stanley paid the natives at the rates of the regular tariff throughout the country; and this rate was so much beyond the poor Esquimau estimate of the relative value of boots and goods, that they would gladly have given all the boots and coats they possessed for what they received as the value of one pair.

Overjoyed at their good fortune, and laden with treasure, they returned to their camp to feast, and to sing the praises of the Kublunat, as they termed the fur-traders.

Chapter Twenty One.

Silent conversation—Raw food—Female tails—A terrible battle terminated by the interposition of a giant.

Of all the people at Fort Chimo no one was more interested in the Esquimaux than little Edith. She not only went fearlessly among them, and bestowed upon them every trinket she possessed, but, in her childlike desire for the companionship and sympathy of human beings of her own age and sex, she took forcible possession of two little girls who happened to be cleaner, and, therefore, prettier than the others, and led them away to her own ravine, where she introduced them to her favourite berries and to her dog Chimo. At first the dog did not seem to relish the intrusion of these new favourites, but seeing that they did not induce his mistress to caress him less than before, he considerately tolerated them. Besides, the Esquimaux had brought their dogs along with them; and Chimo, being of an amicable disposition, had entered into social fellowship with his own kind. We have said that Chimo was sagacious, and it is quite possible he may have felt the propriety of granting to Edith that liberty which he undoubtedly claimed for himself.

But Edith’s intercourse with her little Esquimau protégées was necessarily confined to looks—the language of the eye making up for the absence of that of the tongue. There were many things, however, in which language was not required as a medium of communication between the children. When the berries were good, the brightening eyes and smacking lips spoke a language common to all the human race. So, also, when the berries were sour or bitter, the expression of their faces was peculiarly emphatic. The joyous shout, too, as they discovered a new scene that pleased their eyes, while they roved hand in hand through the ravines, or the shrinking glance of fear as they found themselves unexpectedly on the edge of a precipice, was sufficiently intelligible to the trio. The little friends presented a striking and grotesque contrast. It would have been difficult to say whether the little Esquimaux were boys or girls. If anything, the costume seemed more to indicate the former than the latter. Like their mothers, they wore loose deerskin shirts with the hair on the outside, which gave them a round, soft, burly appearance—an appearance which was increased by their little boots, which were outrageously wide, and quite as long as their legs. The frocks or shirts had hoods and tails, which latter, according to fashion, were so long that they trailed on the ground. The inconvenience of the tail is so great that the women, while travelling on a journey, get rid of it by drawing it between their legs, and, lifting up the end, fastening it in front to a button sewed to their frock for the purpose. In travelling, therefore, Esquimau women seem to be destitute of this appendage; but, on arriving at camp, they undo the fastening, and walk about with flowing tails behind them!

Edith’s costume consisted of a short frock made of dark blue cloth, and a head-dress peculiar to the Indian women among the Crees. It was preferred by the little wearer to all other styles of bonnet, on account of the ease with which it could be thrown off and on. She also wore ornamented leggings and moccasins. Altogether, with her graceful figure, flaxen curls, and picturesque costume, she presented a strong contrast to the fat, dark, hairy little creatures who followed her by brook and bush and precipice the livelong day.

One morning, about two weeks after the arrival of the Esquimaux, Edith went down to the camp after breakfast, and found her two companions engaged in concluding their morning meal. The elder, whose name was Arnalooa, was peering with earnest scrutiny into the depths of a marrowbone, from which she had already extracted a large proportion of the raw material. The younger, Okatook, seized a lump of raw seal’s flesh, as Edith entered their hut, and, cutting therefrom a savoury morsel, put it into her mouth as she rose to welcome her visitor.

“Oh! how can you?” said Edith, with a look of disgust at this ravenous conduct on the part of her friend. But Edith had said, “Oh! how can you?” and “Oh! shocking!” and “Oh! why don’t you give up eating it raw?” and “Oh! why won’t you have it cooked?” nearly every day for the last two weeks, without producing any other effect than a gleeful laugh from the little Esquimaux; for, although they did not comprehend her words, they clearly understood her looks of disapproval. But although they would not give up the habit of eating raw flesh, which they had been accustomed to from their infancy, they were prevailed on so far to break through the habits of their people as to wash their hands and faces before going out to play. This they did because Edith positively refused to go with them unless they did so.

Lifting up the end of her tail and wiping her mouth therewith, Arnalooa smiled at Edith’s look of reproach, and ran laughing towards the shore, where she and Okatook washed their hands, after which they followed Edith and Chimo to their favourite ravine. Although she knew that they did not understand a word of what she said, Edith invariably kept up a running fire of small talk, in reference chiefly to the objects of nature by which they were surrounded. To this the little hairy creatures listened intently with smiling faces, and sometimes they laughed prodigiously, as though they understood what was said, so that their companion felt as if she were really conversing with them, although she was sadly perplexed at the utter impossibility of obtaining an intelligible reply to a question when she chanced to put one.

“Oh, what a lovely glen!” cried Edith, her eyes beaming with delight, as, on turning the point of a projecting crag, she and her companions found themselves in a spot which they had not before seen during their rambles. It was a wild, savage gorge, full of fallen rocks, hemmed in with high cliffs, fringed here and there with willows and mosses, among which were a few brilliant wild-flowers. The lights and shadows of the spot were thrown into powerful contrast by a gleam of sunshine which flashed down among the rugged masses, lighting up peaks and sharp edges in some spots, while in others they were thrown into the profoundest gloom.

“Oh! is it not a delightful place?” cried Edith, as she bounded up the rugged path, followed by Chimo, while the two Esquimau girls buttoned up their tails, and followed her as fast as their more cumbrous habiliments would permit.

For a quarter of an hour the party toiled up the steep ascent, pausing now and then to pluck a flower, or to look back on the wild path by which they had come, until they reached a ridge of rock, beyond which lay a small lake or pool. So dark and still did it lie within the shadow of the overhanging cliffs that it resembled a pool of ink. Here the adventurous explorers sat down to recover breath, and to gaze in childish delight, not unmixed with awe, at the wild scene around them.

The peculiar wildness of the spot seemed to exercise an unusual influence over the dog; for, instead of lying down, as it was wont to do, at the feet of its young mistress, it moved about uneasily, and once or twice uttered a low growl.

“Come here, Chimo,” said Edith, when these symptoms of restlessness had attracted her attention; “what is the matter with you, my dear dog? Surely you are not frightened at the appearance of this wild place! Speak, dog; see, Arnalooa is laughing at you.”

Edith might have said with more propriety that Arnalooa was laughing at herself, for the little Esquimau was much amused at the serious manner in which her Kublunat friend spoke to her dog. But Chimo refused to be comforted. He raised his snout, snuffed the air once or twice, and then, descending the gorge a short distance, put his nose close to the ground and trotted away.

“That is very odd of Chimo,” said Edith, looking into Arnalooa’s face with an expression of perplexity.

As she spoke Okatook pointed, with an eager glance, up the ravine. Turning her eyes hastily in the direction indicated, Edith beheld a deer bounding towards them. It was closely followed by a savage wolf. The deer seemed to be in the last stage of exhaustion. Its flanks were wet with moisture, its eyes starting from their sockets, and its breath issued forth in deep sobs, as it bounded onwards, seemingly more by the force of its impetus than by any voluntary exertion. More intent on the danger behind than on that which lay before it, the deer made straight for the pass in which the three girls stood, and scarcely had they time to spring to the sides of the cliff, when it swept by like an arrow. Instantly after, and ere it had taken two bounds past them, the wolf sprang forward; caught it by the throat, and dragged it to the ground, where in a few seconds it worried the noble animal to death. It is probable that the chase now terminated had begun at early dawn that day, for deer being fleeter than wolves they prolong the chase until overcome by the superior strength and dogged perseverance of their ravenous enemies. Over mountain and hill they had bounded along together, through glen and gorge, across river and lake, bursting headlong through bush and brake, or under the shadow of frowning cliffs, and toiling, at a foot pace and with panting sides, up the steep hills, in the fierce blaze of the sun, the one impelled by hunger, the other by fear, until at length the scene closed in the wild pass, almost at the feet of the three children.

But retribution was in store for the savage destroyer. Ere yet the life’s blood had teased to flow from the throat of the dying deer, and while the wolf’s fangs were still dripping with its gore, a fierce bark, followed by a terrific growl, rang among the cliffs, and Chimo, with his ears laid back and his formidable row of teeth exposed, rushed up the gorge and seized the wolf by the neck! Thus assailed, the wolf returned the bite with interest, and immediately a fight of the most energetic character ensued.

The wolf was much larger and more powerful than Chimo, but was greatly exhausted by its long chase, while the dog was fresh and vigorous. Once or twice Chimo tossed his huge adversary by main strength, but as often he was overturned and dreadfully shaken, while the long fangs of the wolf met in his neck, and mingled the blood of the deer, which bespattered his black muzzle, with the life’s blood that began to flow copiously from Chimo’s veins. At this moment a shout was heard farther up the ravine. The three girls turned hastily, and saw, on a point of rock which projected from the mountain side and overhung the dark pool, the figure of a man, of such immense proportions that they instinctively shrank back with terror. The position in which he stood made him appear larger than he really was. The scattered gleams and slant rays of sunshine that played around the spot invested him as with a supernatural halo, while a bright glow of light on the cliff behind detached him prominently from the surrounding shadows. He poised a spear in his right hand, and, while Edith gazed at him in terror, the weapon flew whistling through the air and was buried in the side of the wolf. But so close did the spear pass, that Edith involuntarily stepped back as she heard it whiz. In doing so she lost her balance and fell over the cliff. Fortunately, Arnalooa caught her by the dress and partially broke her fall, but the descent was sufficiently steep and rugged to render the child insensible.

When Edith recovered consciousness, her first emotion was that of terror, on beholding a large, dark-bearded face bending over her; but a second glance showed her that the eyes of the stranger gazed upon her with a look of tenderness, and that Arnalooa and Okatook were kneeling beside her with an expression of anxiety. Had anything further been wanting to allay her fears, the sight of Chimo would have done it. It is true the sturdy dog panted heavily, and occasionally licked his wounds, as he sat on his haunches at her feet; but he was wonderfully calm and collected after his recent mortal conflict, and regarded his young mistress from time to time with an air of patronising assurance.

As Edith opened her eyes, the stranger muttered some unintelligible words, and, rising hastily, went to a neighbouring spring, at which he filled a rude cup with water. In doing this, he revealed the huge proportions of the gigantic Esquimau whom we introduced to our reader in a former chapter. He was dressed in the same manner as when we first saw him, but his face was somewhat altered, and his black eyebrows were marked by that peculiar curve which is expressive of deep melancholy. Returning quickly from the spring, he kneeled beside the little girl, and, raising her head on his broad hand, held the goblet to her lips.

“Thank you,” said Edith faintly, as she swallowed a few drops; “I think I had better go home. Is Chimo safe? Chimo!” She started up as the recollection of the fight with the wolf flashed upon her; but the fall had stunned her rather severely, and scarcely had she risen to her feet when she staggered and fell back into the arms of the Esquimau.

Seeing that she was quite unable to walk, he raised her in his powerful arm as if she had been a young lamb. Catching the dead wolf by the neck as he passed, and springing from rock to rock with catlike agility, he bore his burden down the ravine, and strode towards the fort under the guidance of Okatook and Arnalooa.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Maximus—Deer spearing—A surprisingly bad shot—Character of the natives.

“Hallo! what have we here?” exclaimed Stanley, starting from his seat in amazement, as the giant entered the hall of Fort Chimo—his left hand grasping a blood-stained wolf by the throat, and Edith resting in his right arm.

At first the startled father imagined his child must have been wounded, if not killed, by the savage animal; but his mind was immediately relieved on this point by Edith herself, who was no sooner laid on her bed than she recovered sufficiently to narrate the circumstances attending her fall.

“Well, Maximus,” said Stanley, returning to the hall and applying to the bulky savage the term that seemed most appropriate to him, “shake hands with me, my good fellow. You’ve saved Chimo’s life, it seems; and that’s a good turn I’ll not forget. But a—. I see you don’t understand a word I say. Hallo! Moses, Moses! you deaf rascal, come here!” he shouted, as that worthy passed the window.

“Yis, mossue,” said Moses, entering the hall. “Oh, me! what a walrus am dis! Me do b’lieve him most high as a tree an’ more broader nor iveryt’ing!”

“Hold thy tongue, Moses, and ask the fellow where he came from; but tell him first that I’m obliged to him for saving Chimo from that villainous wolf.”

While Moses interpreted, Arnalooa and Okatook, being privileged members of the tribe, crossed over to Edith’s room.

“Well, what says he?” inquired Stanley, at the end of a long address which the giant had delivered to Moses.

“Him say he heered we have come to trade, from Eskeemo to west’ard, and so him come for to see us.”

“A most excellent reason,” said Stanley. “Has he brought any furs?”

“Yis; him brought one two fox, and two t’ree deer. No have much furs in dis country, him say.”

“Sorry to hear that. Perhaps his opinion may change when he sees the inside of our store. But I would like him to stay about the fort as a hunter, Moses; he seems a first-rate man. Ask him if he will consent to stay for a time.”

“P’raps he fuss-rate, p’raps not,” muttered Moses in a disparaging tone, as he turned to put the question.

“Him say yis.”

“Very good; then take him to your house, Moses, and give him some food and a pipe, and teach him English as fast as you can, and see that it is grammatical. D’ye hear?”

“Yis, mossue, me quite sure for to teach him dat.”

As Moses turned to quit the hall, Stanley called him back. “Ask Maximus, by-the-bye, if he knows anything of a party of Esquimaux who seem to have been attacked, not long ago, by Indians in this neighbourhood.”

No sooner was this question put than the face of Maximus, which had worn a placid, smiling expression during the foregoing conversation, totally changed. His brows lowered, and his lips were tightly compressed, as he regarded Stanley for a few moments ere he ventured to reply. Then, in a deep, earnest tone, he related the attack, the slaughter of his people, their subsequent escape, and the loss of his bride. Even Moses was agitated as he went on, and showed his teeth like an enraged mastiff when the Esquimau came to speak of his irreparable loss.

“Stay one moment,” said Stanley, when Maximus concluded. “I have something to show you;” and hastening into his room, he quickly returned with the little piece of sealskin that had been found at the deserted Indian camp. “Do you know anything of this, Maximus? Do you understand these marks?”

The Esquimau uttered a cry of surprise when his eye fell on the piece of skin, and he seemed much agitated while he put several quick, earnest questions to Moses, who replied as earnestly and quickly; then turning rapidly on his heel, he sprang through the doorway, and was soon lost to view in the stunted woods of the ravine above the fort.

“That fellow seems in a hurry,” exclaimed Frank Morton, entering the room just as the savage made his exit. “Who is he, and wherefore in so great haste?”

“As to who he is,” answered Stanley, “I’ll tell you that after Moses has explained the cause of his sudden flight.”

“He say that him’s wife make dat skin, and de arrow on him skin show dat de Injuns take her to deir tents.”

“But did you not tell him that we found the skin long ago, and that the Indians must be far, far away by this time—nobody knows where?” demanded Frank.

“Yis, me tell him. But he go for to see de spot. T’ink him find more t’ings, p’raps.”

“Oh, messieurs, voilà!” shouted La Roche, pointing towards the river, as he rushed, breathless with haste, into the hall; “les Esquimaux, dem kill all de deer dans le kontry. Oui, voilà! dans les kayak. Two dozen at vonce—vraiment!” Without waiting a reply, the excited Frenchman turned round and rushed out of the house, followed by Stanley and Frank, who seized their guns, which always hung ready loaded on the walls of the apartment.

On reaching the water’s edge, the scene that met their eye was indeed sufficient to account for the excitement of La Roche. A herd of perhaps fifty or sixty deer, on their way to the coast, and ignorant of the foes who had so recently invaded their solitudes, had descended the ravine opposite the fort, with the intention of crossing the river. The Esquimaux had perceived this, and keeping themselves and their kayaks concealed until most of the animals were in the water, and the leaders of the herd more than two-thirds over, they then gave chase, and getting between the deer and the opposite shore, cut off their retreat, and drove them towards their encampment.

Here the slaughter commenced, and Stanley and Frank arrived at the scene of action while they were in the midst of the wholesale destruction. In all directions the kayaks, with their solitary occupants, were darting about hither and thither like arrows in the midst of the affrighted animals; none of which, however, were speared until they were driven quite close to the shore. In their terror, the deer endeavoured to escape by swimming in different directions; but the long double-bladed paddles of the Esquimaux sent the light kayaks after them like lightning, and a sharp prick on their flanks turned them in the right direction. There were so many deer, however, that a few succeeded in gaining the land; but here the guns of the traders awaited them. In the midst of this wild scene, Frank’s attention was arrested by the cool proceedings of an Esquimau, whose name was Chacooto. He had several times exhibited a degree of shrewdness beyond his fellows during his residence near the fort, and was evidently a man of importance in the tribe. Chacooto had collected together a band of the herd, amounting to fifteen, and, by dint of cool decision and quick movements, had driven them to within a few yards of the shore, exactly opposite the spot whereon his tent stood. One young buck, of about two years old, darted away from the rest more than once, but, with a sweep of the paddle and a prick of the lance, Chacooto turned it back again, while a quiet sarcastic smile played on his countenance. Having driven the herd close enough in for his purpose, the Esquimau ended the career of the refractory buck with a single thrust of his lance, and then proceeded coolly to stab them all one after another.

“Och, the spalpeen!” said a voice at Frank’s ear. “’Tis himsilf knows how to do it, an’ no mistake. Musha! his lance goes out and in like a thailor’s needle; an’ he niver strikes more nor wance, the haythen!”

“He certainly does know how to do it, Bryan,” replied Frank; “and it’s a comfort to know that every thrust kills in a moment. I like to see as little of the appearance of cruelty as possible in work of this kind.”

“Arrah! there’s wan that’ll chate ’im, anyhow,” cried Bryan, throwing forward his gun in nervous haste, as one of the deer gained the land, despite Chacooto’s rapidity, and bounded towards the hills.

Frank smiled at the eager haste of his companion, who was one of the poor shots of the party, and, consequently, always in a hurry. “Now, Bryan, there’s a chance. Take your time. Just behind the shoulder; a little low, for that gun kicks horribly.”

“Murder and blazes, she won’t go off!” cried the exasperated Irishman, as, after a wavering effort to take aim, he essayed unsuccessfully to pull the trigger.

“Half-cock, man! Cock it!” said Frank quickly.

“So ’tis, be the mortial! Och, Bryan, yer too cliver, ye are!” he exclaimed, rectifying his error with a force that nearly tore off the dog-head. At that instant there was a sharp crack, and the deer, bounding into the air, fell dead on the sand at the edge of the willows.

“Forgive me, Bryan,” said Massan, chuckling and reloading his piece as he walked up to his comrade. “I would not ha’ taken’t out o’ yer teeth, lad, if ye had been ready; but one bound more would ha’ put the beast beyond the reach o’ a bullet.”

“Faix, Massan, ye desarve to be hanged for murther. Shure I was waitin’ till the poor crayture got into the bushes, to give it a chance o’ its life, before I fired. That’s the way that gintlemen from the ould country does when we’re out sportin’. We always put up the birds first, and fire afterwards; but you salvages murther a poor brute on the sand, whin it’s only two fathoms from ye. Shame on ye, Massan.”

“See, Massan,” cried Frank, pointing to another deer, which, having escaped its pursuers, had gained the heights above. “That fellow is beyond us both, I fear. Be ready when it comes into view beyond the cliff there.”

But Massan did not move; and when Frank threw forward his gun, he felt his arm arrested.

“Pardon me, monsieur,” said Massan respectfully; “there’s a sure bullet about to start for that deer.”

As he spoke, he pointed to Dick Prince, who, ignorant of the fact that the deer had been seen by Frank, was watching its reappearance from behind a neighbouring rock, at some distance from where they stood. In a second it came into view—the bullet sped—and the deer bounded lightly into the bushes, evidently unhurt!

It is difficult to say whether Dick Prince or his comrades exhibited most amazement in their looks at this result. That the crack shot of the party—the man who could hit a button in the centre at a hundred yards, and cut the head off a partridge at a hundred and fifty—should miss a deer at ninety yards, was utterly incomprehensible.

“Is it yer own gun ye’ve got?” inquired Bryan, as the discomfited marksman walked up.

“No; it’s yours,” replied Prince.

A smile, which resolved itself into a myriad of wrinkles, flitted over the blacksmith’s face as he said—

“Ah, Prince! ye’ll requare long practice to come to the parfect use o’ that wipon. I’ve always fired three yards, at laste, to the left, iver since we fell over the hill togither. If it’s a very long shot, it requares four to take the baste in the flank, or four an’ a half if ye want to hit the shoulder, besides an allowance o’ two feet above its head, to make up for the twist I gave it the other day in the forge, in tryin’ to put it right!”

This explanation was satisfactory to all parties, especially so to Prince, who felt that his credit was saved; and if Prince had a weakness at all, it was upon this point.

The deer were now all killed, with the exception of those of the band that had been last in entering the river. These, with a few stragglers, had returned to the shore from which they started. The remainder of the evening was devoted to skinning and cutting up the carcasses—an operation requiring considerable time, skill, and labour.

While the people at the fort were thus employed, Maximus (who adopted at once the name given to him by Stanley) returned from his fruitless journey to the Indian camp, and assisted the men at their work. He made no allusion whatever to his visit to the deserted Indian camp; but, from the settled expression of deep sadness that clouded his countenance, it was inferred that what he had seen there had not tended to raise his hopes.

The supply of deer obtained at this time was very seasonable, for the frost had now begun to set in so steadily that the meat could be hung up to freeze, and thus be kept fresh for winter’s consumption. Some of it, however, was dried and stored away in bales; while a small quantity was pounded after being dried, made into pemmican, and reserved for future journeys.

As for the Esquimaux, they gave themselves up, during the first night, to feasting and rejoicing. During the short time that they had been at the fort, they had converted the promontory on which they were encamped into a scene of the utmost confusion and filth. A regard for truth constrains us to say, that although these poor creatures turned out to be honest, and simple, and kind-hearted, they did not by any means turn out to be cleanly; quite the reverse.

They had erected four summer tents on the beach, which were composed of skins sewed together, and supported on poles in such a way as to afford ample room for the accommodation of their families. The entrance to each tent was through a passage, which was also made of skins, hung over a line fastened to a pole at the distance of twelve or fifteen feet from the tent. Each side of this entrance was lined with piles of provisions—seals, fish, ducks, and venison, in various stages of decay, which rendered the passage into the interior a trying operation. True, it was intended that the frost should prevent this decay; but, unfortunately, the frost did not always do its duty. The manner in which they cut up their deer and prepared them for future use was curious. After cutting the animals into two, without skinning them, they pinned up the front half with the heart and liver in the cavity. The other half they treated in a similar way, minus the heart and liver, and then put them out to freeze until required. When frozen, they were frequently used in their tents as seats, until the gradual diminution of the larder demanded that they should be appropriated to their proper use.

The tribe of Esquimaux who resided near Fort Chimo at this time were possessed of an enormous stone kettle, in which they boiled an entire deer at one time; and while the good people luxuriated on the flesh of the animal in their tents, the dogs assembled round the boiler to await the cooling of the soup—thus verifying the assertion formerly made by Massan on that head.

The dogs resembled those of the Newfoundland breed in some respects, but were scarcely so large or good-looking, and had erect instead of pendent ears. There were about a dozen of them; and it was wonderful to observe the patience with which they sat in a circle round the kettle, gazing earnestly at the soup, licking their chaps the while, in anticipation of the feast.

The successful hunt was regarded as worthy of being specially celebrated by the distribution of a glass of grog to the men, and also to the Esquimaux; for at the time we write of, the Hudson’s Bay Company had not yet instituted the wise and humane regulation which has since become a standing order throughout all parts of the country, except where there is opposition—namely, that ardent spirits shall not be given to the natives. However, Stanley’s natural disposition led him to be very circumspect in giving spirits to the men and natives, and the supply now issued was very small.

In the men it produced a desire for the violin, and created a tendency to sing and tell stories. In the Esquimaux it produced at first dislike, and afterwards wild excitement, which, in the case of Chacooto, ended in a desire to fight. But his comrades, assisted by his wives, overpowered him, tied him in a sack made of sealskin, and left him to roar and kick till he fell asleep!

The honesty of these natives was exhibited very strikingly in all their dealings with the fur-traders. Although iron tools of every description were scattered about the fort, while the men were engaged in erecting the several buildings, not one was missed; and even the useless nails and scraps of metal that were thrown away, when they were found by chance by the Esquimaux, were always brought to the house, and the question asked, “Were they of any use?” before being appropriated. They were great beggars, however; which was not surprising, considering the value of the articles possessed by the traders, and their own limited means of purchasing them. Their chief wealth at this time lay in boots and deerskins, which the women were constantly employed in preparing; but Stanley urged them to go into the interior and hunt, as, although deerskins and boots were useful, furs were infinitely more valuable. But the Esquimaux had much too lively a dread of the Indians to venture away from the coast, and seemed inclined to hang about the place in comparative idleness much longer than was desirable.

Chapter Twenty Three.

More arrivals—Honesty—Indians come upon the scene—The tribes reconciled—Disease and death change the aspect of things—Philosophic discourse.

A day or two after the successful deer-hunt above related, several bands of Esquimaux arrived at Fort Chimo, and encamped beside their comrades. This unusual influx of visitors soon exhausted the venison that had been procured; but hunting parties were constantly on the alert, and as game of all kinds was plentiful, they lived in the midst of abundance. To all of these Stanley made small presents of beads and tobacco, and recommended them strongly to go and hunt for furs. But they seemed to like their quarters, and refused to move. The new arrivals, along with those who had first come, formed a band of about three hundred, and were found, almost without exception, to be a quiet, inoffensive, and honest people.

As a proof of this latter quality, we may mention a circumstance that occurred a few days after the arrival of the last band. Being desirous of taking some additional soundings, Stanley launched his boat by the help of the Esquimaux, for his own men were all absent hunting and fishing. The boat referred to had been sent to the fort in the ship, and was a most useful and acceptable gift from the Governor of the Fur Company to the gentleman in charge of Ungava. Stanley hoisted his sails, and prepared to run down the river; but ere he had advanced a hundred yards, he was startled by a burst of loud cries from the shore, and, looking back, he observed the whole band of natives pouring like a torrent into the fort! His heart leaped within him as he thought of his unprotected wife and child. Turning the boat towards the shore, he ran it on the beach, and, leaving it with all the sails standing, he rushed into the square of the fort, forcing his way through the crush of natives, whose vociferous talking rendered what they said, for a time, unintelligible. At length Moses forced his way through the crowd, followed by one of the natives, who led a large dog by a line fastened round its neck.

“What’s the matter, Moses? what’s wrong?” cried Stanley.

“Oh, not’ing at all,” replied Moses, casting a look of pity at his countrymen. “Dem are great gooses. Die man here wid de dog, him say dat de child’n was play in de square of dis fort, an’ one o’ dem trow stone and broke a window. It was de son ob dis man what do it, an’ him say he most awful sorry—an’ all de people sorry, so dey bring de dog to pay for de broken window.”

“I’m glad it’s nothing worse,” cried Stanley, much relieved. “Tell them I’m happy to find they are sorry, and I hope they will keep the children out of the square in future; but I don’t want the dog. It was an accident, and not worth making such a noise about.”

The Esquimaux, however, would not agree to look upon this accident as a light matter. They said truly, that glass was not to be got so easily as the ice-blocks with which they formed windows to their own winter houses, so they insisted on the dog being accepted; and at length Stanley gave in, but took care that the native who gave it should not be a loser in consequence of his honesty. Moreover, Stanley begged of them to send up several of their best dogs, saying that he would purchase them, as he was in want of a team for hauling the winter firewood.

Next day, while Stanley was engaged in the trading store with a party of Esquimaux, he was surprised by hearing a volley of musketry fired at the back of the fort. Snatching up a loaded gun as he ran hastily out, he found that the shots had been fired by a band of Indians as a salute to the fort on their arrival.

This was the first time that Indians had made their appearance since the arrival of the fur-traders; and their advent at the present time was most fortunate, as it afforded Stanley an opportunity of commencing his negotiations as peacemaker in the presence of a considerable band of both parties. The Indians, fifteen in number, were all clothed, with the exception of their chief, in deerskin hunting shirts, ornamented moccasins of the same material, and cloth leggings. They wore no head-dress, but their long, straight, black hair was decorated with feathers and small metallic ornaments, among which were several silver thimbles. Their powder-horns and shot-pouches were gaily ornamented with bead and quill work; and they were all armed with long guns, on which they leaned as they stood silently, in a picturesque group, on the flat, rocky platform above the spring, which has been more than once alluded to.

This platform overlooked the fort, and was a favourite promenade of the traders. At present it formed a sort of neutral ground, on which the Indians took their stand. The red men were overawed by the very superior number of the Esquimaux, and felt that they were safe only so long as they stood on the flat rock, which was the only path leading to the ravine, through which, if need be, they could easily escape into the mountains.

The chief of the Indians, unlike his fellows, was dressed in a costume of the most grotesque and brilliant character, and, certainly, one which, however much it might raise the admiration of his savage companions, did not add to his dignity in the eyes of the traders. He wore a long, bright scarlet coat, richly embroidered with gold lace, with large cuffs, and gilt buttons; a pair of blue cloth trousers, and a vest of the same material; a broad worsted sash, and a hat in the form of the ordinary beaver or silk hat of Europe. The material, however, was very coarse; but this was made up for by the silver, and gilt cords, and tassels with which it was profusely decorated. He evidently felt his own importance, and stood with a calm, dignified gaze, waiting to be addressed.

Hailing Ma-istequan, who leaned on the axe with which he had been cutting firewood when the volley of the Indians arrested him, Stanley bade him invite them to enter the fort.

“We cannot come down,” replied the chief, after Ma-istequan had given the invitation. “The Eskimos are in numbers like the stars; we are few. If the pale-faces are our friends, let them come up here and take us by the hand and bring us down.”

“Very reasonable,” said Stanley to Frank, who stood beside him; “we must take care that the Esquimaux do not take advantage of their numbers to avenge their ancient wrongs.”

Then, turning to the natives, who had now crowded in large numbers into the fort, Stanley addressed them in a serious tone; told them that the time had now come when he hoped to reconcile the Innuit and the Allat (Esquimau name for Indians) together; and that he expected they would show their gratitude for his many kindnesses to them by treating the Indians, who were his friends, with hospitality. The Esquimaux promised obedience, after which Stanley ascended to the promenade, and taking the Indian chief by the hand, led him towards the fort, followed by the whole band in single file.

It is not necessary to detail the speeches that followed on both sides on this occasion, and the eloquence that was expended that evening in the cause of peace. Suffice it to say that the Indians and Esquimaux shook hands and exchanged gifts in the presence of the assembled garrison of Fort Chimo. But although the traders had reason to congratulate themselves on having so far succeeded in the establishment of peace, they could not conceal from themselves the fact that while, on the one hand, the Esquimaux appeared to be perfectly sincere and cordial in their professions, on the other hand the Indians evinced a good deal of taciturnity at first, and even after their reserve was overcome, seemed to act as men do who are constrained to the performance of a distasteful action.

In general character, the Indians of Labrador do not contrast well with the Esquimaux—at least this may with truth be said of those who afterwards became attached to the district of Ungava. The Indian is reserved and taciturn, while the Esquimau is candid, frank, and communicative. Of course there are exceptions on both sides.

On the evening of the same day, Stanley had much difficulty in overcoming the reserve of the Indians, so as to procure information regarding the interior; and it was not until their hearts were opened by the influence of tobacco, that they condescended to give the required information. This was to the effect that there were not many fur-bearing animals in the immediate vicinity of Ungava, but that there were a good many in the wooded country lying to the southward and eastward. Here, however, the Indians do not care to hunt, preferring rather to keep to the heights of land, and near the coast, where the deer are numerous. In fact, Stanley afterwards found that the facility with which the Indians procured deer in this part of the country was a serious drawback to the fur trade, as they contented themselves with trapping just enough of otters, foxes, etcetera, to enable them to procure a supply of ammunition with which to hunt the deer.

The Indians had brought a few beaver and other furs to trade, and, after receiving a good meal and a few presents, they took up their quarters on a plot of ground close to the fort. Here they lived a short time in perfect friendship with the Esquimaux, visiting them, and hunting in company; but more than once they exhibited their natural disposition by stealing the goods of their neighbours. On one occasion, two Esquimau children were missed from the camp, and in the course of the day they returned to their parents clothed in Indian costume! This was a very polite piece of attention on the part of the Indians, but the effect of it was much marred, the same day, by the abstraction of a knife from an Esquimau tent. Stanley insisted on the article being restored, and severely reprimanded the offender. But, although the general harmony of the camp was sometimes broken by such events, the friendship between the two parties seemed to be gradually increasing, and Stanley saw with satisfaction that the Allat and the Innuit bade fair to become fast friends for the future.

But an event occurred at this time which put an end to their intercourse, and very much altered the aspect of affairs. For some time past the men at the fort had been subject to rather severe attacks of cold, or a species of influenza. This they unfortunately communicated to the Esquimaux, who seemed to be peculiarly susceptible of the disease. Being very fat and full-blooded, it had the most dreadful effect on the poor creatures, and at a certain stage almost choked them. At last one night it was reported that ten of their number had died from absolute suffocation. All of these had been strong and robust, and they died after two days’ illness.

One of those who were attacked was Edith’s little friend, Arnalooa, and just before the ten Esquimaux died, Edith had gone down to the camp with a present of beads to console her. She found her much better, and, after talking to her for some time, she took her leave, promising to pay her another visit next day. True to her promise, Edith sallied forth after breakfast with a little native basket on her arm. About half an hour afterwards, while Stanley was sitting in the hall with his wife and Frank, they were startled by the sudden appearance of Edith, out of breath from the speed with which she had run home, and her face overspread with a deadly paleness.

“What is the matter, my darling?” cried her mother, starting up in alarm.

“Oh! the Esquimaux are lying dead on the sand,” gasped Edith, as she laid her head on her mother’s breast, “and the rest are all gone.”

Without waiting to hear more, Frank and Stanley took down their guns and hastened to the camp. Here a scene of the most horrible kind presented itself. The whole camp exhibited evidences of a hasty flight, and eight of the people who had died during the night were lying exposed on the rocks, with their white faces and ghastly eyeballs turned towards the sky. The other two had been buried on the rocks under a heap of stones, which did not conceal them entirely from view.

“No wonder poor Edith was alarmed,” said Stanley sadly, as he leaned on his fowling-piece and surveyed the scene of desolation and death.

“I have been told,” remarked Frank, “that the Esquimaux have a superstitious dread of this river. Oolibuck mentioned to me this morning that he has had a good deal of conversation with the natives about this disease, and they told him that it invariably attacks them when they enter this river, and carries them off by dozens; so that they never come into it except when they require wood, and always stay as short a time as possible.”

“Ah! that’s bad,” said Stanley; “I fear that it will go much against the success of the establishment. But we must hope better things; and, truly, with this exception, all has gone well hitherto. Said they anything more, Frank?”

“Yes; they hinted, it seems, their intention of flying away from this fatal spot, and taking up their abode for the winter at the mouth of False River, where they can obtain a livelihood by seal-fishing; but Oolibuck thought they did not mean to put the threat in execution, and did not imagine that they were in such alarm that they would go off without burying their dead.”

“We must do that for them, Frank,” said Stanley, turning to retrace his steps to the fort; “send down as many of the men as you can spare to-day, and get it done at once.”

“By the way,” said Frank, as they walked along the beach, “it seems that many years ago the Moravian missionaries came to the mouth of this river, and talked of setting up a trading-fort here; but, from some cause unknown, they gave up their design and went away. Maximus has been telling me all he knows about the matter; but his reports are vague, and the event must have occurred, if it occurred at all, when he was a child.”

“Very possibly, Frank. You know the Moravians have settlements along the coasts of Labrador, to the eastward of this. They may have made an attempt long ago to push as far as this. I have always had a high opinion of the energy and perseverance of these missionaries, but I cannot get over the incongruity of their strange way of mingling trade with religion. It seems to me an unnatural sort of thing for missionaries to be fur-traders. I do not mean by this to object to their system, however; I daresay it works well, but I’ve had no means of judging.”

“It is strange,” replied Frank; “yet it seems a good plan. The missionaries trade there in order that they may live and preach. ’Twould be a good thing for the Indian country if the same principles and practice actuated the traders; with this difference, that instead of missionaries becoming fur-traders, the fur-traders would become missionaries. It does seem a species of infatuation,” continued Frank, energetically, as he warmed with the subject, “that men, calling themselves Christians, should live for years and years among the poor Indians of America and never once name to them the great and saving name of Christ. Of course I do not wonder at those who make little or no profession of Christianity; but there are men in the fur-trade who seem to be deeply impressed with the truths of God’s Word—who are alive to the fact that there is no name under heaven given among men whereby we can be saved except the name of Christ—who know and feel that the Indians around them are living without God, and therefore without hope in the world—who feel that Christ is all in all, and that the Christian religion, however perfect and beautiful as a code of morals, is utterly worthless as to salvation unless there be in the heart the special love of Jesus Christ;—men who admit and profess to believe all this, yet never speak of Christ to the natives—never mention the name that can alone save them from eternal destruction.”

“Be not hasty, Frank,” replied Stanley. “I agree with you, that it is strange indeed we do not see and hear more of this missionary spirit among the traders, and I, for one, take your words as a deserved rebuke to myself; but if there are, as you say, many among us who are deeply impressed with the truths of God’s Word, how know you that we never mention our Saviour’s name to the Indians? Although fur-traders do not mount the pulpit, they may, in private, make mention of that name, and do an amount of good that will only be fully known when the trader, the trapper, and the Indian shall stand side by side before the judgment-seat of Christ. Observe, I do not say that this is actually the case; I only suggest that it is possible—may I not add, probable?”

“It may be so,” returned Frank, “it may be so, and God forgive me if I have judged the men of the fur-trade unjustly; but I certainly know one who has made somewhat of a profession of Christianity in his day, and yet has done next to nothing, and that one is Frank Morton.”

“I’ll not gainsay that, Frank,” said Stanley, with a quiet smile; “and I think we are not likely to err much when we apply censure to ourselves. It is curious that you and I should have been thinking of the very same subject. A few days ago, while my wife and I were conversing together about the Esquimaux, we agreed to devote a good deal of our leisure time next winter to reading and explaining the Bible to our Esquimau interpreters, in the hope that they may afterwards be the means of much good among their poor countrymen.”

Whether or not the good resolutions made at this time were ever put in practice we cannot say. Let us hope that they were.

Not long after the sudden flight of the Esquimaux, the Indians struck their tents and took their departure for the interior, with the intention, as they said, of hunting for furs, but more probably, as Ma-istequan suggested, to hunt the deer. During all the time of their residence at the fort, Maximus had kept out of their way as much as possible. He seldom met them without a frown of hatred, for he regarded them as the representatives of a race which had robbed him of his bride; and there were times when the giant’s spirit chafed so fearfully at the sight of the red men, that nothing but the remembrance of his promise to Stanley, to offer them no injury, prevented him from stirring up his tribe to overwhelm and destroy them. It was, therefore, with a feeling of relief that Maximus beheld them march single file over the rocky platform, and disappear in the ravine that led into the mountains.

The traders of Ungava were once more left in solitude, and from this time forward, until the winter set in, they devoted all their energies to laying up a stock of provisions sufficient to last till spring.

Dick Prince and Massan were sent after the deer in company. Augustus and Bryan were dispatched to a small lake to establish a fishery; in which they were very successful, and soon caught a large supply of excellent white-fish, trout, and carp, which they gutted and hung up by their tails to dry and freeze. Frank and Moses went to another small lake, about ten miles down the river, and built a hut of willows, in which they dwelt while engaged at the fishery. As there was still much to be done in the way of completing the fort, and making furniture, Stanley retained La Roche, Oolibuck, and the two Indians to assist him in this, as well as in the performance of the miscellaneous minor duties about the station, such as cutting up firewood, covering the roofs of the stores with tarpaulin, shooting such birds and animals as came near the fort, constructing rude chairs and tables, cooking, etcetera, etcetera; while François and Gaspard were sent up the river to fell trees, for the purposes both of building and firewood. Edith and her mother found ample occupation—the latter in the use of her needle and the cares of the household; the former in learning her lessons, visiting her berry-ravine, dressing her doll (for she had a doll, as a matter of course), and in holding long and frequent converse with Chimo.

Thus they spent their time; too busily occupied to take much note of its rapid flight, and scarce noticing the lengthening nights and shortening days, until needles of ice began with slow and silent progress to shoot across and solidify the waters of the bay.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Effect of snow on the feelings, not to mention the landscape—A wonderful dome of ice.

There are times and seasons, in this peculiar world of ours, when the heart of man rejoices. The rejoicing to which we refer is not of the ordinary kind. It is peculiar; and, whether its duration be long or short, its effect powerful or slight, it is quite distinct and emphatic. We do not intend to enter into a detail of the occasions that call forth this feeling of exultation. Far be it from us to venture into such perilous depths of philosophy. Our sole reason for making these preliminary observations is, that we may, with proper emphasis, introduce the statement, that one of these occasions of rejoicing is, when man arises from his couch, on a brilliant, sunny, sparkling morning, gazes forth from his window, and beholds the landscape—which yesterday was green, and red, and brown, and blue—clad in a soft mantle of whitest snow!

What! you don’t agree with us? You shudder at the preposterous idea of such a sight being fitted to rejoice the heart of man in any degree whatever? Well, well; do not sneer at our weakness. If we cannot sympathise with each other on this subject, perchance there are other things in which we can. But whatever be our opinion in regard to this, the point that we have to deal with at present is, the opinion of Edith Stanley, who, on rising hastily one morning, and looking forth from her little window, evinced the rejoicing of her heart most emphatically, by her loud exclamation of delight and the sparkling of her bright blue eyes.

Independently of the cheerful lightness and the virgin purity of the mantle, which in itself tended to awaken emotions of gladness in Edith’s heart, there was something in its sudden appearance that carried her back violently and vividly to bygone days. The winter garb had no associations, yet, with Ungava; but it had with Moose Fort, and the dear companions she used to play with there. It recalled the time when she and her little friends sallied forth, each with her small wooden sledge drawn after her by a line, to slide thereon down the banks of the frozen river with headlong speed, and upset at the bottom amid shouts of laughter. It recalled the time when she made the first attempt to walk in snow-shoes, upon which occasion she tripped and fell into the snow, as a matter of course, and was advised to wait till she was older. It recalled the memory of her father’s team of dogs, and the delightful drives she used to have over the frozen river; which drives often resulted in an upset, perhaps several, and always resulted in fun. It recalled the house in the old fort that used to be her home; the row of houses belonging to the men, to which she often went, and was always welcomed as a great favourite; the water-hole on the river from which the old Canadian drew his daily supply; and the snow-house in the yard which she built in company with Frank Morton, and which stood the whole winter through, but gave way at last before the blazing sun of spring, and fell—as ill luck would have it—when she and Chimo were sitting there, so that she and the dog together had a hard struggle ere they got free. All these, and many more thick-coming memories of other days, were aroused by the vision of snow that met Edith’s gaze that morning, and caused her heart with peculiar fervour to rejoice.

Winter had now descended with iron grasp upon Ungava. For some weeks the frost had been so intense that every lake and pool was frozen many inches thick, and the salt bay itself was fringed with a thick and ever-accumulating mass of ice. The snow which now fell was but the ceremonial coronation of a king whose reign had commenced in reality long before.

But the sunshine did not last long. The rolling fogs and vapours of the open and ice-laden sea beyond ascended over the wild mountains, obscured the bright sky, and revealed the winter of the north in all its stern, cold reality. Every cliff and crag and jagged peak had its crown of snow, and every corrie, glen, and gorge its drifted shroud. In places where the precipices were perpendicular, the grey rocks of the mountains formed dark blotches in the picture; but, dark although they were, they did not equal in blackness the river, on which floated hundreds of masses of ice and several ponderous icebergs, which had been carried up from the sea by the flood-tide. Over this inky expanse the frost-smoke hung like a leaden pall—an evil spirit, as it were, which never left the spot till protracted and intense frost closed the waters of the river altogether, and banished it farther out to sea. But this entire closing of the river very seldom happened, and never lasted long.

Fort Chimo itself, at least as much of it as remained unburied, was a mere speck on the edge of the white plain at the mountain’s foot, scarce distinguishable, at a short distance, from the straggling black pines and willow bushes that seemed thrust out into the waste from the ravines above and below the fort. But on a nearer approach, the fort assumed an air of greater importance; the influences, too, of the cold, cheerless scene we have described, were broken and dissipated by the sights of comfort and sounds of cheerfulness within. The shout of the water-drawer, as he roused the dogs and went forth with his empty cask, hauled on a little sledge, to draw from the bubbling spring behind the fort; the sounds of the hammer, the chisel, and the axe, in the carpenter’s shop; the merry clank of Bryan’s hammer, and the bright flame that gleamed from the window of the forge,—all bore evidence of the fact, that however powerful the influence of winter might be without, it had little power within the wooden walls of Fort Chimo, and could not check the life, or heart, or industry of man.

The only other human being visible in the open air, besides the water-drawer, was La Roche, who, with a fur cap covering his head and ears, and leathern mittens on his hands, hewed and hacked the billets with which he purposed to replenish the fire for cooking the mid-day meal.

Pausing in his labour, and dusting off the hoar-frost that covered his eyebrows and whiskers, he looked at the edge of his hatchet for a few seconds with an expression of contempt. Then, throwing the implement on his shoulder, he crossed the yard and entered the blacksmith’s shop.

“Bryan,” said he, seating himself on the edge of the forge and filling his pipe, while Vulcan’s votary scattered a shower of gems from a white-hot bar of iron at every blow of his hammer—“Bryan, you no fit for not’ing. Dat axe is blont encore. Oui, c’est vrai. Now dat is très mal. How you not can temper him edge better?”

“Timper it better, is it?” answered Bryan, putting the iron bar in the fire, and regarding his companion earnestly while he blew the bellows. “Faix, ’tis mysilf I’d need to timper better, in order to put up wi’ the likes o’ you, ye wretched crature. How can ye expict it to kape its idge when ye lave it for iver lyin’ among yer pots and kittles?”

“Dat is not it,” replied La Roche, applying a glowing coal to his pipe. “’Tis de mauvais steel. But I not com for to fight wid you. Your tongue trop long pour dat. I com for ax you to give me turn ov de grindstone, s’il vous plait.”

“Ye don’t desarve it, Losh; but wait till I’ve finished this job and I’ll lind ye a hand.”

“Be-the-bye,” resumed Bryan, when the metal was cooled, “has François finished that sled for Miss Edith?”

“Oui,” replied La Roche, seating himself at the grindstone. ”(Ah! pas si vite, a leet more slow, Bryan.) Oui, him make it all ready; only want de ring-bolts.”

“Thin it won’t want thim long. Ye can take thim over to the shop when ye go across. There they are on the binch.”

Bryan continued to turn the handle of the stone for some time in silence.

“D’ye know, Losh,” he resumed, “whin Mister Frank is goin’ to the fishery?”

“He go demain, I b’lieve, and Mademoiselle Edith go too.”

“None o’ the min goin’?” inquired the blacksmith.

“Non. Monsieur Frank just go for to try if dere be any fish to be cotch by de hook; and I t’ink he go more for to give Edith one drive dan dat.”

“Very likely, Losh. The poor purty little crature. She’s very fond o’ sledgin’ and walkin’ in snow-shoes. ’Tis well for her, bekase there’s a want o’ companions for her here intirely.”

“Ah! mercy, dat is superb, magnifique!” said the Frenchman, feeling the edge of the axe with his thumb. “It sharp ’nuff to shave de hair off your ogly face, Bryan.”

“Thin be off wid ye, an’ don’t kape me longer from my work. An’ shut the door quick behind ye; there’s cowld enough in the place already.”

So saying, Bryan resumed his hammer, and La Roche, following the snow-track across the yard, recommenced his labour of chopping firewood.

Next day, Frank and Edith made preparations for the excursion alluded to in the foregoing conversation.

The object for which this excursion was undertaken was twofold—first, to ascertain if there were any fish in a large lake about ten miles distant from the fort; and, secondly, to give little Edith a drive for the good of her health. Not that her health was bad, but several weeks of bad weather had confined her much to the house, and her mother thought the change would be beneficial and agreeable; and tenderly did that mother’s heart yearn over her little child, for she felt that, although she was all to Edith that a mother could be, nature had implanted in her daughter’s mind a longing desire for the companionship of little ones of her own age, which could not be satisfied by any substitute—not even that of a tender mother, who sought, by all the means in her power, to become a child again for Edith’s sake.

Immediately after breakfast that day Frank took Edith by the hand, and led her round by the back of the fort, towards the kennel where the dogs were kept, intending to release Chimo, who was to have the honour of hauling the sledge of his young mistress. In passing the spring, Edith paused, as she had often done before during the winter, to gaze with wonder on the transformation that had taken place in the appearance of the once green and fertile spot. Not only was it covered with deep snow, but over the spring there was formed a singular dome of ice. This dome was a subject of continual astonishment to every one at Ungava. It had commenced to rise soon after the first hard frosts had sealed up the little fountain from the open air. As time passed by, the covering became thick ice, and was bulged gradually up above the surrounding waste, until it reached an elevation of not much less than twelve or thirteen feet. Inside of this the spring bubbled up as of yore.

“What think you, Edith?” said Frank, as a sudden thought occurred to him; “shall I cut a doorway into that crystal house, and see if the spirit of the spring dwells there?”

Edith clapped her hands with delight at the idea, and urged her companion to begin at once. Then, checking him as he was about to commence the work with his hatchet, she said earnestly—

“Do spirits really dwell in the springs, Frank?”

“Why, Eda, we must send to England for a lot of fairy tales to teach you what I mean. I do but jest when I speak of spirits living there. But many books, have been written about pretended spirits and fairies, which tell us of their wonderful adventures, and what they said and did long ago. I shall tell you some of these stories one of these days. But I daresay there are no spirits in this spring.”

“Faix, an’ it would be a rale misfortune if there was, sir,” remarked Bryan, who came up at this moment, and touched his cap; “for it would be only sperits and wather, which wouldn’t kape in this cowld climate. I’ve finished the ring-bolts for the sled, sir, an’ came to see when ye would have them fixed.”

“Put them in your pocket, Bryan, for a few minutes, and lend a hand here to cut a hole through this dome.”

As Frank spoke, he drew a small axe from his belt, and began to lay about him so vigorously that the icy splinters flew in all directions like a shower of broken crystal. Bryan seconded his efforts, and in less than half an hour a block of solid ice, about four feet high and two broad, was cut out and detached from the side of the dome.

“That’ll do, Bryan,” said Frank, when their work was nearly completed; “I’ll finish it myself now. Go to the carpenter’s house, and François will show you what to do with the sled.”

As Bryan walked away, Frank dealt the mass of ice a blow that split it into several pieces, which he quickly removed, revealing to the astonished and eager gaze of his young companion a cavern of a most beautiful light blue colour. Taking Edith by the hand, he led her into this icy cave. Its walls were quite luminous and delicately blue, except in places where the green moss and earth around the spring had been torn from the ground and lifted up along with the dome. Icicles hung in various places from the roof, and the floor was hard and dry, except in the centre, where the spring bubbled up through it, and cut a channel across towards one side of the icy wall, where it disappeared under the snow.

“Oh, what a beautiful palace!” cried Edith, with delight, after she had gazed around her for a few minutes in silent wonder and admiration. “I shall come and live here, Frank. Oh! do come, and let us get chairs and a small table, and make it our sitting-room. We can come every day when the sun shines and read, or you can tell me the tales about spirits and fairies you spoke of!”

“A good idea, Eda; but I fear we would need a stove to keep us warm. It strikes me it will make a capital ice-house in spring to keep our fresh meat in. It will last long after the snow is melted.”

“Then we shall make a palace of it in winter and a meat-store in spring,” cried Edith, laughing, as she walked round this newly-discovered house, examining its blue walls and peeping into the cold black spring. Meanwhile Frank examined it with a view to the utilitarian purpose, and, after both of them had gone round it several times, they continued on their way towards the dog-kennel.

The sledge which François had constructed for Edith was made after the model of those used by the Esquimaux. There were two stout runners, or skates, made of wood, for sliding over the snow. These were slightly turned up, or rather rounded up, in front, and attached to each other by means of cross bars and thin planks of wood; all of which were fastened, not by nails (for iron-work snaps like glass in such a cold climate as that of Ungava), but by thongs of undressed sealskin, which, although they held the fabric very loosely together in appearance, were, nevertheless, remarkably strong, and served their purpose very well. Two short upright bars behind served as a back to lean against. But the most curious part of the machine was the substance with which the runners were shod, in order to preserve them. This was a preparation of mud and water, which was plastered smoothly on in a soft condition, and then allowed to freeze. This it did in a few minutes after being exposed to the open air, and thus became a smooth, hard sheathing, which was much more durable and less liable to break than iron, or indeed any other sheathing that could be devised. This substance is, of course, easily repaired, and is always used by the Esquimaux in winter.

Esquimau sledges being heavy, and meant for carrying a number of people, require large teams of dogs. But Edith’s sledge—or sled, as the men called it—was little. Moreover, Edith herself was little and light, therefore Chimo was deemed sufficiently powerful to draw it. So thoroughly correct were they in this supposition, that when Edith was seated in her sledge for a trial trip, and Chimo harnessed, he ran away with her and gave Frank a chase of half a mile over the river ere he condescended to stop in his wild career.

But the intended excursion was suddenly interrupted and postponed, by an event which we shall relate in the next chapter.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Buried alive—But not killed—The giant in the snow-storm.

The event which prevented the excursion referred to in the last chapter was neither more nor less than a snowstorm. “Was that all?” say you, reader? Nay, that was not all. Independently of the fact that it was a snowstorm the like of which you have never seen, unless you have travelled in northern climes, it was a snow-storm that produced results. Of these, more hereafter.

The storm began with a sigh—a mysterious sigh, that swept over the mountains of Ungava with a soft, mournful wail, and died slowly away in the distant glen of the Caniapuscaw, as if the spirit of the north wind grieved to think of the withering desolation it was about to launch upon the land.

The gathering clouds that preceded and accompanied this sigh induced Frank Morton to countermand his orders for the intended journey. In order to console Edith for the disappointment, he went with her into the hall, and, drawing a low stool towards the blazing stove, placed a draught-board upon it. Then he placed another and a lower stool beside the first, on which he seated Edith. Spreading a deerskin robe upon the ground, he stretched himself thereon at full length, and began to arrange the men.

The hall, which was formerly such a comfortless apartment, was now invested with that degree of comfort which always gathers, more or less, round a place that is continually occupied. The ceiling was composed of a carpet of deerskin stretched tightly upon the beams. The walls were hung all round with the thick heavy coats and robes of leather and fur belonging to the inmates, and without which they never ventured abroad. The iron stove in the centre of the apartment, with its pipe to conduct away the smoke, and its radiant fire of logs, emitted a cheerful glow in its immediate vicinity; which glow, however, was not intense enough to melt the thick ice, or rather hoar-frost, an inch deep, with which the two windows were encrusted, to the almost total exclusion of the view and the serious diminution of the light. The door was padded all round its edges with fur, which tended to check the bitter wind that often blew against it, and tempered the slight draught that did force its way through. Altogether the hall at Fort Chimo was curious and comfortable—rather shaggy in its general appearance, but sound and trustworthy at bottom.

A small rough table, the work of Frank Morton, stood close to the stove; and beside it was seated Mrs Stanley, with a soft yellow deerskin before her, which she was carefully transforming into a hunting coat for her husband. On another and a larger table was spread the tea equipage. Those who would understand this aright must for tea read supper. Among fur-traders the two are combined. Candles—dips made at the fort—had been brought some time ago by La Roche, who entered the hall by a back door which communicated with a passage leading to the kitchen behind.

“What can have become of papa, I wonder?” Mrs Stanley designated her husband by this epithet, in consequence of her desire to keep up the fiction of her being Edith’s little sister or playfellow.

Frank looked up from the board. “I know not,” said he. “I left him giving some orders to the men. We have been getting things made snug about the fort, for we expect a pretty stiff breeze to-night.—Take care, Eda; your crown’s in danger.”

“Oh! so it is,” cried Edith, snatching back her piece, and looking with intense earnestness at the board.

Frank might have observed, had he not been too deeply engaged with his game, that the expected stiff breeze had already come, and was whistling round the fort with considerable vigour.

“You’ll beat me, Eda, if you play so boldly,” said Frank, with a smile. “There, give me another crown.”

“And me too,” said Edith, pushing up her piece. As she spoke, the door burst open, and Stanley sprang into the room.

“Whew! what a night!” he cried, shutting the door with a forcible bang, in order to keep out the snow-drift that sought to enter along with him.

Two moves would have made Frank the conqueror, but the gust of wind upset the board, and scattered the men upon the floor.

Stanley looked like a man of white marble, but the removal of his cap, coat, and leggings produced a speedy and entire metamorphosis.

“Ho! La Roche!”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Here, take my coat and shake the snow off it, and let’s have supper as speedily as may be. The draughts without, Frank, are a little too powerful for the draughts within, I fear.—What, wife, making another coat? One would think you had vowed to show your affection for me by the number of coats you made. How many have you perpetrated since we were married?”

“Never mind; go and put on one now, and come to supper while it is hot.”

“I’m glad it is hot,” cried Stanley from his bedroom. “One needs unusual heat within to make up for the cold without. The thermometer is thirty below.”

While the party in the hall were enjoying their evening meal, the men were similarly employed beside the stove in their own habitation. There was not much difference in the two apartments, save that the confusion in that of the men was much greater, in consequence of the miscellaneous mass of capotes, caps, belts, discarded moccasins, axes, guns, and seal-spears, with which they saw fit to garnish the walls. The fumes of tobacco were also more dense, and the conversation more uproarious.

“’Tis a howlin’ night,” observed Massan, as a gust of more than usual violence shook the door on its hinges.

“Me t’ink de snow-drift am as t’ick in de sky as on de ground,” said Oolibuck, drawing a live coal from the fire and lighting his pipe therewith.

“Hould on, boys!” cried Bryan, seizing his chair with both hands, half in jest and half in earnest, as another blast shook the building to its foundation.

The two Indians sat like statues of bronze, smoking their calumets in silence, while Gaspard and Prince rose and went to the window. But the frozen moisture on the panes effectually prevented their seeing out.

It was indeed an awful night—such a night as had not, until now, visited the precincts of Fort Chimo. Viewed from the rocky platform on the hill, the raging of the storm was absolutely sublime. The wind came sometimes in short, angry gusts, sometimes in prolonged roars, through the narrows, sweeping up clouds of snow so dense that it seemed as though the entire mass had been uplifted from the earth, hurling it upwards and downwards and in circling eddies, past the ravines, and round the fort, and launching it with a fierce yell into the valley of the Caniapuscaw. The sky was not altogether covered with clouds, and the broken masses, as they rolled along, permitted a stray moonbeam to dart down upon the turmoil beneath, and render darkness visible. Sometimes the wind lulled for a second or two, as if to breathe; then it burst forth again, splitting through the mountain gorges with a shriek of intensity; the columns of snow sprang in thousands from every hollow, cliff and glen, mingled in wild confusion, swayed, now hither, now thither, in mad uncertainty, and then, caught by the steady gale, pelted on, like the charging troops of ice-land, and swept across the frozen plain.

Could human beings face so wild a storm as this? Ay, they could—at least they could dare to try!

There was one traveller out upon the hills on that tremendous night. The giant was in the midst of it; but weak as the bulrush were the mighty limbs of Maximus before the rushing gale. Several days previous to this the Esquimau had been sent down to his brethren at False River, to procure some seal-meat for the dogs, and to ascertain the condition of the natives and their success in fishing. On arriving, he found that they had been so far successful, that starvation (their too frequent guest) had not yet visited their dwellings of snow. But Maximus found the old woman who had formerly saved his life very ill, and apparently about to die. Having learned from experience the efficacy of Stanley’s medicines, he resolved to procure some for the old woman, whom he had tenderly watched over and hunted for ever since the eventful day of the attack. His dogs were exhausted, and could not return. But the bold Esquimau was in the prime of life, and animated by the fire of vigorous youth. The storm was beginning to mutter in the distance. What then?—Had he not faced the blasts of the frozen regions many a time before?—Without saying a word, he threw a junk of seal-flesh into his wallet, and, striding back upon his track at the mountain’s base, he disappeared in the driving snow.

Before reaching the fort, however, the full fury of the storm had burst upon him. It cast him headlong into the snow; but he rose and staggered on. Again it burst forth, and again he fell before it like a stately pine. Rising to his knees, Maximus draw the hood of his hairy garment close round his head and face, and tried to peer through the driving snow; but he could not see until a slight lull came; then he observed a hummock of ice at a short distance, and, rising, made towards it. The lulls were short-lived, however. The storm threw him down again; instantly he was drifted over with snow; another blast came, lifted the drift into the air, and left the Esquimau exposed to all its fury. But Maximus was not conquered. He rose again, panting, it is true, but sturdy as ever, and ready to take advantage of the next lull. It came soon; and he saw a rock, or, it might be, the base of a cliff close at hand. With a quick run he reached it; and, going down on his knees, began with his gloved hands to scrape a hollow in the snow. Having made a hole big enough to contain his body, he lay down in it, and, pulling the superincumbent snow down upon him, was almost buried in the ruin. Scarcely had he drawn the hood of his coat well over his face, when another burst of the storm dashed a column of curling drift upon the rock, and the place where he lay was covered up; not a wrinkle in the drift remained to mark the spot where he was buried!

All that night the storm roared among mountains with bitter fury; but next day the wind was subdued, and the sun shone brightly on the grey rocks and on the white wreaths of snow. It shone in all the lustre of an unclouded winter sky. Not only did the sun smile upon the scene, but two mock suns or parhelia, almost as bright as himself, shone on either side of him. Yet no ray of light illuminated the dwellings of the fur-traders. All was darkness there, until Stanley rose from his couch and lighted a candle, for the purpose of examining his watch.

“Hallo! Frank, Frank!” he cried, entering the hall, while he hastily threw on his garments; “turn out, man; there’s something wrong here. ’Tis past noon, and dark as midnight. Bring your watch; perhaps I’m wrong.”

Frank yawned vociferously, and sprang from his bed. In two seconds more he made his appearance in his trousers and shirt.

“Past twelve, no doubt of — yea-o-ow! That accounts for my waking three times and going off again; but—”

“Hey! what have we here?” cried Stanley, as he opened the front door, and disclosed to view a solid wall of snow.

“Snowed up; dear me! eh! that’s odd,” said Frank, beginning to comprehend the state of matters.

Snowed up they were, undoubtedly; so thoroughly snowed up that there was not a ray of daylight within their dwelling. Had Frank been above the snow, instead of below it, he would have seen that the whole fort was so completely buried that nothing was visible above the surface except the chimneys and the flagstaff. After the first few moments of surprise had passed, it occurred to Stanley that they might ascend to the regions above by the chimney, which was wide enough, he thought, to admit a man; but on looking up, he found that it also was full of drifted snow. This, however, could have been easily removed; but there was a bar of iron stretching across, and built into the clay walls, which rendered escape by that passage impossible.

“There’s nothing for it, Frank, but to dig ourselves out, so the sooner we begin the better.”

By this time they were joined by Edith and her mother, who, although much surprised, were not at all alarmed; for rough travelling in a wild land had taught them to regard nothing as being dangerous until it was proved to be so. Besides, Stanley had assured them that they had nothing to fear, as the only evil he anticipated would be the trouble they were sure to have in getting rid of the superabundant snow. While they were talking, the back door was opened violently, and La Roche, in a state of dishabille, burst into the room.

“O messieurs, c’est fini! Oui, le world him shut up tout togedder. Oh, misere! Fat shall ye to do?”

“Hold your tongue, La Roche,” said Frank, “and bring the kitchen shovel.”

The cook instantly turned to obey, and as he rushed towards the kitchen his voice was heard exclaiming in the passage—

“Ah, c’est terrible! Mais I ver’ moshe fear de shovel be out in de neige. Ah, non; here it is. C’est bien.”

Returning in haste to the hall, he handed a much dilapidated iron shovel to Frank, who threw off his coat and set to work with vigour. The tables and chairs, and all the furniture, were removed into the inner apartments, in order to afford room for the snow which Frank dug from the open doorway and shovelled into the centre of the room. As only one at a time could work in the narrow doorway, the three men wrought with the shovel by turns; and while one was digging the tunnel, the other two piled the débris in a compact mound beside the stove. As no fire had yet been kindled, the snow, of course, did not melt, but remained crisp and dry upon the floor. Meanwhile Edith looked on with deep interest, and occasionally assisted in piling the snow; while her mother, seeing that her presence was unnecessary, retired to her own room.

“There,” cried Frank, pausing and surveying an immense cavern which he had dug into the drift, “that’s a good spell. Take a turn now, La Roche, and dig upwards; we should see daylight soon.”

“Ah, vraiment, it be time, for it am von o’clock,” replied La Roche, as he plied the shovel.

The tunnel was cut in such a way as that, while it ran outwards, it also sloped upwards; and, from the angle at which it lay, Stanley calculated that thirty feet or thereabouts would bring them to the surface. In this he was correct, for when La Roche had worked for half an hour, the snow above became slightly luminous. But the labour of conveying it from the end of the tunnel into the hall became, of course, greater as the work advanced. At length the light penetrated so clearly that La Roche was induced to thrust his shovel upwards, in the expectation of penetrating the mass. The effect of this action was striking and unexpected. Instantly the roof fell in, and a flood of sunshine poured into the tunnel, revealing the luckless Frenchman struggling amid the ruins.

“Oh, pull me hout!” he spluttered, as Frank and Stanley stood laughing heartily at his misfortune. One of his legs happened to protrude from the mass as he made this earnest request; so Frank seized it, and dragged the poor man by main force from his uncomfortable position. Immediately afterwards they all three scrambled through the aperture, and stood in open day.

The sight that met their eyes was a curious though not a satisfactory one. All that remained visible of Fort Chimo were, as we have said, the chimneys and the flagstaff. In regard to the general aspect of the neighbourhood, however, there was little alteration; for the change of position in the drifts among the mountain gorges, and the addition to their bulk, made no striking alteration in the rugged landscape. In some places the gale had cleared the sides of the mountains and left their cliffs exposed to view; in other spots the gorges and ravines were choked up, and the pine tops nearly covered; and the open water in the lake was more encumbered than usual with icebergs.

“Now, La Roche,” said Stanley, after they had surveyed the desolate scene for a few minutes in silence, “go fetch the shovel and we’ll dig out the men. I daresay, poor fellows, they’re beginning to wonder at the length of the night by this time.”

La Roche prepared to descend into the tunnel, when their attention was arrested by a strange sound beneath the snow. In a few minutes the crust began to crack at a spot not more than two yards from where they stood; then there was a sudden rupture, accompanied by a growl, and followed by the appearance of the dishevelled head and arms of a man.

“Musha, boys, but I’m out!” Bryan coughed the snow from around his mouth, and winked it from his eyes, as he spoke. The first sight that met his bewildered gaze was three pair of expanded eyeballs and three double rows of grinning teeth, a few feet from his face. Uttering a cry of terror, he fell back into the hole, the snow closed over him, and he was gone!

It need scarcely be added that Frank and Stanley commenced to dig into this hole with as much vigour as their frequent explosions of laughter would allow. In a few minutes it was re-opened, and the men issued one by one from durance vile.

“Och, sirs, ye gave me a mortial start!” exclaimed Bryan, as he rose to view the second time. “I thought for sartin ye were all polar bears. Faix we’ve had a job o’t down there. I’ll be bound to say there’s twinty ton o’ snow—bad luck to it—in the middle o’ the floor.”

“There’s work for us here that’ll last two weeks, I guess,” said Massan, as he and several of the others stooped down and gazed into the tunnel leading to the hall, at the end of which Edith’s laughing face met their view.

“When did you awake, and begin to suspect that something was wrong?” inquired Stanley of Dick Prince.

“Awake!” cried Bryan, answering the question; “we awoke at laste a dozen times. I suppose it must have bin the time for brikfust; for, ye see, although we could ha’ slept on long enough; our intariors couldn’t, be no manes, forgit their needcessities.”

“We shall have to work a bit yet ere these necessities are attended to, I fear,” said Stanley. “Go, François, and one or two of you, and open up the dog-kennel. The rest of you get all the shovels you can lay hands on, and clear out the houses as fast as you can.”

“Clear out de chimbleys fust, mes garçons,” cried La Roche, looking up from the tunnel. “Den ve vill git dejeuner ready toute suite.”

“That will we, lad,” said Bryan, shouldering a spade and proceeding towards the chimney of the hall; while the rest of the party, breaking up into several groups, set to work, with spades, shovels, and such implements as were suitable, to cut passages through the square of the fort towards the doors of the several buildings. As Massan had said, it proved to be no light work. The north-west gale had launched the snow upon the exposed buildings of Fort Chimo until the drift was fifteen or sixteen feet deep, so that the mere cutting of passages was a matter of considerable time and severe labour.

Meanwhile, Maximus awoke, and sought to raise himself from his lair at the foot of the rock. But his first effort failed. The drift above him was too heavy. Abandoning, therefore, the idea of freeing himself by main force, he turned round on his side and began to scrape away the snow that was directly above his head. The masses that accumulated in the course of this process he forced down past his chest; and, as his motions tended to compress and crush the drift around him in all directions, he soon made room enough to work with ease. In ten minutes he approached so near to the surface as to be able, with a powerful effort, to burst it upwards, and step out of his strange dormitory into the sunshine.

This method of spending the night has been resorted to more than once by arctic travellers who had lost their way; and it is sad to think that many who have perished might have saved their lives had they known that burrowing could be practised with safety. The Esquimaux frequently spend the night in this manner, but they prefer building a snow-house to burrowing, if circumstances will permit.

Cutting a slice of seal-meat, and eating as he went, Maximus resumed his journey, and soon afterwards arrived at the fort, where he found the men busied in excavating their buried dwellings.

Here he stated the case of the old woman, and received such medicines as Stanley, in his amateur medical wisdom, saw fit to bestow. With these he started immediately to retrace his steps, having been directed to proceed, after administering them, to the lake where Frank meant to try the fishing under the ice. A family of Esquimaux had been established on another lake not so far distant from the fort; and having been taught by the fur-traders how to set nets under the ice, they succeeded in procuring more than enough for their subsistence. It was hoped, therefore, that the larger lake would afford a good supply; and, the weather having become decidedly fine, Frank prepared to set out on the following day.

Chapter Twenty Six.

An excursion—Igloo building, and fishing under the ice—A snow-table and a good feast—Edith spends the night under a snow-roof for the first but not the last time.

“Now then, Edith,” cried Frank, looking in at the door of the hall, “your carriage waits, and Chimo is very restive.”

“Coming, coming,” exclaimed a treble voice within; “I’m getting new lines put to my snow-shoes, and will be ready in two minutes.”

Two minutes, translated into female language, means ten, sometimes twenty. Frank knew this, and proceeded to re-adjust the sash that secured his leathern capote, as he walked towards the little sledge in front of the fort. He then tied down the ear-pieces of his fur cap more carefully, for it was very cold, though clear and sunny. The frost had set fast the lake opposite the fort, and, by thus removing the frost-cloud that overhung the open water farther out to sea, relieved the fort from the mists in which it was usually enveloped. By this time fifteen out of the “two” minutes having elapsed, he re-examined the lock of his gun, and adjusted the warm deerskin robe on Edith’s little sledge, patted Chimo on the head, looked up at the clouds, and began to whistle.

“Now, Frank, here I am,” cried Edith, running towards him with her snow-shoes in her hand, followed by her father and mother.

“Quiet, Chimo—down, sir!” said Frank, restraining the dog as it sought to bound towards its mistress. Being harnessed to the sledge, this was a very improper proceeding and was rebuked accordingly; so Chimo was fain to crouch on the snow and look back at Edith as Frank placed her in the sledge, and arranged the deerskin robes round her.

Edith wore a long fur cloak and cloth leggings. Her feet were protected from the cold by two pair of blanket socks, besides very thick moccasins of deerskin. The usual head-dress of civilised females in these regions is a round fur cap; but Edith had a peculiar affection for the Cree Indian headdress, and, upon the present occasion, wore one which was lined with fur and accommodated with ear-pieces, to defy the winter cold. The child’s general appearance was somewhat rotund. Painters would probably have said there was a little too much breadth, perhaps, in the picture. Her pointed cap, however, with the little bow of ribbon on the top, gave her a piquant air, and did away with the heavy appearance of her costume to some extent; in fact, Edith looked like a fat little witch. But if she looked fat before being wrapped up in the sledge furs, she looked infinitely fatter when thus placed, and nothing of her visible except her two twinkling eyes. So grotesque was she that the whole party burst into a loud laugh as they surveyed her. The laugh made Chimo start off at full gallop, which caused Frank to grasp the line of the sledge that trailed behind, and hurry over the snow at a most undignified pace.

“Take care of her,” cried Mr Stanley.

“Ay, ay,” shouted Frank.—“Softly, Chimo—softly, you rascal!”

In ten minutes the travellers were round the point and fairly out of sight; but the shouts of Frank, and an occasional howl from Chimo, floated back on the breeze as Stanley and his wife returned leisurely to the hall.

The road, or rather the ground, over which Frank Morton drove Edith that day was exceedingly rough and rugged—so rough that we will not try the endurance of the reader by dragging him over it. We will merely indicate its general features. First of all, they drove about three miles along the level snow at the foot of the mountains. So far the road was good; and Chimo went along merrily to the music of the little thimble-like brass bells with which his harness was garnished. Then they came to a ravine, and Edith had to get out, put on her snow-shoes, and clamber up, holding by Frank’s hand; while Chimo followed, dragging the sledge as he best could. Having gained one of the terraces, Edith slipped her feet out of the snow-shoe lines, jumped into the sledge, and was swept along to the next ravine, where she got out again, resumed her snow-shoes, and ascended as before. Thus they went up the ravines and along the terraces until the summit of the first mountain range was reached. Having rested here a few minutes, Edith once more got into the sledge, and Chimo set off. But as there was now a long piece of level ground over which for some miles they could travel in the direction of the coast, Frank took the sled-line in his hand, and held the dog at a quick walking pace. Afterwards they turned a little farther inland, and came into a more broken country, where they had sometimes to mount and sometimes to descend the hills. There were many gorges and narrow fissures in the ground here, some of which were covered over and so concealed with snow that the travellers ran some risk of falling into them. Indeed, at one place, so narrow was their escape that Chimo fell through the crust of snow, and disappeared into a fissure which descended a hundred feet sheer down; and the sledge would certainly have followed had not Frank held it back by the line; and Chimo was not hauled up again without great difficulty. After this, Frank went in front with a pole, and sounded the snow in dangerous-looking places as he went along.

Towards the afternoon they arrived at the lake where they intended to encamp, and, to their great delight, found Maximus there already. He had only arrived a few minutes before them, and was just going to commence the erection of a snow-house.

“Glad to see you, Maximus,” cried Frank, as he drove up. “How’s the old woman, eh?”

“She small better,” replied Maximus, assisting Edith to alight. “Dis goot for fish.”

Maximus was a remarkably intelligent man, and, although his residence at the fort had been of short duration as yet, he had picked up a few words of English.

“A good lake, I have no doubt,” replied Frank, looking round. “But we need not search for camping ground. There seems to be very little wood, so you may as well build our hut on the ice. We shall need all our time, as the sun has not long to run.”

The lake, on the edge of which they stood, was about a mile in circumferenee, and lay in a sort of natural basin formed by savage-looking hills, in which the ravines were little more than narrow fissures, entirely devoid of trees. Snow encompassed and buried everything, so that nothing was to be seen except, here and there, crags and cliffs of gray rock, which were too precipitous for the snow to rest on.

“Now, Eda, I will take a look among these rocks for a ptarmigan for supper; so you can amuse yourself watching Maximus build our house till I return.”

“Very well, Frank,” said Edith; “but don’t be long. Come back before dark; Chimo and I will weary for you.”

In a few minutes Frank disappeared among the rocks upon the shore; and Maximus, taking Edith by the hand, and dragging her sledge after him, led her a couple of hundred yards out on to the ice, or, more properly speaking, the hard beaten snow with which the ice was covered. Chimo had been turned loose, and, being rather tired after his journey, had coiled himself up on a mound of snow and fallen fast asleep.

“Dis place for house,” said Maximus, pausing near a smooth, level part of the lake. “You stop look to me,” he added, turning to the little girl, who gazed up in his large face with an expression half of wonder and half of fun. “When you cold, run; when you hot, sit in sled and look at me.”

In compliance with this request, Edith sat down in her sledge, and from this comfortable point of view watched the Esquimau while he built a snow-hut before her.

First of all, he drew out a long iron knife, which had been constructed specially far him by Bryan, who looked upon the giant with special favour. With the point of this he drew a circle of about seven feet in diameter; and so well accustomed was he to this operation that his circle, we believe, could not have been mended even by a pair of compasses. Two feet to one side of this circle he drew a smaller one, of about four feet in diameter. Next, he cut out of the snow a number of hard blocks, which were so tough that they could not be broken without a severe blow, but were as easily cut as you might have sliced a soft cheese with a sharp knife. These blocks he arranged round the large circle, and built them above each other, fashioning them, as he proceeded, in such a manner that they gradually rose into the form of a dome. The chinks between them he filled compactly with soft snow, and the last block, introduced into the top of the structure, was formed exactly on the principle of the key-stone of an arch. When the large dome was finished, he commenced the smaller; and in the course of two hours both the houses—or, as the Esquimaux call them, igloos—were completed.

Long before this, however, Frank had returned, from an unsuccessful hunt, to assist him; and Edith had wondered and wearied, grown cold and taken to running with Chimo, and grown warm and returned to her sledge, several times. Two holes were left in the igloos to serve as doors; and, after they were finished, the Esquimau cut a square hole in the top of each, not far from the key-stones, and above the entrances. Into these he fitted slabs of clear ice, which formed windows as beautiful and useful as if they had been made of glass. There were two doorways in the large igloo, one of which faced the doorway of the smaller. Between these he built an arched passage, so that the two were thus connected, and the small hut formed a sort of inner chamber to the larger.

“Now, dem done,” said Maximus, surveying his work with a satisfied smile.

“And very well done they are,” said Frank. “See here, Eda, our snow-fort is finished. The big one is to be the grand hall and banqueting-room, and yonder little hut is your private boudoir.”

“Mine!” exclaimed Edith, running away from Chimo, with whom she had been playing, and approaching the new houses that had been so speedily put up. “Oh, how nice! what fun! only think!—a snow bedroom! But won’t it be cold, Frank? And is the bed to be of snow too?”

The black moustache of the giant curled with a smile at the energy with which this was said.

“We will make the bedsteads of snow, Eda,” replied Frank, “but I think we shall manage to find blankets of a warmer material.—Now, Maximus, get the things put inside, and the lamp lighted, for we’re all tired and very hungry.”

The lamp to which Frank referred was one which Maximus had brought, along with a few other articles, from the Esquimau camp. It was made of soft stone, somewhat in the form of a half moon, about eight inches long and three broad, and hollowed out in the inside. Esquimaux burn seal-fat in it, and in winter have no other means of warming their houses or cooking their food. But for both purposes it is quite sufficient. The heat created by these lamps, combined with the natural warmth of the inhabitants, is frequently so great in the igloos of the Esquimaux that they are fain to throw off a great portion of their upper garments, and sit in a state of partial nudity; yet the snow-walls do not melt, owing to the counteracting influence of the intense cold without.

Maximus had brought some seal-fat, or blubber, along with him. A portion of this he now put into the lamp, and, placing the latter on a snow-shelf prepared expressly for it, he set it on fire. The flame, although not very steady, was bright enough to illuminate the large igloo, and to throw a strong gleam into the smaller one. Over this lamp Frank placed a small tin kettle, filled with snow, which was speedily converted into water; and while this was being boiled, he assisted Edith in spreading out the bedding. As we have already said, the floor of this snow-house was of the same material as the walls. But one-half of it was raised about a foot above the other half, according to Esquimau rules of architecture. This elevated half was intended for the bed, which consisted of a large deer-skin robe, spread entirely over it, with the soft hair upwards. Another large robe was placed above this for a blanket, and a smaller one either for a pillow or an additional covering if required; but both of these were tossed down in a heap at the present time, to form a luxuriant seat for Frank and Edith. As their legs hung over the edge of the elevated couch, they were thus seated, as it were, on an ottoman. A mat of interlaced willows covered the floor, and on this sat Maximus, towering in his hairy garments like a huge bear, while his black shadow was cast on the pure white wall behind him. In the midst stood a small table, extemporised by Frank out of a block of snow, and covered with the ample skirt of his leathern topcoat, which the increasing temperature of the air inside the igloo rendered too warm.

Beside Edith, on the most comfortable portion of the ottoman, sat Chimo, with an air of majestic solemnity, looking, as privileged dogs always do look under like circumstances, as if the chief seat belonged to him as a matter not of favour but of right. On the table was spread a solid lump of excellent pemmican—excellent, because made by the fair hands of Mrs Stanley. It stood vis-à-vis to a tin plate whereon lay three large steaming cuts of boiled fresh salmon—fresh, because, although caught some months before, it had been frozen solid ever since. There was a large tin kettle of hot tea in the centre of the board—if under the circumstances we may use the term—and three tin cups out of which to drink it; besides a plate containing broken pieces of ship-biscuit and a small quantity of sugar wrapped up in a morsel of paper. Also a little salt in a tin box.

All these things, and tempting delicacies, had up till now been contained within the compass of a small, compact, insignificant-looking parcel, which during the journey had occupied a retiring position in the hinder part of Edith’s sledge—so true is it that the really great and the useful court concealment until duty calls them forth and reveals their worth and their importance to an admiring world. The admiring world on the present occasion, however, consisted only of Frank, Edith, Maximus, and Chimo; unless, indeed, we may include the moon, who at that moment poured her bright beams through the ice-window of the hut and flooded the centre of the snow-table with light.

“Aren’t we snug, Eda?” cried Frank, as he filled her tin with tea. “What a charming house! and so cheap, too! There’s sugar beside you. Take care you don’t use salt by mistake.—Maximus, hold out your pannikin. That’s the true beverage to warm your heart, if you take it hot enough.”

“Tankee, sur,” said the giant, extending his cup with one hand, while with the other he forced into his capacious mouth as much pemmican as it could hold.

“Frank,” said Edith, “we must build an igloo at the fort when we return.”

“So we will, now that I know how to do it. Hand me the salt, please, and poke Chimo’s nose away from the salmon. Yes, and we’ll invite papa and mamma to come and take supper at our house.—Maximus, is this the exact way your friends build their winter houses?”

“Yis, sur,” answered the Esquimau, looking up from the cut of salmon which he lifted with his fingers in preference to a fork or knife. “Dey always buil’ um so. But not dis t’ing,” he added, touching the snow-table.

“No, I suppose not,” said Frank. “I flatter myself that that is a recent improvement.”

“We do great many igloo sometime,” continued Maximus, “vid two, t’ree, four—plenty pass’ges goin’ into von a-doder.”

“What does he mean by that?” inquired Edith, laughing.

“I suppose he means that they connect a number of their igloos together by means of passages.—And do they keep them as clean and snug as this, Maximus?”

The Esquimau replied by a loud chuckle, and a full display of his magnificent teeth, which Frank understood to signify a decided negative.

When supper was ended Chimo was permitted to devour the scraps, while Frank assisted Edith to arrange her little dormitory. It was much the same in its arrangements as the larger apartment, and was really as comfortable and warm as one could desire. Returning to the large apartment, Frank spread out the couch on which he and Maximus were to repose; and then, sitting down beside the stone lamp, he drew forth his Bible, as was his wont, and began to read.

Soon after lying down Edith heard the deep voices of her companions engaged in earnest conversation; but these sounds gradually died away, and she fell asleep, to dream of her berry-ravine at Fort Chimo. As the night wore on, the deep breathing of the men told that they, too, had sought and found repose. The lamp burned slowly down and went out, and, when the moon threw her parting rays over the scene, there was nothing to tell of the presence of human beings in that cold, wild spot, save two little white mounds on the frozen lake below.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Frank Morton gets into difficulties.

Chimo’s loud bark and the angry snarl of a large wolf, as it darted away to seek the shelter of the kills, were the sounds that awoke our travellers in the grey dawn of the following morning.

Frank started up, seized his gun, and darted through the doorway of the igloo; in doing which he dashed the door of snow to atoms. He had only the satisfaction, however, of seeing the wolf’s tail flourish in the air, as the animal bounded over a snow-drift and disappeared in a ravine.

“Ha! how cold it is!” he exclaimed, re-entering the igloo hastily; far having issued forth without his coat or cap, the two minutes during which he stood exposed to the open air cooled him down nearly to the freezing point. “Hallo, Maximus! jump up; light the lamp while I fill the kettle. Heyday! it solidifies the very marrow in one’s bones. Ho, Edith! up with you, lazy thing; there has been a wolf to bid you good-morrow.”

While Frank rattled on thus he belted his leathern coat round him, put on his fur cap, and prepared breakfast; while Edith rose and resumed the cap and cloak which she had put off on lying down to rest.

“Maximus,” said Frank, after the first duties of the day were concluded, “we must now go and set the hooks; but as cutting holes in the ice will occupy you some time, I’ll take a short walk along the margin of the lake with my gun. Be careful of Edith till I return.”

So saying, Frank went off, taking Chimo along with him; while Maximus seized the axe and ice-chisel, and began the laborious process of digging through to the water. The ice on the lake was five feet thick, but by dint of great perseverance the Esquimau succeeded in making several holes through it ere Frank returned. Each hole was large enough to contain the body of a man, but a little wider above than below. In these holes were set stout cod-lines, with hooks of about half an inch or more in diameter. They were made of white metal, and clumsy enough to look at; but fish in the lakes of Ungava are not particular. These hooks were baited with lumps of seal-fat, and ere half an hour elapsed the success of the anglers was very decided and satisfactory.

Frank hauled up a white-fish of about six pounds weight at the first dip, and scarcely had he thrown it on the ice when Maximus gave a galvanic start, hauled up his line a few yards with laughable eagerness, then stopped suddenly, under the impression, apparently, that it was a false alarm; but another tug set him again in motion, and in three seconds he pulled a fine lake-trout of about ten pounds weight out of the hole. Edith, also, who had a line under her care, began to show symptoms of expectation.

“Capital!” cried Frank, beating his hands violently against his shoulders; for handling wet line, with the thermometer at twenty below zero is decidedly cold work—“capital! we must set up a regular fishery here, I think; the fish are swarming. There’s another,—eh? no—he’s off—”

“Oh! oh!! oh!!!” shrieked Edith in mingled fear and excitement, as, at each successive “oh!” she received a jerk that well-nigh pulled her into the ice-hole.

“Hold hard!” cried Frank; “now then, haul away.” Edith pulled, and so did the fish; but as it was not more than five pounds weight or so, she overcame it after a severe struggle, and landed a white-fish on the ice.

The next shout that Edith gave was of so very decided and thrilling a character that Frank and Maximus darted to her side in alarm, and the latter caught the line as it was torn violently from her grasp. For a few minutes the Esquimau had to allow the line to run out, being unable to hold the fish—at least without the risk of breaking his tackle; but in a few seconds the motion of the line became less rapid, and Maximus held on, while his huge body was jerked violently, notwithstanding his weight and strength. Soon the line relaxed a little, and Maximus ran away from the hole as fast as he could, drawing the line after him. When the fish reached the hole it offered decided resistance to such treatment; and being influenced, apparently, by the well-known proverb, “Time about’s fair play,” it darted away in its turn, causing the Esquimau to give it line again very rapidly.

“He must be an enormously big fellow,” said Frank, as he and Edith stood close to the hole watching the struggle with intense interest.

The Esquimau gave a broad grin.

“Yis, he most very biggest—hie!”

The cause of this exclamation of surprise was the slacking of the line so suddenly that Maximus was induced to believe the fish had escaped.

“Him go be-off. Ho yis!”

But he was wrong. Another violent tug convinced him that the fish was still captive—though an unwilling one—and the struggle was renewed. In about a quarter of an hour Maximus dragged this refractory fish slowly into the hole, and its snout appeared above water.

“Oh! what a fish!” exclaimed Edith.

“Put in de spear,” cried the Esquimau.

Frank caught up a native spear which Maximus had provided, and just as the fish was about to recommence the struggle for its life, he transfixed it through the gills, and pinned it to the side of the ice-hole. The battle was over; a few seconds sufficed to drag the fish from its native element and lay it at full length on the ice.

And few anglers have ever had the pleasure of beholding such a prize. It was a trout of fully sixty pounds weight, and although such fish are seldom if ever found in other parts of the world, they are by no means uncommon in the lakes of North America.

Having secured this noble fish, Maximus cut it open and cleaned it, after which it was left to freeze. The other fish were then similarly treated; and while the Esquimau was thus engaged, Frank and Edith continued their sport. But daylight in these far northern regions is very short-lived in winter, and they were soon compelled unwillingly to leave off.

“Now, Maximus,” said Frank, as they rolled up their lines, “I don’t intend to keep you longer with us. Edith and I can manage the fishing very well, so you may return to your friends at False River, and take the seal-flesh for the dogs up to the fort. Get the loan of some of their dogs and a sled to haul it; and come round this way in passing, so as to pick up any fish we may have ready for you. The moon will be up in a little, so be off as fast as you can.”

In obedience to these orders, Maximus packed up a small quantity of provisions, and bidding good-bye to his two friends, set off to make the best of his way to the coast.

That night Frank and his little charge sat down to sup together in the igloo at the head of their snow-table, and Chimo acted the part of croupier in the room of the Esquimau. And a pleasant evening they spent, chatting, and laughing, and telling stories, by the light of the stone lamp, the mellow flame of which shed a warm influence over the sparkling dome of snow. Before retiring to rest, Frank said that they must be up with the first light, for he meant to have a hard day’s fishing; but man little knows what a day may bring forth. Neither Frank nor Edith dreamed that night of the events that were to happen on the morrow.

On awaking in the morning they were again roused by the voice of the wolf which had visited them the day before. In order to catch this wolf, Maximus had, just before starting, constructed a trap peculiar to the Esquimaux. It was simply a hole dug down through the ice at the edge of the lake, not far from the igloo. This hole was just wide enough to admit the body of a wolf, and the depth sufficient to render it absolutely impossible for the animal to thrust his snout to the bottom, however long his neck might be. At the bottom a tempting piece of blubber, in very high condition, was placed. The result of this ingenious arrangement was most successful, and, we may add, inevitable. Attracted by the smell of the meat, our friend the wolf came trotting down to the lake just about daybreak, and sneaked suspiciously up to the trap. He peeped in and licked his lips with satisfaction at the charming breakfast below. One would have thought, as he showed his formidable white teeth, that he was laughing with delight. Then, spreading out his fore legs so as to place his breast on the ice, he thrust his head down into the hole and snapped at the coveted blubber. But he had mistaken the depth, and blaming himself, no doubt, for his stupidity, he slid a little further forward, and pushed his head deeper down. What! not at it yet? Oh! this is preposterous! Under this impression he rose, shook himself, and advancing his shoulders as far as prudence would allow, again thrust down his head and stretched his neck until the very sinews cracked. Then it was, but not till then, that the conviction was forced on him that that precious morsel was totally and absolutely beyond his reach altogether. Drawing himself back he sat down on his haunches and uttered a snarling bark of dissatisfaction. But the odour that ascended from that hole was too much for the powers of wolfish nature to resist. Showing his teeth with an expression of mingled disappointment and ferocity, he plunged his head into the hole once more. Deeper and deeper still it went, but the blubber was yet three inches from his eager nose. Another shove—no! dislocation alone could accomplish the object. His shoulders slid very imperceptibly into the hole. His nose was within an inch of the prize, and he could actually touch it with his tongue. Away with cowardly prudence! what recked he of the consequences? Up went his hind legs, down went his head, and the tempting bait was gained at last!

Alas for wolfish misfortunes! His fore legs were jammed immovably against his ribs. A touch of his hind foot on the ice would remedy this mishap, but he was too far in for that. Vigorously he struggled, but in vain. The blood rushed to his head, and the keen frost quickly put an end to his pains. In a few minutes he was dead, and in half an hour he was frozen, solid as a block of wood, with his hind legs and tail pointing to the sky.

It was at the consummation of this event that another wolf, likewise attracted by the blubber, trotted down the wild ravine and uttered a howl of delighted surprise as it rushed forward to devour its dead companion—for such is the custom among wolves. And this was the howl that called Frank forth in time to balk its purpose.

Frank happened to be completely dressed at the time, and as he saw the wolf bound away up the mountain gorge, he seized his gun and snow-shoes, and hastily slung on his powder-horn and shot-belt.

“Edith,” he cried, as he was about to start, “I must give chase to that wolf. I won’t be gone long. Light the lamp and prepare breakfast, dear—at least as much of it as you can; I’ll be back to complete it.—Hallo, Chimo! here, Chimo!” he shouted, whistling to the dog, which bounded forth from the door of the hut and followed his master up the ravine.

Edith was so well accustomed to solitary wanderings among the rugged glens in the neighbourhood of Fort Chimo that she felt no alarm on finding herself left alone in this wild spot. She knew that Frank was not far off, and expected him back in a few minutes. She knew, also, that wild animals are not usually so daring as to show themselves in open ground after the break of day, particularly after the shouts of human beings have scared them to their dens; so, instead of giving a thought to any possible dangers that might threaten her, she applied herself cheerfully and busily to the preparation of their morning meal. First she lighted the lamp, which instantly removed the gloom of the interior of the igloo, whose little ice-window as yet admitted only the faint light of the grey dawn. Then she melted a little snow, and cleaned out the kettle, in which she placed two cuts of fresh trout; and having advanced thus far in her work, thought it time to throw on her hood and peep out to see if Frank was coming. But there was no sign of Frank, so she re-entered the igloo and began to set things to rights. She folded up the deerskins on which she had reposed, and piled them at the head of the willow matting that formed her somewhat rough and unyielding mattress, after which she arranged the ottoman, and laid out the breakfast things on the snow-table. Having accomplished all this to her entire satisfaction, Edith now discovered that the cuts of salmon were sufficiently well boiled, and began to hope that Frank would be quick, lest the breakfast should be spoiled. Under the influence of this feeling she threw on her hood a second time, and going out upon the lake, surveyed the shore with a scrutinising gaze. The sun was now so far above the natural horizon that the daylight was pretty clear, but the high mountains prevented any of his direct rays from penetrating the gloom of the valley of the lake. Still there was light enough to enable the solitary child to distinguish the objects on shore; but Frank’s tall form was not visible anywhere.

Heaving a slight sigh, Edith returned to the hut, soliloquising thus as she went—“Dear me! it is very strange that Frank should stay away so long. I fear that the trout will be quite spoiled. Perhaps it would be very good cold. No doubt of it. We shall have it cold, and then I can get the tea ready.”

In pursuance of this plan, the anxious little housekeeper removed the trout from the kettle, which she cleaned out and refilled with snow. When this was melted and boiled, she put in the tea. In due time this also was ready, and she sallied forth once more, with a feeling approaching to anxiety, to look for Frank. Still her companion did not make his appearance, and for the first time a feeling of dread touched her heart. She strove to avert it, however, by considering that Frank might have been obliged to follow the wolf farther than he expected or intended. Then a thrill of fear passed through her breast as the thought occurred, “What if the wolf has attacked and killed him?” As time wore on, and no sound of voice or gun or bark of dog broke the dreary stillness of that gloomy place, a feeling of intense horror took possession of the child’s mind, and she pictured to herself all kinds of possible evils that might have befallen her companion; while at the same time she could not but feel how awful was her unprotected and helpless condition. One thought, however, comforted her, and this was that Maximus would certainly come to the hut on his return to the fort. This relieved her mind in regard to herself; but the very relief on that point enabled her all the more to realise the dangers to which Frank might be exposed without any one to render him assistance.

The morning passed away, the sun rose above the hills, and the short-lived day drew towards its close; still Frank did not return, and the poor child who watched so anxiously for him, after many short and timid wanderings towards the margin of the lake, returned to the igloo with a heart fluttering from mingled anxiety and terror. Throwing herself on the deerskin couch, she burst into a flood of tears. As she lay there, sobbing bitterly, she was startled by a noise outside the hut, and ere she could spring from her recumbent position, Chimo darted through the open doorway, with a cry between a whine and a bark, and laid his head on Edith’s lap.

“Oh! what is it, my dog? Dear Chimo, where is Frank?” cried the child passionately, while she embraced her favourite with feelings of mingled delight and apprehension. “Is he coming, Chimo?” she said, addressing the dumb animal, as if she believed he understood her. Then, rising hastily, she darted out once more, to cast a longing, expectant gaze towards the place where she had seen her companion disappear in the morning. But she was again doomed to disappointment. Meanwhile Chimo’s conduct struck her as being very strange. Instead of receiving with his usual quiet satisfaction the caresses she heaped upon him, he kept up a continual whine, and ran about hither and thither without any apparent object in view. Once or twice he darted off with a long melancholy howl towards the hills; then stopping short suddenly, stood still and looked round towards his young mistress. At first Edith thought that the dog must have lost his master, and had come back to the hut expecting to find him there. Then she called him to her and examined his mouth, expecting and dreading to find blood upon it. But there were no signs of his having been engaged in fighting with wolves; so Edith felt sure that Frank must be safe from them at least, as she knew that Chimo was too brave to have left his master to perish alone. The dog submitted with much impatience to this examination, and at last broke away from Edith and ran yelping towards the hills again, stopping as before, and looking back.

The resolute manner with which Chimo did this, and the frequency of its recurrence, at length induced Edith to believe that the animal wished her to follow him. Instantly it occurred that he might conduct her to Frank; so without bestowing a thought on the danger of her forsaking the igloo, she ran in for her snow-shoes, and putting on her hood and thick mittens, followed the dog to the margin of the lake. Chime’s impatience seemed to subside immediately, and he trotted rapidly towards the ravine into which Frank had entered in pursuit of the wolf that morning. The dog paused ever and anon as they proceeded, in order to give the child time to come up with him; and so eager was Edith in her adventure, and so hopeful was she that it would terminate in her finding Frank, that she pressed forward at a rate which would have been utterly impossible under less exciting circumstances.

At the foot of the ravine she found the remains of the wolf which had been caught in the snow-trap that morning. Frank had merely pulled it out and cast it on the snow in passing, and the torn fragments and scattered bones of the animal showed that its comrades had breakfasted off its carcass after Frank had passed. Here Edith paused to put on her snow-shoes, for the snow in the ravine was soft, being less exposed to the hardening action of the wind; and the dog sat down to wait patiently until she was ready.

“Now, Chimo, go forward, my good dog. I will follow you without fear,” she said, when the lines were properly fastened to her feet.

Chimo waited no second command, but threaded his way rapidly up the ravine among the stunted willow bushes. In doing so he had frequent occasion to wait for his young mistress, whose strength was rapidly failing under the unwonted exertion she forced herself to make. At times she had to pause for breath, and as she cast her eyes upwards and around at the dreary desolation of the rugged precipices which everywhere met her view, she could with difficulty refrain from shedding tears. But Edith’s heart was warm and brave. The thought of Frank being in some mysterious, unknown danger, infused new energy into her soul and strengthened her slight frame. Having now recovered somewhat from the nervous haste which urged her to travel at a rate much beyond her capacity, she advanced into the ravines of the mountains with more of that steady, regular tramp which practice in the use of her snow-shoes had taught her to assume; so that, being of a robust constitution naturally, she became stronger and more able for her undertaking as she advanced.

For nearly two hours Chimo led Edith into the midst of the mountains. The scenery became, if possible, more savage as they proceeded, and at length grew so rugged and full of precipices and dark gorges, or rather splits in the hills, that Edith had much difficulty in avoiding the danger of falling over many of the latter, which were partially concealed by, and in some places entirely covered over with, a crust of snow. Fortunately, as daylight waned, a brilliant galaxy of stars shone forth, enabling her to pick her steps.

Hitherto they had followed Frank’s snow-shoe track undeviatingly, but near the top of a cliff Chimo suddenly diverged to the left, and led his mistress by a steep and tortuous natural path to the bottom. Here he ran quickly forward, uttering a low whine or whimper, and disappeared round the corner of the precipice. Hastening after the dog with a beating heart, Edith speedily gained the projection of the cliff, on turning which she was startled and terrified by hearing a loud snarling bark mingled with a fierce growl. In another moment she beheld Chimo bounding towards a gaunt savage-looking wolf, which stood close beside the body of a man extended at full length upon the snow.

At first the wolf did not seem inclined to retreat, but the shriek which Edith uttered on suddenly beholding the scene before her induced him to turn tail and fly. In another moment the terrified child sank exhausted on the snow beside the insensible form of Frank Morton.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Edith becomes a heroine indeed.

The shock which Edith received on beholding the bloodstained countenance of her companion completely paralysed her at first, but only for a few minutes.

The feeling of certainty that Frank would perish if assistance were not rendered tended to restore her scattered faculties, and nerve her heart for the duties now required of her; and she rose with a feeling of determination to save her companion or die beside him. Pour child! she little knew the extent of her own feebleness at that moment; but she breathed an inward prayer to Him who can, and often does, achieve the mightiest results by the feeblest means.

Raising Frank’s head from the snow, she placed it in her lap, and with her handkerchief removed the blood from his forehead. In doing this she observed, to her inexpressible relief, that he breathed freely, and seemed rather to be in a state of stupor than insensibility. The place where he lay was a dark rent or split in the mountain, the precipices of which rose on either side to a height of between thirty and forty feet. The top of this chasm was entirely covered over with a crust of snow, through which there was a large gap immediately above the spot where Frank lay, revealing at once the cause of his present sad condition. He had evidently been crossing the ravine by means of the deceptive platform of snow, unaware of the danger of his position, and had been suddenly precipitated to the bottom. In descending, his head had struck the side of the cliff, which cut it severely; but the softness of the snow into which he fell saved him from further injury, except the stunning effect of the fall. How long he had lain in this state Edith had no means of knowing, but it must have been a considerable time, as Chimo could not have left him until after his fall. Fortunately the wolf had not touched him, and the wound in his head did not appear to be very deep. Observing that parts of his face were slightly frostbitten, Edith commenced to rub them vigorously, at the same time calling upon him in the most earnest tones to speak to her. The effect of this roused him a little. In a few minutes he opened his eyes, and gazed languidly into the child’s face.

“Where am I, Eda?” he said faintly, while a gentle smile played about his lips.

“You are in the mountains, Frank. Dear Frank! do open your eyes again. I’m so glad to hear your voice! Are you better now?”

The sound of his voice attracted Chimo, who had long ago abandoned the pursuit of the wolf, and was seated beside his master. Rising, he placed his cold nose on Frank’s cheek. The action seemed to rouse him to the recollection of recent events. Starting up on his knees, with an angry shout, Frank seized the gun that lay beside him and raised it as if to strike the dog; but he instantly let the weapon fall, and exclaiming, “Ah, Chimo, is it you, good dog?” he fell back again into the arms of his companion.

Edith wept bitterly for a few minutes, while she tried in vain to awaken her companion from his state of lethargy. At length she dried her tears hastily, and, rising, placed Frank’s head on her warm cloak, which she wrapped round his face and shoulders. Then she felt his hands, which, though covered with thick leather mittens, were very cold. Making Chimo couch at his feet, so as to imbue them with some of his own warmth, she proceeded to rub his hands, and to squeeze and, as it were, shampoo his body all over, as vigorously as her strength enabled her. In a few minutes the effect of this was apparent. Frank raised himself on his elbow and gazed wildly round him.

“Surely I must have fallen. Where am I, Edith?” Gradually his faculties returned. “Edith, Edith!” he exclaimed, in a low, anxious voice, “I must get back to the igloo. I shall freeze here. Fasten the lines of my snowshoes, dear, and I will rise.”

Edith did as she was desired, and immediately Frank made a violent effort and stood upright; but he swayed to and fro like a drunken man.

“Let me lean on your shoulder, dear Eda,” he said in a faint voice. “My head is terribly confused. Lead me; I cannot see well.”

The child placed his hand on her shoulder, and they went forward a few paces together—Edith bending beneath the heavy weight of her companion.

“Do I lean heavily?” said Frank, drawing his hand across his forehead. “Poor child!”

As he spoke he removed his hand from her shoulder; but the instant he did so, he staggered and fell with a deep groan.

“O Frank! dear Frank! why did you do that?” said Edith, anxiously. “You do not hurt me. I don’t mind it. Do try to rise again.”

Frank tried, and succeeded in walking in a sort of half-sleeping, half-waking condition for about a mile—stumbling as he went, and often unwittingly crushing his little guide to the ground. After this he fell once more, and could not again recover his upright position. Poor Edith now began to lose heart. The utter hopelessness of getting the wounded man to advance more than a few yards at a time, and her own gradually increasing weakness, induced the tears once more to start to her eyes. She observed, too, that Frank was sinking into that state of lethargy which is so dangerous in cold climates, and she had much difficulty in preventing him from falling into that sleep which, if indulged in, is indeed the sleep of death. By persevering, however, she succeeded in rousing him so far as to creep a short distance, now and then, on his hands and knees—sometimes to stagger a few paces forward; and at length, long after the cold moon had arisen on the scene, they reached the margin of the lake.

Here Frank became utterly powerless, and no exertion on the part of his companion could avail to rouse him. In this dilemma, Edith once more wrapped him in her warm cloak, and causing Chimo to lie at his feet, hastened over the ice towards the igloo. On arriving she lighted the lamp and heated the tea which she had made in the morning. This took at least a quarter of an hour to do, and during the interval she endeavoured to allay her impatience by packing up a few mouthfuls of pemmican and biscuit. Then she spread the deerskins out on the couch; and when this was done, the tea was thoroughly heated. The snow on the river being quite hard, she needed not to encumber herself with snow-shoes; but she fastened the traces of her own little sledge over her shoulders, and, with the kettle in her hand, ran as fast as her feet could carry her to the place where she had left Frank and Chimo, and found them lying exactly as they lay when she left them.

“Frank! Frank! here is some hot tea for you. Do try to take some.”

But Frank did not move, so she had recourse to rubbing him again, and had soon the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes. The instant he did so, she repeated her earnest entreaties that he would take some tea. In a few minutes he revived sufficiently to sit up and sip a little of the warm beverage. The effect was almost magical. The blood began to course more rapidly through his benumbed limbs, and in five minutes more he was able to sit up and talk to his companion.

“Now, Frank,” said Edith, with an amount of decision that in other circumstances would have seemed quite laughable, “try to get on to my sled, and I’ll help you. The igloo is near at hand now.”

Frank obeyed almost mechanically, and creeping upon the sled with difficulty, he fell instantly into a profound sleep. Edith’s chief anxiety was past now. Harnessing Chimo to the sled as well as she could, she ran on before, and a very few minutes brought them to the snow-hut. Here the work of rousing Frank had again to be accomplished; but the vigour which the warm tea had infused into his frame rendered it less difficult than heretofore, and soon afterwards Edith had the satisfaction of seeing her companion extended on his deerskin couch, under the sheltering roof of the igloo. Replenishing the lamp and closing the doorway with a slab of snow, she sat down to watch by his side. Chimo coiled himself quietly up at his feet; while Frank, under the influence of the grateful warmth, fell again into a deep slumber. As the night wore on, Edith’s eyes became heavy, and she too, resting her head on the deerskins, slept till the lamp on the snow-shelf expired and left the hut and its inmates in total darkness.

Contrary to Edith’s expectations, Frank was very little better when he awoke next day; but he was able to talk to her in a faint voice, and to relate how he had fallen over the cliff, and how afterwards he had to exert his failing powers in order to defend himself from a wolf. In all these conversations his mind seemed to wander a little, and it was evident that he had not recovered from the effects of the blow received on his head in the fall. For two days the child tended him with the affectionate tenderness of a sister, but as he seemed to grow worse instead of better, she became very uneasy, and pondered much in her mind what she should do. At last she formed a strange resolution. Supposing that Maximus must still be at the Esquimau village at the mouth of False River, and concluding hastily that this village could not be very far away, she determined to set out in search of it, believing that, if she found it, the Esquimau would convey her back to the igloo on the lake, and take Frank up to Fort Chimo, where he could be properly tended and receive medicine.

Freaks and fancies are peculiar to children, but the carrying of their freaks and fancies into effect is peculiar only to those who are precocious and daring in character. Such was Edith, and no sooner had she conceived the idea of attempting to find the Esquimau camp than she proceeded to put it in execution. Frank was in so depressed a condition that she thought it better not to disturb or annoy him by arousing him so as to get him to comprehend what she was about to do; so she was obliged to commune with herself, sometimes even in an audible tone, in default of any better counsellor. It is due to her to say that, in remembrance of her mother’s advice, she sought the guidance of her heavenly Father.

Long and earnest was the thought bestowed by this little child on the subject ere she ventured to leave her companion alone in the snow-hut. Frank was able to sit up and to assist himself to the articles of food and drink which his little nurse placed within his reach, so that she had no fear of his being in want of anything during the day—or two at most—that she expected to be absent; for in her childlike simplicity she concluded that if Maximus could travel thither in a few hours, she could not take much longer, especially with such a good servant as Chimo to lead the way. Besides this, she had observed the way in which the Esquimau had set out, and Frank had often pointed out to her the direction in which the camp lay. She knew also that there was no danger from wild animals, but determined, nevertheless, to build up the door of the igloo very firmly, lest they should venture to draw near. She also put Frank’s loaded gun in the spot where he was wont to place it, so as to be ready to his hand.

Having made all her arrangements, Edith glided noiselessly from the hut, harnessed her dog, closed the door of the snow-hut, and jumping into the furs of her sledge, was soon far away from the mountain lake. At first the dog followed what she thought must be the track that Maximus had taken, and her spirits rose when, after an hour’s drive, she emerged upon a boundless plain, which she imagined must be the shores of the frozen sea where the Esquimaux lived. Encouraging Chimo with her voice, she flew over the level surface of the hard frozen snow, and looked round eagerly in all directions for the expected signs of natives.

But no such signs appeared, and she began to fear that the distance was greater than she had anticipated. Towards the afternoon it began to snow heavily. There was no wind, and the snow fell in large flakes, alighting softly and without any sound. This prevented her seeing any great distance, and, what was worse, rendered the ground heavy for travelling.

At length she came to a ridge of rocks, and supposing that she might see to a greater distance from its summit, she got out of the sledge and clambered up, for the ground was too rough for the sledge to pass. Here the view was dreary enough—nothing but plains and hummocks of ice and snow met her view, except in one direction, where she saw, or fancied that she saw, a clump of willows and what appeared to be a hut in the midst of them. Running down the rugged declivity, she crossed the plain and reached the spot; but although the willows were there, she found no hut. Overcome with fatigue, fear, and disappointment, she sat down on a wreath of snow and wept. But she felt that her situation was much too serious to permit of her wasting time in vain regrets, so she started up and endeavoured to retrace her steps. This, however, was now a matter of difficulty. The snow fell so thickly that her footsteps were almost obliterated, and she could not see ten yards before her. After wandering about for a few minutes in uncertainty, she called aloud to Chimo, hoping to hear his bark in reply. But all was silent.

Chimo was not, indeed, unfaithful. He heard the cry and responded to it in the usual way, by bounding in the direction whence it came. His progress, however, was suddenly arrested by the sledge, which caught upon and was jammed amongst the rocks. Fiercely did Chimo strain and bound, but the harness was tough and the sledge immovable. Meanwhile the wind arose, and although it blew gently, it was sufficient to prevent Edith overhearing the whining cries of her dog. For a time the child lost all self-command, and rushed about she knew not whither, in the anxious desire to find her sledge; then she stopped, and restrained the pantings of her breath, while with both hands pressed tightly over her heart, as if she would fain stop the rapid throbbing there, she listened long and intently. But no sound fell upon her ear except the sighing of the cold breeze as it swept by, and no sight met her anxious gaze save the thickly falling snow-flakes.

Sinking on her knees, Edith buried her face in her hands and gave full vent to the pent-up emotions of her soul, as the conviction was at length forced upon her mind that she was a lost wanderer in the midst of that cold and dreary waste of snow.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

A dark cloud of sorrow envelops Fort Chimo.

Three days after the events narrated in the last chapter the fort of the fur-traders became a place of weeping; for on the morning of that day Maximus arrived with the prostrate form of Frank Morton, whom he had discovered alone in the igloo on the lake, and with the dreadful news that little Edith Stanley was nowhere to be found!

It may be more easily imagined than described the state of mind into which the parents of the child were thrown; but after the first burst of emotion was past, Stanley felt that a thorough and immediate search was the only hope that remained to him of finding his little one alive. Still, when he considered the intensity of the cold to which she must have been exposed, and the length of time which had already elapsed since she was missed, his heart sank, and he could scarcely frame words of comfort to his prostrated partner. Maximus had examined the immediate neighbourhood of the lake, in the hope of finding the tracks of the lost one; but a heavy fall of snow had totally obliterated these, and he wisely judged that it would be better to convey the sick man to the fort as quickly as possible and give the alarm, so that parties might be sent out to scour the country in all directions.

Frank was immediately put to bed on his arrival, and everything done in order to restore him. In this attempt they succeeded so far as to obtain all the information he could give concerning his fall; but he remembered nothing further than that Edith had been the means of bringing him to the snow-hut, where he lay in a deep, torpid slumber, until the voice and hand of Maximus awakened him. When Frank was told that Edith was lost, he sprang from his bed as if he had received an electric shock. The confusion of his faculties seemed swept away, and he began to put on his garments with as much vigour as if he were well and strong; but ere he belted on his leather coat his cheek grew pale, his hand trembled, and he fell in a swoon upon the bed. This convinced him of the impossibility of doing anything in the search, and he was prevailed on, after two or three similar failures, to leave the work to others.

Meanwhile the mountains and valleys of Ungava were traversed far and near by the agonised father and his men. The neighbourhood of the lake was the first place searched, and they had not sought long ere they discovered the little sledge sticking fast among the rocks of the sea-coast, and Chimo lying in the traces almost dead with cold and hunger. The dog had kept himself alive by gnawing the deerskin of which the traces were made. Around this spot the search was concentrated, and the Esquimaux of the neighbouring camp were employed in traversing the country in all directions; but, although scarce a foot of ground escaped the eager scrutiny of one or other of the party, not a vestige of Edith was to be seen—not so much as a footprint in the snow.

Days and nights flew by, and still the search was continued. Frank quickly recovered under the affectionate care of the almost heartbroken mother, who found some relief from her crushing sorrow in ministering to his wants. But the instant he could walk without support, and long before it was prudent to do so, Frank joined in the search. At first he could do little, but as day after day passed by his strength returned so rapidly that the only symptoms that remained to tell of his late accident were his pale cheek and the haggard expression of his countenance. But the mysterious disappearance of Edith had more to do with the latter than illness.

Weeks passed away, but still the dark cloud of sorrow hung over Fort Chimo, for the merry young voice that was wont to awake the surrounding echoes was gone. The systematic search had now been given up, for every nook, every glen, and gorge, and corrie within fifteen miles of the spot where they had found the little sledge, had been searched again and again without success. But hope clung with singular tenacity to the parents’ hearts long after it had fled from those of the men of the fort and of the Esquimaux. Every alternate day Stanley and Frank sallied forth with heavy steps and furrowed brows to explore more carefully those places where the child was most likely to have strayed, expecting, yet fearing, to find her dead body. But they always returned to the bereaved mother with silent lips and downcast looks.

They frequently conversed together about her, and always in a hopeful tone, each endeavouring to conceal from the other the real state of his own mind. Indeed, except when necessity required it, they seldom spoke on any other subject.

One day Stanley and Frank were seated by the blazing stove in the hall conversing as usual about the plan of the search for that day. Mrs Stanley was busied in preparing breakfast.

“’Tis going to blow hard from the north, Frank,” said Stanley, rising and looking out of the window; “I see the icebergs coming into the river with the tide. You will have a cold march, I fear.”

Frank made no reply, but rose and approached the window. The view from it was a strange one. During the night a more than usually severe frost had congealed the water of the lake in the centre, and the icebergs that sailed towards the Caniapuscaw River in stately grandeur went crashing through this young ice as if it had been paper, their slow but steady progress receiving no perceptible check from its opposition. Some of these bergs were of great size, and in proceeding onwards they passed so close to the fort that the inhabitants feared more than once that a falling pinnacle might descend on the stores, which were built near to the water’s edge, and crush them. As the tide gradually rose it rushed with violence into the cavities beneath the solid ice on the opposite shore, and finding no escape save through a few rents and fissures, sent up columns or spouts of white spray in all directions, which roared and shrieked as they flew upwards, as if the great ocean were maddened with anger at finding a power strong enough to restrain and curb its might. At intervals the main ice rent with a crash like the firing of artillery; and as if nature had designed to carry on and deepen this simile, the shore was lined with heaps of little blocks of ice which the constantly recurring action of the tide had moulded into the shape and size of cannon balls.

But such sights were common to the inhabitants of Fort Chimo, and had long ago ceased to call forth more than a passing remark.

“May it not be possible,” murmured Stanley, while he leant his brow on his hand, “that she may have gone up False River?”

“I think not,” said Frank. “I know not how it is, but I have a strange conviction that she is yet alive. If she had perished in the snow, we should certainly have found her long ago. I cannot explain my feelings, or give a reason for them, but I feel convinced that darling Eda is alive.”

“Oh, God grant it!” whispered Stanley in a deep voice, while his wife hastened from the room to conceal the tears which she could not restrain.

While Frank continued to gaze in silence on the bleak scene without, a faint sound of sleigh-bells broke upon his ear.

“Hark!” he cried, starting, and opening the door.

The regular and familiar sound of the bells came floating sweetly on the breeze. They grew louder and louder, and in a few seconds a team of dogs galloped into the fort, dragging a small sled behind them. They were followed by two stalwart Indians, whose costume and manner told that they were in the habit of associating more with the fur-traders than with their own kindred. The dogs ran the sled briskly into the centre of the fort, and lay down panting on the snow, while the two men approached the hall.

“’Tis a packet,” cried Stanley, forgetting for the moment his sorrow in the excitement of this unexpected arrival.

In a moment all the men at the fort were assembled in the square.

“A packet! Where come you from?”

“From Moose Fort,” replied the elder Indian, while his comrade unfastened from the sled a little bundle containing letters.

“Any news? Are all well?” chorused the men.

“Ay, all well. It is many day since we left. The way is very rough, and we did not find much deer. We saw one camp of Indian, but they ’fraid to come. I not know why. But I see with them one fair flower which grow in the fields of the Esquimaux. I suppose the Indian pluck her, and dare not come back here.”

Stanley started, and his cheek grew pale.

“A fair flower, say you? Speak literally, man: was it a little white girl that you saw?”

“No,” replied the Indian, “it was no white girl we saw. It was one young Esquimau woman.”

Stanley heaved a deep sigh and turned away, muttering, “Ah! I might have known that she could not have fallen into the hands of Indians so far to the south.”

“Well, lads, take care of these fellows,” he cried, crushing down the feelings that had been for a brief moment awakened in his heart by the Indian’s words, “and give them plenty to eat and smoke.” So saying he went off with the packet, followed by Frank.

“Niver fear ye; come along, honey,” said Bryan, grasping the elder Indian by the arm, while the younger was carried off by Massan, and the dogs taken care of by Ma-istequan and Gaspard.

On perusing the letters, Stanley found that it would be absolutely necessary to send a packet of dispatches to headquarters. The difficulties of his position required to be more thoroughly explained, and erroneous notions corrected.

“What shall I do, Frank?” said he, with a perplexed look. “These Indians cannot return to Moose, having received orders, I find, to journey in a different direction. Our own men know the way, but I cannot spare the good ones among them, and the second-rate cannot be depended on without a leader.”

Frank did not give an immediate reply. He seemed to be pondering the subject in his mind. At length he said, “Could not Dick Prince be spared?”

“No; he is too useful here. The fact is, Frank, I think I must send you. It will do you good, my dear boy, and tend to distract your mind from a subject which is now hopeless.”

Frank at first objected strongly to this plan, on the ground that it would prevent him from assisting in the forlorn search for Edith; but Stanley pointed out that he and the men could continue it, and that, on the other hand, his (Frank’s) personal presence at headquarters would be of great importance to the interests of the Company. At length Frank was constrained to obey.

The route by which he purposed to travel was overland to Richmond Gulf on snow-shoes; and as the way was rough, he determined to take only a few days’ provisions, and depend for subsistence on the hook and gun. Maximus, Oolibuck, and Ma-istequan were chosen to accompany him; and three better men he could not have had, for they were stalwart and brave, and accustomed from infancy to live by the chase, and traverse trackless wastes, guided solely by that power of observation or instinct with which savages are usually gifted.

With these men, a week’s provisions, a large supply of ammunition, a small sledge, and three dogs, of whom Chimo was the leader, Frank one morning ascended the rocky platform behind the fort, and bidding adieu to Ungava, commenced his long journey over the interior of East Main.

Chapter Thirty.

An old friend amid new friends and novelties—A desperate battle and a glorious victory.

The scene of our story is now changed, and we request our patient reader to fly away with us deeper into the north, beyond the regions of Ungava, and far out upon the frozen sea.

Here is an island which for many long years has formed a refuge to the roedeer during the winter, at which season these animals, having forsaken the mainland in autumn, dwell upon the islands of the sea. At the time of which we write the island in question was occupied by a tribe of Esquimaux, who had built themselves as curious a village as one could wish to see. The island had little or no wood on it, and the few willow bushes that showed their heads above the deep snow were stunted and thin. Such as they were, however, they, along with a ledge of rock over which the snow had drifted in a huge mound, formed a sort of protection to the village of the Esquimaux, and sheltered it from the cold blasts that swept over the frozen sea from the regions of the far north. There were about twenty igloos in the village, all of which were built in the form of a dome, exactly similar to the hut constructed by Maximus on the lake. They were of various sizes, and while some stood apart with only a small igloo attached, others were congregated in groups and connected by low tunnels or passages. The doorways leading into most of them were so low that the natives were obliged to creep out and in on their hands and knees; but the huts themselves were high enough to permit the tallest man of the tribe to stand erect, and some of them so capacious that a family of six or eight persons could dwell in them easily. We may remark, however, that Esquimau ideas of roominess and comfort in their dwellings differ very considerably from ours. Their chief aim is to create heat, and for this end they cheerfully submit to what we would consider the discomfort of crowding and close air.

The village at a little distance bore a curious resemblance to a cluster of white beehives; and the round, soft, hairy natives, creeping out and in continually, and moving about amongst them, were not unlike (with the aid of a little imagination) to a swarm of monstrous black bees—an idea which was further strengthened by the continuous hum that floated on the air over the busy settlement. Kayaks and oomiaks lay about in several places supported on blocks of ice, and seal-spears, paddles, dans, lances, coils of walrus-line, and other implements, were intermingled in rare confusion with sledges, sealskins, junks of raw meat and bones, on which latter the numerous dogs of the tribe were earnestly engaged.

In the midst of this village stood a hut which differed considerably from those around. It was built of clear ice instead of snow. There were one or two other igloos made of the same material, but none so large, clean, or elegant as this one. The walls, which were perpendicular, were composed of about thirty large square blocks, cemented together with snow, and arranged in the form of an octagon. The roof was a dome of snow. A small porch or passage, also of ice, stood in front of the low doorway, which had been made high enough to permit the owner of the mansion to enter by stooping slightly. In front and all around this hut the snow was carefully scraped, and all offensive objects—such as seal and whale blubber—removed, giving to it an appearance of cleanliness and comfort which the neighbouring igloos did not possess. Inside of this icy residence, on a couch of deerskin was seated Edith Stanley!

On that terrible night when the child lost her way in the dreary plain, she had wandered she knew not whither, until she was suddenly arrested by coming to the edge of the solid ice on the shores of Ungava Bay. Here the high winds had broken up the ice, and the black waters of the sea now rolled at her feet and checked her progress. Terrified at this unexpected sight, Edith endeavoured to retrace her steps; but she found to her horror that the ice on which she stood was floating, and that the wind, having shifted a point to the eastward, was driving it across to the west side of the bay. Here, in the course of the next day, it grounded, and the poor child, benumbed with cold and faint with hunger, crept as far as she could on to the firm land, and then lay down, as she thought, to die.

But it was otherwise ordained. In less than half an hour afterwards she was found by a party of Esquimaux. These wild creatures had come from the eastward in their dog-sledges, and having passed well out to the seaward in order to avoid the open water off the mouth of False River, had missed seeing their countrymen there, and therefore knew nothing of the establishment of Fort Chimo. In bending towards the land again after passing the bay they came upon Edith’s tracks, and after a short search they found her lying on the snow.

Words cannot convey an adequate impression of the unutterable amazement of these poor creatures as they beheld the fair child, so unlike anything they had ever seen or imagined; but whatever may have been their thoughts regarding her, they had sense enough to see that she was composed of flesh and blood, and would infallibly freeze if allowed to lie there much longer. They therefore lifted her gently upon one of the large sleighs, and placed her on a pile of furs in the midst of a group of women and children, who covered her up and chafed her limbs vigorously. Meanwhile the drivers of the sledges, of which there were six, with twenty dogs attached to each, plied their long whips energetically; the dogs yelled in consternation, and, darting away with the sledges as if they had been feathers, the whole tribe went hooting, yelling, and howling away over the frozen sea.

The surprise of the savages when they found Edith was scarcely, if at all, superior to that of Edith when she opened her eyes and began to comprehend, somewhat confusedly, her peculiar position. The savages watched her movements, open-mouthed, with intense curiosity, and seemed overjoyed beyond expression when she at length recovered sufficiently to exclaim feebly,—“Where am I? where are you taking me to?”

We need scarcely add that she received no reply to her questions, for the natives did not understand a word of her language, and with the exception of the names of one or two familiar objects, she did not understand a word of theirs. Of how far or how long they travelled Edith could form no idea, as she slept profoundly during the journey, and did not thoroughly recover her strength and faculties until after her arrival at the camp.

For many days after reaching the Esquimau village poor Edith did nothing but weep; for, besides the miserable circumstances in which she was now placed, she was much too considerate and unselfish in her nature to forget that her parents would experience all the misery of supposing her dead, and added to this was the terrible supposition that the natives into whose hands she had fallen might never hear of Fort Chimo. The distracted child did her utmost by means of signs to make them understand that such a place existed, but her efforts were of no avail. Either she was not eloquent in the language of signs, or the natives were obtuse. As time abated the first violence of her grief, she began to entertain a hope that ere long some wandering natives might convey intelligence of her to the fur-traders. As this hope strengthened she became more cheerful, and resolved to make a number of little ornaments with her name inscribed on them, which she meant to hang round the necks of the chief men of the tribe, so that should any of them ever chance to meet with the fur-traders, these ornaments might form a clue to her strange residence.

A small medal of whalebone seemed to her the most appropriate and tractable material, but it cost her many long and weary hours to cut a circular piece of this tough material with the help of an Esquimau knife. When she had done it, however, several active boys who had watched the operation with much curiosity and interest, no sooner understood what she wished to make than they set to work and cut several round pieces of ivory or walrus-tusk, which they presented to their little guest, who scratched the name EDITH on them and hung them round the necks of the chief men of the tribe. The Esquimaux smiled and patted the child’s fair head kindly as they received this piece of attention, which they flattered themselves, no doubt, was entirely disinterested and complimentary.

Winter wore gradually away, and the ice upon the sea began to show symptoms of decay opposite to the camp of the Esquimaux. During the high winds of spring the drift had buried the village so completely that the beehives were scarcely visible, and the big black bees walked about on the top of their igloos, and had to cut deep down in order to get into them. For some time past the natives had been unsuccessful in their seal-hunting; and as seals and walruses constituted their chief means of support, they were reduced to short allowance. Edith’s portion, however, had never yet been curtailed. It was cooked for her over the stone lamp belonging to an exceedingly fat young woman whose igloo was next to that of the little stranger, and whose heart had been touched by the child’s sorrow; afterwards it was more deeply touched by her gratitude and affection. This woman’s name was Kaga, and she, with the rest of her tribe, having been instructed carefully by Edith in the pronunciation of her own name, ended in calling their little guest Eeduck! Kaga had a stout, burly husband named Annatock, who was the best hunter in the tribe; she also had a nephew about twelve or fourteen years old, named Peetoot, who was very fond of Edith and extremely attentive to her. Kaga had also a baby—a mere bag of fat—to which Edith became so attached that she almost constituted herself its regular nurse; and when the weather was bad, so as to confine her to the house, she used to take it from its mother, carry it off to her own igloo, and play with it the whole day, much in the same way as little girls play with dolls—with this difference, however, that she considerately restrained herself from banging its nose against the floor or punching out its eyes!

It was a bright, clear, warm day. Four mock suns encircled and emulated in brilliancy their great original. The balmy air was beginning to melt the surface of the snow, and the igloos that had stood firm for full half a year were gradually becoming dangerous to walk over and unsafe to sit under. Considerable bustle prevailed in the camp, for a general seal-hunting expedition was on foot, and the men of the tribe were preparing their dog-sledges and their spears.

Edith was in her igloo of ice, seated on the soft pile of deerskins which formed her bed at night and her sofa by day, and worrying Kaga’s baby, which laughed vociferously. The inside of this house or apartment betokened the taste and neatness of its occupant. The snow roof, having begun to melt, had been removed, and was replaced by slabs of ice, which, with the transparent walls, admitted the sun’s rays in a soft, bluish light, which cast a fairy-like charm over the interior. On a shelf of ice which had been neatly fitted into the wall by her friend Peetoot lay a rude knife, a few pieces of whalebone and ivory (the remains of the material of which her medals had been made), and an ivory cup. The floor was covered with willow matting, and on the raised half of it were spread several deerskins with the hair on. A canopy of willow boughs was erected over this. On another shelf of ice, near the head of the bed, stood a small stone lamp, which had been allowed to go out, the weather being warm. The only other articles of furniture in this simple apartment were a square table and a square stool, both made of ice blocks and covered with sealskins.

While Edith and her living doll were in the height of their uproarious intercourse, they were interrupted by Peetoot, who burst into the room, more like a hairy wild-man-o’-the-wood than a human being. He carried a short spear in one hand, and with the other pointed in the direction of the shore, at the same time uttering a volley of unintelligible sounds which terminated with an emphatic “Eeduck!”

Edith’s love for conversation, whether she made herself understood or not, had increased rather than abated in her peculiar circumstances.

“What is it, Peetoot? Why do you look so excited? Oh dear, I wish I understood you—indeed I do! But it’s of no use your speaking so fast.—(Be quiet, baby darling.)—I see you want me to do or say something; what can it be, I wonder?”

Edith looked into the boy’s face with an air of perplexity.

Again Peetoot commenced to vociferate and gesticulate violently; but seeing, as he had often seen before, that his young friend did not appear to be much enlightened, he seized her by the arm, and, as a more summary and practical way of explaining himself, dragged her towards the door of the hut.

“Oh, the baby!” screamed Edith, breaking from him and placing her charge in the farthest and safest part of the couch. “Now I’ll go with you, though I don’t understand what you want. Well, I suppose I shall find out in time, as usual.”

Having led Edith towards the beach, Peetoot pointed to his uncle’s sledge, to which the dogs were already harnessed, and made signs that Edith should go with them.

“Oh, I understand you now. Well, it is a charming day; I think I will. Do you think Annatock will let me? Oh, you don’t understand. Never mind; wait till I put on my hood and return the baby to its mother.”

In two minutes Edith reappeared in her fur cloak and Indian hood, with the fat baby sprawling and laughing on her shoulder. That baby never cried. It seemed as though it had resolved to substitute laughing in its stead. Once only had Edith seen tears in its little black eyes, and that was when she had given it a spoonful of soup so hot that its mouth was scalded by it.

Several of the sledges had already left the island, and were flying at full speed over the frozen sea, deviating ever and anon from the straight line in order to avoid a hummock of ice or a gap of open water caused by the separation of masses at the falling of the tide, while the men shouted, and the dogs yelled as they observed the flourish of the cruelly long and heavy lash.

“Shall I get in?” said Edith to Annatock, with an inquiring look, as she approached the place where the sledge was standing.

The Esquimau nodded his shaggy head, and showed a row of remarkably white teeth environed by a thick black beard and moustache, by way of reply to the look of the child.

With a laughing nod to Kaga, who stood watching them, Edith stepped in and seated herself on a deerskin robe; Annatock and Peetoot sat down beside her; the enormous whip gave a crack like a pistol-shot, and the team of fifteen dogs, uttering a loud cry, bounded away over the sea.

The sledge on which Edith was seated was formed very much in the same manner as the little sled which had been made for her at Fort Chimo. It was very much larger, how ever, and could have easily held eight or ten persons. The runners, which were shod with frozen mud (a substance that was now becoming nearly unfit for use owing to the warm weather), were a perfect wonder of ingenuity—as, indeed, was the whole machine—being pieced and lashed together with lines of raw hide in the most complicated manner and very neatly. The dogs were each fastened by a separate line to the sledge, the best dog being placed in the centre and having the longest line, while the others were attached by lines proportionably shorter according to the distance of each from the leading dog, and the outsiders being close to the runners of the sledge. All the lines were attached to the front bar of the machine. There were many advantages attending this mode of harnessing, among which were the readiness with which any dog could be attached or detached without affecting the others, and the ease with which Annatock, when so inclined, could lay hold of the line of a refractory dog, haul him back without stopping the others, and give him a cuffing. This, however, was seldom done, as the driver could touch any member of the team with the point of his whip. The handle of this terrible instrument was not much more than eighteen or twenty inches long, but the lash was upwards of six yards! Near the handle it was about three inches broad, being thick cords of walrus-hide platted; it gradually tapered towards the point, where it terminated in a fine line of the same material. While driving, the long lash of this whip trails on the snow behind the sledge, and by a peculiar sleight of hand its serpentine coils can be brought up for instant use.

No backwoodsman of Kentucky was ever more perfect in the use of his pea-rifle or more certain of his aim than was Annatock with his murderous whip. He was a dead shot, so to speak. He could spread intense alarm among the dogs by causing the heavy coil to whiz over them within a hair’s-breadth of their heads; or he could gently touch the extreme tip of the ear of a skulker, to remind him of his duty to his master and his comrades; or, in the event of the warning being neglected, he could bring the point down on his flank with a crack like a pistol-shot, that would cause skin and hair to fly, and spread yelping dismay among the entire pack. And how they did run! The sledge seemed a mere feather behind the powerful team. They sprang forth at full gallop, now bumping over a small hummock or diverging to avoid a large one, anon springing across a narrow gap in the ice, or sweeping like the snowdrift over the white plain, while the sledge sprang and swung and bounded madly on behind them; and Annatock shouted as he flourished his great whip in the excitement of their rapid flight, and Peetoot laughed with wild delight, and Edith sat clasping her hands tightly over her knees—her hood thrown back, her fair hair blown straight out by the breeze, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, and her eyes sparkling with emotion as they whirled along in their mad and swift career.

In half an hour the low village was out of sight, and in half an hour more they arrived at the place where a number of the Esquimaux were scattered in twos and threes over the ice, searching for seal-holes, and preparing to catch them.

“What is that man doing?” cried Edith, pointing to an Esquimau who, having found a hole, had built a semicircular wall of snow round it to protect him from the light breeze that was blowing, and was sitting, when Edith observed him, in the attitude of one who listened intently. The hood of his sealskin coat was over his head, so that his features were concealed. At his feet lay a stout, barbed seal-spear, the handle of which was made of wood, and the barb and lower part of ivory. A tough line was attached to this, and the other end of it was fastened round the man’s waist; for when an Esquimau spears a seal, he prepares to conquer or to die. If he does not haul the animal out of the hole, there is every probability that it will haul him into it. But the Esquimau has laid it down as an axiom that a man is more than a match for a seal; therefore he ties the line round his waist,—which is very much like nailing the colours to the mast. There seems to be no allowance made for the chance of an obstreperously large seal allowing himself to be harpooned by a preposterously small Esquimau; but we suppose that this is the exception to the rule.

As Edith gazed, the Esquimau put out his hand with the stealthy motion of a cat and lifted his spear. The next instant the young ice that covered the hole was smashed, and, in an instant after, the ivory barb was deep in the shoulder of an enraged seal, which had thus fallen a sacrifice to his desire for fresh air. The Esquimau immediately lay back almost at full length, with his heels firmly imbedded in two notches cut in the ice at the edge of the hole; the seal dived, and the man’s waist seemed to be nearly cut in two. But the rope was tough and the man was stout, and although the seal was both, it was conquered in the course of a quarter of an hour, hauled out, and thrown exultingly upon the ice.

This man had only watched at the seal-hole a couple of hours, but the natives frequently sit behind their snow walls for the greater part of a day, almost without moving hand or foot.

Having witnessed this capture, Annatock drove on until the most of his countrymen were left behind. Suddenly he called to the dogs to halt, and spoke in a deep, earnest tone to his nephew, while both of them gazed intently towards a particular quarter of the sea. Edith looked in the same direction, and soon saw the object that attracted their attention, but the only thing it seemed like to her was an enormous cask or barrel.

“What is it?” said she to Peetoot, as Annatock selected his largest spear and hastened towards the object.

Of course Edith received no reply save a broad grin; but the little fellow followed up this remark, if we may so call it, by drawing his fingers through his lips, and licking them in a most significant manner. Meanwhile Annatock advanced rapidly towards the object of interest, keeping carefully behind hummocks of ice as he went, and soon drew near enough to make certain that it was a walrus, apparently sound asleep, with its blunt snout close to its hole, ready to plunge in should an enemy appear.

Annatock now advanced more cautiously, and when within a hundred yards of the huge monster, lay down at full length on his breast, and began to work his way towards it after the manner of a seal. He was so like a seal in his hairy garments that he might easily have been mistaken for one by a more intellectual animal than a walrus. But the walrus did not awake, and he approached to within ten yards. Then, rising suddenly to his feet, Annatock poised the heavy weapon, and threw it with full force against the animal’s side. It struck, and, as if it had fallen on an adamantine rock, it bounded off and fell upon the ice, with its hard point shattered and its handle broken in two.

For one instant Annatock’s face blazed with surprise; the next, it relapsed into fifty dimples, as he roared and tossed up his arms with delight at the discovery that the walrus had been frozen to death beside its hole!

This catastrophe is not of unfrequent occurrence to these elephants of the northern seas. They are in the habit of coming up occasionally through their holes in the ice to breathe, and sometimes they crawl out in order to sleep on the ice, secure, in the protection of their superabundant fat, from being frozen—at least easily. When they have had enough of sleep, or when the prickling sensation on their skin warns them that nothing is proof against the cold of the Polar Seas, and that they will infallibly freeze if they do not make a precipitate retreat to the comparatively warm waters below, they scramble to their holes, crush down the new ice with their tusks and thick heads, and plunge in. But sometimes the ice which forms on the holes when they are asleep is too strong to be thus broken, in which case the hapless monster lays him down and dies.

Such was the fate of the walrus which Annatock was now cutting up with his axe into portable blocks of beef. For several days previous to the thaw which had now set in, the weather had been intensely cold, and the walrus had perished in consequence of its ambitious desire to repose in the regions above.

Not far from the spot where this fortunate discovery had been made, there was a large sheet of recently-formed black ice, where the main ice had been broken away and the open water left. The sheet, although much melted by the thaw, was still about three inches thick, and quite capable of supporting a man. While Annatock was working with his back to this ice, he heard a tremendous crash take place behind him. Turning hastily round, he observed that the noise was caused by another enormous walrus, the glance of whose large round eyes and whose loud snort showed clearly enough that he was not frozen like his unfortunate companion. By this time the little boy had come up with Edith and the sledge. So Annatock ordered him to take the dogs behind a hummock to keep them out of sight, while he selected several strong harpoons and a lance from the sledge. Giving another lance to Peetoot, he signed to Edith to sit on the hummock while he attacked the grisly monster of the deep.

While these preparations were being made, the walrus dived; and while it was under water, the man and the boy ran quickly forward a short distance, and then lay down behind a lump of ice. Scarcely had they done so when the walrus came up again with a loud snort, splashing the water with its broad, heavy flippers—which seemed a sort of compromise between legs and fins—and dashing waves over the ice as it rolled about its large, unwieldy carcass. It was truly a savage-looking monster, as large as a small elephant, and having two tusks of a foot and a half long. The face bore a horrible resemblance to that of a man. Its crown was round and bulging, its face broad and massive, and a thick, bristling moustache—rough as the spines of a porcupine—covered its upper lip, and depended in a shaggy dripping mass over its mouth. After spluttering about a short time it dived again.

Now was Annatock’s time. Seizing a harpoon and a coil of line, he muttered a few words to the boy, sprang up, and running out upon the smooth ice, stood by the edge of the open water. He had not waited here more than a few seconds when the black waters were cleft by the blacker head of the monster, as it once more ascended to renew its elephantine gambols in the pool. As it rose, the Esquimau threw up his arm and poised the harpoon. For one instant the surprised animal raised itself breast-high out of the water, and directed a stare of intense astonishment at the man. That moment was fatal. Annatock buried the harpoon deep under its left flipper. With a fierce bellow the brute dashed itself against the ice, endeavouring in its fury to reach its assailant; but the ice gave way under its enormous weight, while Annatock ran back as far as the line attached to the harpoon would permit him.

The walrus, seeing that it could not reach its enemy in this way, seemed now to be actually endued with reason. It took a long gaze at Annatock, and then dived. But the Esquimau was prepared for this. He changed his position hastily, and played his line the meanwhile, fixing the point of his lance into the ice, in order to give him a more effective hold. Scarcely had he done so than the spot he had just left was smashed up, and the head of the walrus appeared, grinning and bellowing as if in disappointment. At this moment Peetoot handed his uncle a harpoon, and, ere the animal dived, the weapon was fixed in his side. Once more Annatock changed his position; and once again the spot on which he had been standing was burst upwards. It was a terrible sight to see that unearthly-looking monster smashing the ice around it, and lashing the blood-stained sea into foam, while it waged such mortal war with the self-possessed and wary man. How mighty and strong the one! how comparatively weak and seemingly helpless the other! It was the triumph of mind over matter—of reason over blind brute force. But Annatock fought a hard battle that day ere he came off conqueror. Harpoon after harpoon was driven into the walrus; again and again the lance pierced deep into its side and drank its life-blood; but three hours had passed away before the dead carcass was dragged from the deep by the united force of dogs and man. During this terrible combat Edith had looked on with such intense interest that she could scarcely believe her eyes when she found, from the position of the sun, that the day was far advanced. It was too late now to think of cutting up the carcasses without assistance, so Annatock determined to return home and tell his countrymen of his good fortune.

It is a custom among the Esquimaux to consider every animal that is killed as the common property of all—the successful hunter being entitled to all the titbits, besides his portion of the equal dividend; so that Annatock knew he had only to give the signal, and every able-bodied man in the village, and not a few of the women and children, would descend like vultures on the spoil. Jumping into his sledge, he stretched out his exhausted frame at full length beside Edith, and committed the whip to Peetoot.

“I’m so glad,” cried Edith, with a beaming face, “that we have killed this beast. The poor people will have plenty to eat now.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Peetoot, giving increased emphasis to each successive shout, and prolonging the last into a yell of delight, as he cracked the ponderous whip from side to side like a volley of pistolry.

“O Peetoot!” exclaimed Edith, in a remonstrative tone, as the sledge swayed to and fro with the rate at which they were sweeping over the plain, “don’t drive so fast; you will kill the poor dogs!”

“Ho! ho! ho-o-o! Eeduck!” roared the boy, aiming a shot at the leader’s left ear, and bringing the thick end of the whip down on the flanks of the six hindmost dogs.

Thus, amid a volley of roars, remonstrances, yells, yelps, and pistolry, Edith and her friends scoured over the frozen sea, and swept into the Esquimau camp like a whirlwind.

Chapter Thirty One.

Another desperate battle, and a decided victory—The Esquimaux suffer a severe loss.

The night that followed the day of which we have given an account in the last chapter was a night of rest to Edith, but not to the Esquimaux.

Scarcely allowing themselves time to harness their dogs, after the news reached them, they set off for the scene of action in a body. Every sledge was engaged, every able-bodied male and female started. None were left in camp except the sick, of whom there were few; and the aged, of whom there were fewer. While engaged in the hurried preparations for departure the women sang with delight, for they had been living on very short allowance for some weeks past, and starvation had been threatening them; so that the present success diffused among these poor creatures a universal feeling of joy. But their preparations were not numerous. A short scene of excited bustle followed Annatock’s arrival, a few yells from the dogs at starting, and the deserted camp was so silent and desolate that it seemed as if human beings had not been there for centuries.

It did not continue long, however, in this state. Two or three hours later, and the first of the return parties arrived, groaning under the burdens they carried and dragged behind them. The walrus-flesh was packed on the dog-sledges; but as for the few seals that had been caught, they were sledges to themselves—cords being tied to their tails, to which a dozen natives attached themselves, and dragged the carcasses over the snow.

Peetoot, whose spirit that night seemed to be intoxicated with success, and who felt that he was the lion of the night (after Annatock!), seated himself astride of one of the dead seals, and was dragged into camp on this novel sledge, shouting a volley of unintelligible jargon at the top of his voice, in the midst of which “Eeduck” frequently resounded. At length the last lingerer arrived, and then began a feast of the most extraordinary kind. The walrus-flesh was first conveyed to the igloo of Annatock, where it was cut up and distributed among the natives. The women seemed quite frantic with joy, and went about from hut to hut embracing one another, by way of congratulation. Soon the lamps of the village were swimming with oil, the steaks stewing and roasting, the children provided with pieces of raw blubber to keep them quiet while the larger portions were being cooked, and the entire community gormandising and rejoicing as savages are wont to do when suddenly visited with plenty in the midst of starvation.

During all this scene, Edith went about from hut to hut enjoying herself. Nay, reader, be not horrified; thou knowest not the pliable and accommodating nature of humanity. Edith did not enjoy the filth by which she was surrounded—far from it; neither did she enjoy the sight of raw blubber being sucked by little babies, especially by her own favourite; but she did enjoy the sight of so much plenty where, but a few hours ago, starvation had begun to threaten a visit; and she did enjoy and heartily sympathise with the undoubted and great happiness of her hospitable friends. A very savoury dish, with a due proportion of lean to the fat, cut specially to suit her taste, smoked on Eeduck’s table that night, and Peetoot and the baby helped her to eat it. Really it would be a matter of nice calculation to ascertain whether Peetoot or the baby laughed most on this jovial occasion. Undoubtedly the former had the best of it in regard to mere noise; nevertheless the pipe of the latter was uncommonly shrill, and at times remarkably racy and obstreperous. But as the hours flew by, the children throughout the camp generally fell asleep, while their seniors sat quietly and contentedly round their kettles and lamps, eating and slumbering by turns. The amount of food consumed was enormous, and quite beyond the belief of men accustomed to the appetites of temperate zones; but we beg them to remember that arctic frosts require to be met with arctic stimulants, and of these an immense quantity of unctuous food is the best.

Next morning the Esquimaux were up and away by daybreak, with their dogs and sledges, to bring home the remainder of the walrus-meat; for these poor people are not naturally improvident, and do not idle their time in luxurious indolence until necessity urges them forth again in search of food. In this respect they are superior to Indians, who are notoriously improvident and regardless of the morrow.

This day was signalised by another piece of success on the part of Annatock and his nephew, who went to the scene of yesterday’s battle on foot. Edith remained behind, having resolved to devote herself entirely to the baby, to make up for her neglect of the previous day. On reaching the place where the walrus had been slain, Annatock cut off and bound up a portion with which he intended to return to the camp. While he was thus employed, along with a dozen or more of his countrymen, Peetoot came running towards him, saying that he thought he saw a seal lying on the ice far ahead. Having a harpoon and two spears with them, Annatock left his work and followed his nephew to the spot where it was supposed to be lying. But on reaching the place they found that it was gone, and a few bells floating at the surface of the hole showed where it had made its descent to the element below. With the characteristic indifference of a man accustomed to the vicissitudes and the disappointments of a hunter’s life, the elder Esquimau uttered a grunt and turned away. But he had not proceeded more than a few paces when his eye became riveted on the track of some animal on the ice, which appeared to his practised eye to be quite fresh. Upon examination this proved to be the case, and Annatock spoke earnestly for a few minutes with his nephew. The boy appeared from his gestures to be making some determined remarks, and seemed not a little hurt at the doubting way in which his uncle shook his head. At length Peetoot seized a spear, and, turning away, followed the track of the animal with a rapid and determined air; while Annatock, grasping the other spear, followed in the boy’s track.

A brisk walk of half an hour over the ice and hummocks of the sea carried them out of sight of their companions, but did not bring them up with the animal of which they were in chase. At length Peetoot halted, and stooped to scrutinise the track more attentively. As he did so an enormous white bear stalked out from behind a neighbouring hummock of ice, and after gazing at him for a second or two, turned round and walked slowly away.

The elder Esquimau cast a doubtful glance at his nephew, while he lowered the point of his spear and seemed to hesitate; but the boy did not wait. Levelling his spear, he uttered a wild shout and ran towards the animal, which instantly turned towards the approaching enemy with a look of defiance. If Annatock had entertained any doubts of his nephew’s courage before, he had none now; so, casting aside all further thought on the subject, he ran forward along with him to attack the bear. This was a matter attended with much danger, however, and there was some reason in the man feeling a little uncertainty as to the courage of a youth who, he was aware, now faced a bear for the first time in his life!

At first the two hunters advanced side by side towards the fierce-looking monster, but as they drew near they separated, and approached one on the right, the other on the left of the bear. As it was determined that Annatock should give the death-wound, he went towards the left side and hung back a moment, while Peetoot advanced to the right. When about three yards distant the bear rose. The action had a powerful and visible effect upon the boy; for as polar bears are comparatively long-bodied and short-legged, their true proportions are not fully displayed until they rear on their hind legs. It seemed as if the animal actually grew taller and more enormous in the act of rising, and the boy’s cheek blanched while he shrank backwards for a moment. It was only for a moment, however. A quick word of encouragement from Annatock recalled him. He stepped boldly forward as the bear was glancing savagely from side to side, uncertain which enemy to attack first, and, thrusting his lance forward, pricked it sharply on the side. This decided the point. With a ferocious growl the animal turned to fall upon its insignificant enemy. In doing so its left shoulder was fully exposed to Annatock, who, with a dart like lightning, plunged his spear deep into its heart. A powerful shudder shook the monster’s frame as it fell dead upon the ice.

Annatock stood for a few minutes leaning on his spear, and regarding the bear with a grim look of satisfaction; while Peetoot laughed, and shouted, and danced around it like a maniac. How long he would have continued these wild demonstrations it is difficult to say—probably until he was exhausted—but his uncle brought them to a speedy termination by bringing the butt-end of his spear into smart contact with Peetoot’s flank. With a howl, in which consternation mingled with his glee, the boy darted away over the ice like a reindeer to convey the glad news to his friends, and to fetch a sledge for the bear’s carcass.

On returning to the village there was immediately instituted another royal feast, which continued from day to day, gradually decreasing in joyous intensity as the provender decreased in bulk, until the walruses, the bear, and the seals were entirely consumed.

Soon after this the weather became decidedly mild, and the power of the sun’s rays was so great that the snow on the island and the ice on the sea began to be resolved into water. During this period several important changes took place in the manners and customs of the Esquimaux. The women, who had worn deerskin shoes during the winter, put on their enormous waterproof summer boots. The men, when out on the ice in search of seals, used a pair of wooden spectacles, with two narrow slits to peep through, in order to protect their eyes from the snow-blindness caused by the glare of the sun on the ice and snow—a complaint which is apt to attack all arctic travellers in spring if not guarded against by some such appliance as the clumsy wooden spectacles of the Esquimaux. Active preparations were also made for the erection of skin summer tents, and the launching of kayaks and oomiaks. Moreover, little boys were forbidden to walk, as they had been wont to do, on the tops of the snow-houses, lest they should damage the rapidly-decaying roofs; but little boys in the far north inherit that tendency to disobedience which is natural to the children of Adam the world over, and on more than one occasion, having ventured to run over the igloos, were caught in the act by the thrusting of a leg now and then through the roofs thereof, to the indignation of the inmates below.

A catastrophe of this sort happened to poor Peetoot not long after the slaying of the polar bear, and brought the winter camp to an abrupt termination.

Edith had been amusing herself in her house of ice all the morning with her adopted baby, and was in the act of feeding it with a choice morsel of seal-fat, partially cooked, to avoid doing violence to her own prejudices, and very much under-done in order to suit the Esquimau baby’s taste—when Peetoot rushed violently into the hut, shouted Eeduck with a boisterous smile, seized the baby in his arms, and carried it off to its mother. Edith was accustomed to have it thus torn from her by the boy, who was usually sent as a messenger when Kaga happened to desire the loan of her offspring.

The igloo in which Kaga and her relations dwelt was the largest in the village. It was fully thirty feet in diameter. The passage leading to it was a hundred yards long, by five feet wide and six feet high, and from this passage branched several others of various lengths, leading to different storehouses and to other dwellings. The whiteness of the snow of which this princely mansion and its offices were composed was not much altered on the exterior; but in the interior a long winter of cooking and stewing and general filthiness had turned the walls and roofs quite black. Being somewhat lazy, Peetoot preferred the old plan of walking over this palace to going round by the entrance, which faced the south. Accordingly, he hoisted the fat and smiling infant on his shoulder, and bounded over the dome-shaped roof of Kaga’s igloo. Alas for the result of disobedience! No sooner had his foot touched the key-stone of the arch than down it went. Dinner was being cooked and consumed by twenty people below at the time. The key-stone buried a joint of walrus-beef, and instantly Peetoot and the baby lay sprawling on the top of it. But this was not all. The roof, unable to support its own weight, cracked and fell in with a dire crash. The men, women, and children struggled to disentomb themselves, and in doing so mixed up the oil of the lamps, the soup of their kettles, the black soot of the walls and roof, the dogs that had sneaked in, the junks of cooked, half-cooked, and raw blubber, and their own hairy-coated persons, into a conglomerate so atrocious to behold, or even think upon, that we are constrained to draw a curtain over the scene and spare the reader’s feelings. This event caused the Esquimaux to forsake the igloos, and pitch their skin tents on a spot a little to the southward of their wintering ground, which, being more exposed to the sun’s rays, was now free from snow.

They had not been encamped here more than three days when an event occurred which threw the camp into deep grief for a time. This was the loss of their great hunter, Annatock, the husband of Kaga. One of those tremendous north-west gales, which now and then visit the arctic seas and lands with such devastating fury, had set in while Annatock was out on the ice-floe in search of seals. Many of his comrades had started with him that day, but being a bold man, he had pushed beyond them all. When the gale came on the Esquimau hunters prepared to return home as fast as possible, fearing that the decaying ice might break up and drift away with them out to sea. Before starting they were alarmed to find that the seaward ice was actually in motion. It was on this ice that Annatock was employed; and his countrymen would fain have gone to warn him of his danger, but a gap of thirty feet already separated the floe from the main ice, and although they could perceive their friend in the far distance, busily employed on the ice, they could not make their voices heard. As the gale increased the floe drifted faster out to sea, and Annatock was observed running anxiously towards the land; but before he reached the edge of the ice-raft on which he stood, the increasing distance and the drifting clouds of snow hid him from view. Then his companions, fearful for their own safety, hastened back to the camp with the sad news.

At first Kaga seemed quite inconsolable, and Edith exerted herself as a comforter without success; but as time wore on the poor woman’s grief abated, and hope began to revive within her bosom. She recollected that the event which had befallen her husband had befallen some of her friends before in exactly similar circumstances, and that, although on many occasions the result had been fatal, there were not a few instances in which the lost ones had been driven on their ice-raft to distant parts of the shore, and after months, sometimes years, of hardship and suffering, had returned to their families and homes.

Still this hope was at best a poor one. For the few instances there were of return from such dangers, there were dozens in which the poor Esquimaux were never heard of more; and the heart of the woman sank within her as she thought of the terrible night on which her husband was lost, and the great, stormy, ice-laden sea, over whose surging bosom he was drifted. But the complex machinery of this world is set in motion and guided by One whose power and wisdom infinitely transcend those of the most exalted of His creatures; and it is a truth well worthy of being reiterated and re-impressed upon our memories, that in His hands those events that seem most adverse to man often turn out to be for his good.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Edith waxes melancholy, but her sadness is suddenly turned into joy; and the Esquimaux receive a surprise, and find a friend, and lose one.

The sea! How many stout hearts thrill and manly bosoms swell at the sound of that little word, or rather at the thought of all that it conveys! How many there are that reverence and love thy power and beauty, thy freedom and majesty, O sea! Wherein consists the potent charm that draws mankind towards thee with such irresistible affection? Is it in the calm tranquillity of thy waters, when thou liest like a sheet of crystal, with a bright refulgent sky reflected in thy soft bosom, and the white ships resting there as if in empty space, and the glad sea-mews rippling thy surface for a brief moment and then sailing from the blue below to the deeper blue above, and the soft song of thy wavelets as they slide upon the shingly shore or lip among the caves and hollows of the rocks! Or is it in the loud roar of thy billows, as they dash and fume and lash in fury on the coasts that dare to curb thy might?—that might which, commencing, mayhap, in the torrid zone of the south, has rolled and leaped in majesty across the waste of waters, tossed leviathans as playthings in its strength, rushed impetuously over half the globe, and burst at last in helplessness upon a bed of sand! Or does the charm lie in the yet fiercer strife of the tempest and the hurricane, when the elements, let loose, sweep round the shrinking world in fury; or in the ever-changing aspect of thy countenance, now bright and fair, now ruffled with the rising breeze, or darkened by the thunder-cloud that bodes the coming storm!

Ah yes! methinks not one but all of these combined do constitute the charm which draws mankind to thee, bright ocean, and fills his soul with sympathy and love. For in the changeful aspects of thy visage there are talismans which touch the varied chords that vibrate in the hearts of men. Perchance, in the bold whistle of thy winds, and the mad rolling of thy waves, an emblem of freedom is recognised by crushed and chafing spirits longing to be free. They cannot wall thee round. They cannot map thee into acres and hedge thee in, and leave us naught but narrow roads between. No ploughshare cleaves thee save the passing keel; no prince or monarch owns thy haughty waves. In thy hidden caverns are treasures surpassing those of earth; and those who dwell on thee in ships behold the wonders of the mighty deep. We bow in adoration to thy great Creator; and we bow to thee in love and reverence and sympathy, O sea!

Edith sat on the sea-shore. The glassy waves were no longer encumbered with ice, but shone like burnished gold in the light of the summer sun. Here and there, however, a large iceberg floated on the deep—a souvenir of winter past, a guarantee of winter yet to come. At the base of these blue islands the sea, calm though it was, broke in a continual roar of surf, and round their pinnacles the circling sea-birds sailed. The yellow sands on which the child sat, the green willows that fringed the background of brown rocks, and the warm sun, contrasted powerfully with the vestiges of winter on the sea, while a bright parhelia in the sky enriched and strengthened these characteristics of an arctic summer.

There was busy life and commotion in the Esquimau camp, from which Edith had retired to some distance to indulge in solitude the sad reveries of home, which weighed more heavily on her mind as the time flew by and the hope of speedy delivery began to fade.

“O my own dear mother,” sighed the child aloud, while a tear trickled down each cheek, “shall I never see you more? My heart is heavy with wishing, always wishing. But no one comes. I never see a boat or a ship on that wide, wide sea. Oh, when, when will it come?”

She paused, and, as she had often done before, laid her face on her hands and wept. But Edith soon recovered. These bursts of grief never lasted long, for the child was strong in hope. She never doubted that deliverance would come at last; and she never failed to supplicate at the throne of mercy, to which her mother had early taught her to fly in every time of trouble and distress.

Soon her attention was attracted from the sea, over whose wide expanse she had been gazing wistfully, by the loud voices of the Esquimaux, as a number of them prepared to embark in their kayaks. Several small whales had been descried, and the natives, ever on the alert, were about to attack them. Presently Edith observed Peetoot running along the beach towards her with a seal-spear or harpoon in his hand. This youth was a remarkably intelligent fellow, and had picked up a few words and sentences of English, of which he made the most.

“Eeduck! Eeduck!” he cried, pointing to one of the oomiaks which the women were launching, “you go kill whale—funny; yes, Eeduck.”

“I don’t think it will be very funny,” said Edith, laughing; “but I’ll go to please you, Peetoot.”

“Goot, Eeduck; you is goot,” shouted the boy, while he flourished his harpoon, and seizing his companion by the hand, dragged her in the direction of the kayaks.

In a few minutes Edith was ensconced in the centre of the oomiak amid a pack of noisy Esquimau women, whose tongues were loosed and spirits raised by the hope of a successful hunt. They went merely for the purpose of witnessing the sport, which was to be prosecuted by twelve or thirteen men, each in his arrow-like kayak. The women sat round their clumsy boat with their faces to the bow, each wielding a short, broad paddle, with which they propelled their craft at good speed over the glassy wave; but a few alternate dips of the long double-bladed paddles of the kayaks quickly sent the men far ahead of them. In the stern of the oomiak sat an old grey-headed man, who filled the office of steersman; a duty which usually devolves upon old men after they become unfit to manage the kayak. Indeed, it requires much vigour as well as practice to paddle the kayak, for it is so easily upset that a man could not sit in it for a minute without the long paddle, in the clever use of which lies the security of the Esquimau.

When the flotilla had paddled out a short distance a whale rose, and lay as if basking on the surface of the water. Instantly the men in the kayaks shot towards it, while the oomiak followed as fast as possible. On drawing near, the first Esquimau prepared his harpoon. To the barb of this weapon a stout line, from eight to twelve fathoms long, was attached, having a dan, or float, made of a sealskin at the other end of it. The dan was large enough to hold fifteen gallons or more.

Having paddled close to the whale, the Esquimau fixed the harpoon deep in its side, and threw the dan overboard. The whale dived in an agony, carrying the dan down along with it, and the Esquimau, picking up the liberated handle of the harpoon as he passed, paddled in the direction he supposed the whale must have taken. In a short time the dan re-appeared at no great distance. The kayaks, as if shot from a bow, darted towards the spot, and before the huge fish could dive a second time, it received two more harpoons and several deep stabs from the lances of the Esquimaux. Again it dived, carrying two additional dans down with it. But the dragging tendency of these three large floats, combined with the deep wounds it had received, brought the fish sooner than before to the surface, where it was instantly met and assailed by its relentless pursuers, who, in the course of little more than an hour, killed it, and dragged it in triumph to the shore.

The natives were still occupied in towing the captured fish, when one of the men uttered a wild shout, and pointed eagerly out to sea. At first Edith imagined that they must have seen another whale in the distance; but this opinion was quickly altered when she observed the eager haste with which they paddled towards the land, and the looks of surprise with which, ever and anon, they regarded the object on the horizon. This object seemed a mere speck to Edith’s unaccustomed eyes; but as she gazed long and earnestly at it, a thought flashed across her mind. She sprang up; her sparkling eyes seemed as though they would burst from their sockets in her eager desire to make out this object of so great interest. At this moment the oomiak touched the land. With a bound like a gazelle Edith sprang on shore and ran panting with excitement to the top of a rocky eminence. Here she again directed her earnest gaze out to sea, while her colour went and came as she pressed her hands upon her breast in an agony of hope. Slowly but surely the speck came on; the wind shifted a point, which caused a gleam of sunlight to fall upon a sail. It was a boat! there could be no doubt of it—and making directly for the island! Unable to contain herself, Edith, uttering a piercing cry, sank upon the ground and burst into a passionate flood of tears. It was the irresistible impulse of hope long deferred at length realised; for the child did not entertain a doubt that this was at length the answer to her prayers.

Meanwhile the Esquimaux ran about in a state of extraordinary excitement. These people had very probably heard of the ships which once a year pass through Hudson’s Straits on their way to the depôts on the shores of Hudson’s Bay; but they had never met with them, or seen a Kublunat (white face) before that great day in their annals of discovery when they found little Edith fainting in the snow. Their sharp eyes had at once detected that the approaching boat was utterly different from their own kayaks or oomiaks. And truly it was; for as she drew near with her white sails bending before the evening breeze that had recently sprung up, and the Union Jack flying from her peak, and the foam curling before her sharp prow, she seemed a very model of grace and symmetry.

There were only three figures in the boat, one of whom, by the violent gesticulations that he made as they approached, bespoke himself an Esquimau; the other two stood erect and motionless, the one by the tiller, the other by the sheet.

“Let go,” said a deep soft voice, when the boat was within a stone’s-cast of the shore.

The sheet flapped in the wind as the peak fell, and in another instant the keel grated on the sand.

For one moment a feeling of intense disappointment filled Edith’s heart as she sought in vain for the face of her father or Frank; then with a cry of joy she sprang forward and flung herself into the arms of her old enemy, Gaspard!

“Thank God!” said Dick Prince, with a tremulous voice, as he leaped lightly from the boat and clasped the child in his arms; “thank God we have found you, Miss Edith! This will put new life into your poor mother’s heart.”

“Oh! how is she? Why did she not come with you?” sobbed Edith; while Dick Prince, seating himself on a rock, drew her on his knee and stroked her fair head as she wept upon his shoulder.

Meanwhile Annatock was being nearly devoured by his wife and child and countrymen, as they crowded round him to obtain information, and to heap upon him congratulations; and Gaspard, in order to restrain, and at the same time relieve his feelings, essayed to drag the boat out of the water, in which attempt, giant though he was, being single-handed, he utterly failed.

After the first eager questions were answered on both sides, the natives were informed by their comrade of the nature and objects of the establishment at Ungava, and they exhibited the most extravagant signs of joy on hearing the news. When their excitement was calmed down a little, they conducted the party to their principal tent, and set before them the choicest viands they possessed, talking vehemently all the while, and indulging in a few antics occasionally, expressive of uncontrollable delight.

“Ye see, Miss Edith,” began Prince, when he and Gaspard were seated before a round of walrus-beef, “the way we came to know your whereabouts was this: Gaspard and me was sent down to the coast to hunt seals, for we were getting short o’ blubber, and did not like to be obleeged to give deer’s-meat to the dogs. Your father gave us the boat; ‘for,’ says he, ‘Prince, it’ll take ye down faster than the canoe with this wind; and if ye see any o’ the natives, be sure ye don’t forget to ask about her, Prince.’ Ye see, Miss Edith, ever since ye was lost we never liked to mention your name, although we often spoke of you, for we felt that we might be speakin’ o’ the dead. Hows’ever, away we went for the shores o’ the bay, and coasted along to the westward a bit. Then we landed at a place where there was a good lot o’ field-ice floatin’, with seals lyin’ on it, and we began to catch them. One day, when we was goin’ down to the ice as usual, we saw a black object sittin’ on a floe that had drifted in the night before with a stiff breeze.

“‘That’s a queer-lookin’ seal,’ says Gaspard.

“‘So ’tis,’ said I. ‘If there was ever black bears up hereabouts, I would say it was one o’ them.’

“‘Put a ball in yer gun,’ says Gaspard; for ye see, as we had been blazin’ at small birds the day before, there was nothing but shot in it. So I put in a ball, and took aim at the beast, intendin’ to give it a long shot. But I was mercifully prevented from firin’. Jist as I squinted along the barrel, the beast rose straight up, and held up both its fore paws. ‘Stop!’ roars Gaspard, in an awful fright; and sure enough I lowered my gun, and the beast hailed us in the voice of a man, and began to walk to the shore. He seemed quite worn out when he landed, and I could understand enough of his jargon to make out that he had been blown out to sea on the floe, and that his name was Annatock.

“While we were talkin’ to the Esquimau, Gaspard cries out, ‘I say, Prince, look here! There’s a sort o’ medal on this chap’s neck with somethin’ written on it. You’re a larned fellow, Prince; see if ye can make it out.’ So I looked at it, and rubbed my eyes once or twice, I can tell you, for, sure enough, there was EDITH as plain as the nose on my face.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Edith, smiling through her tears, “that was the medal I hung round his neck long, long ago! I hoped that it might be seen some day by people who knew me.”

“I thought so, miss,” returned Prince—“I thought as much, for I knew that the Esquimau could never have invented and writ that out of his own head, ye see. But Gaspard and me had most awful trouble to get him to explain how he came by it, and where he came from. Howsoever, we made out at last that he came from an island in this direction; so we just made up our minds to take the boat and come straight away for the island, which we did, takin’ Annatock to pilot us.”

“Then does my father not know where you are, or anything about your having heard of me?” inquired Edith, in surprise.

“Why, no, Miss Edith,” replied Prince. “You see, it would have lost us two or three days to have gone back to Fort Chimo; and, after all, we thought it might turn out a false scent, and only raise your poor mother’s hopes for nothin’. Besides, we were sent away for a week or two, so we knew they wouldn’t wonder at our absence; so we thought, upon the whole, it would be best to come at once, specially since it was sich a short distance.”

“A short distance!” repeated Edith, starting up. “I thought we must be miles and miles, oh, ever so far away! Is the distance really short?”

“Ay, that it is, little one,” said Prince, patting the child on the head. “It is not more than three days’ rowing from this island, and a stiff breeze on the quarter would carry us there in less than two.”

“And Frank, where is Frank?” said Edith,—with a look of eager inquiry.

“Ah, miss,” replied Prince, “he has been away almost as long as yourself. Soon after you were lost a packet came from the south, and he was obleeged to give up the sarch after you—though he was loath to do it—and set out with three o’ the men for Moose. From that day to this we’ve heerd nothin’ of him. But the journey he had to make was a long one—havin’ to go round all the way to York Fort—so we didn’t expect to hear o’ him afore now. But I’ll tell ye more about all your old friends when we git—things ready for a start to-morrow.”

The remainder of that day was spent in making preparation for setting sail on the following morning. The first intimation of the existence of the new trading-fort had thrown the child-like natives into rapturous delight; but when Prince told them he intended to go off the next day with the child who had been as a bright spirit in their camp so long, they fell into the depths of grief. Indeed, there was manifested a slight desire to offer forcible opposition to this; but when Edith told them, through the medium of Peetoot, who acted as her interpreter, that the distance to her father’s fort was not great, and that she would expect them to come often there, and stay long, they became reconciled to her departure; and when she sought to turn their minds (a work of no great difficulty at any time) away from that subject by describing to them the treasures of the trading-store, they danced and laughed and sang like very children. Even Kaga’s baby crowed with a racy richness of feeling, and smiled with an oily brilliancy of expression, compared with which all its former exhibitions were mere child’s play.

But when the hour of departure really came, and Edith bade farewell to her kind friends, whose rude but warm hospitality she had enjoyed so long, they were again plunged into the deepest distress; and when the little boat finally put to sea, there was not a tearless eye among the tribe, while Edith was swiftly borne from their island shore before a strong and favouring breeze.

Chapter Thirty Three.

The clouds are broken, the sun bursts through and once more irradiate Port Chimo—Hopes and fears for Maximus.

The wings of time moved slowly and heavily along at Fort Chimo. Hope long deferred, expectation frequently reviving and as often disappointed, crushed the spirits of the little party. The song, and jest, and laugh seldom sounded from the houses of the men, who went through their daily avocations almost in silence. Not only had the loss of Edith—the bright spirit of the place, the tender rosebud in that savage wilderness—cast an overwhelming gloom upon the fort, but the failure of the trade, to a great extent, had added to the general depression, and now fresh anxiety was beginning to be felt at the non-appearance of Frank Morton.

“Jessie,” said Stanley one day, as he rose from the desk at which he had been writing, and put on his cap with the intention of taking a stroll along the beach, “will you come with me today? I know not how it is, but every time I go out now I expect to hear the ship’s gun as it comes through the narrows.”

Mrs Stanley rose, and throwing on a shawl and hood, accompanied her husband in silence.

“Perhaps,” she said at length, “you expect to hear the gun because the vessel ought to be here by this time.”

As she spoke, La Roche came up and touched his cap. “Please, madame, vat you vill have pour dinner?”

“Whatever you please, La Roche. Repeat yesterday’s,” answered Mrs Stanley, with the air of one who did not wish to be troubled further on the subject. But La Roche was not to be so easily put down.

“Ah, madame! pardonnez moi. Dat is impossible. Ve have fresh fish yesterday, dere be no fresh fish to-day. More de pity. C’est dommage—dat Gaspard him gone away—”

La Roche was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from his master, who pointed, while he gazed earnestly, towards the narrows of the river. It seemed as if the scene of last year were repeated in a vision. Against the dark rock appeared the white, triangular sail of a vessel. Slowly, like a phantom, it came into view, for the wind was very light; while the three spectators on the beach gazed with beating hearts, scarcely daring to credit their eyes. In a few seconds another sail appeared—a schooner floated into view; a white cloud burst from her bows, and once again the long, silent echoes of Ungava were awakened by the roaring of artillery. The men of the fort left their several employments and rushed to the beach to welcome the vessel with a cheer; but although it was heartfelt and vigorous, it was neither so prolonged nor so enthusiastic as it was on the first occasion of the ship’s arrival.

As the vessel dropped anchor opposite the fort, Frank Morton leaped on her bow, and along with the crew returned the cheer with a degree of energy that awakened memories of other days.

“There’s Frank!” cried Stanley, turning on his wife a glance of joy. “Bless the boy! It warms my heart to see him. He must have picked up some Indian woman by the way. I see the flutter of a petticoat.”

As he spoke, the boat pushed off from the vessel’s side, and a few rapid strokes sent it bounding towards the shore.

“Eh! what’s this?” exclaimed Stanley, as his wife broke from him, and with a wild shriek rushed into the lake.

The figure of a child stood on the boat’s bow, with her arms extended to the shore.

“Hurrah, lads! give way!” shouted Frank’s deep voice.

“Mother! mother!” cried the child.

In another moment Frank bounded over the boat’s side and placed Edith in her mother’s arms!

Reader, there are incidents in the histories of men which cannot be minutely described without being marred. Such an one was the meeting between the father and mother and their long-lost child. We refrain from attempting to draw aside the curtain further than to say that the joy and gratitude in more than one heart at Ungava found vent that night in thanksgiving to Him who can bring light out of darkness and turn sorrow into joy.

The greater part of the day was spent at the fort in that feverish excitement which cannot calm down to steady conversation, but vents itself in eager, rambling questions and abrupt replies. Meanwhile, the necessity of discharging the cargo of the vessel, and preparing the furs for shipment, served to distract the attention and occupy the hands of the whole party.

As evening advanced, La Roche, true to his duty, placed supper on the table, and Stanley and his wife, along with Edith and Frank, while they partook of the meal, continued their inquiries.

“Whereabouts was it, Frank, that you fell in with the boat?” said Stanley.

“Not more than five miles from the mouth of the river, at about six this morning. We observed the boat beset by a pretty solid pack of ice, and you may be sure we were not a little surprised when we saw the Union Jack run up to her peak; so I ordered our boat to be lowered, intending to go to her assistance. While the men were doing this, I examined her with the glass, and then it was that I found, to my amazement and inexpressible joy, that the boat contained Prince, Gaspard, and Edith.”

“Ah! Frank,” said Mrs Stanley, “was it not a strange providence that you, who were so sad at being compelled to give up the search, should be the one appointed to find our beloved child, and bring her back to us?”

“Nay,” replied Frank, “it was not I who found her. Let me not rob Dick Prince and Gaspard of the honour and gratitude which they have nobly won.”

“And what do you think of the non-arrival of Maximus?” said Stanley, whose feelings were still too much perturbed to allow him to dwell for more than a few minutes at a time on any subject. Frank shook his head.

“I know not what to think,” said he. “As I have told you already, we left him at Moose Fort with his recovered bride, and we got the missionary to marry them there in due form. Next day they started in a small canoe on their return voyage to Ungava, and the day following I left for Lake Superior. I fully expected to find them here on my return.”

Stanley looked grave. “I fear much,” said he, “that some mischance has befallen the good-hearted Esquimau. He was well armed, you say, and amply supplied with provisions?”

“Ay, most certainly. He took two guns with him, saying that his wife was as good a shot as himself.”

“The men wish to know where the heavy goods are to be put,” said Massan, as he opened the door, and stood, cap in hand, awaiting orders.

Stanley rose to leave the room.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Massan.—Then, Frank, we’ll expect an account of your journey to-night. Eda is very anxious that we should be told all about your wonderful adventures in the mountains. Meanwhile I shall be off to look after the men.”

When the sun had set that night, and the song of the sailors had ceased, and most of the wearied inhabitants of Fort Chimo were enjoying a fragrant pipe after the labours of the day, Frank and Stanley seated themselves, one on either side of the fire-place, with Mrs Stanley and Edith in front of the hearth between them. An extra pine-knot was thrown on the fire, which, in a few minutes, rendered the candle on the table unnecessary. Stanley lit his pipe, and after drawing one or two whiffs to make sure that it would keep alight, said,—“Now, Frank, my boy, we’re ready for you; fire away.”

Frank fired away, literally, for he applied a piece of glowing charcoal to his pipe, and fired off half a dozen rapid puffs in reply, as it were, to his friend opposite. Then he began.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Rough and tumble—A polar bear made useful—Fishing and floundering, and narrow escapes—An unexpected discovery, productive of mingled perplexity and joy.

“You remember, I daresay, that the day on which I left Ungava, last spring, was an unusually fine one—just such a day, Eda, as those on which you and I and Chimo were wont to clamber up the berry-glen. But the clambering that we went through there was nothing to the work we went through on our third day from the fort. Maximus and Oolibuck were first-rate climbers, and we would have got over the ground much faster than we did but for the dogs, which could not travel easily over the rough ground with their loaded sled. Chimo, indeed, hauled like a hero, and if the other dogs had been equal to him we would have been here before to-day. Well, as I said, our third day was one of considerable toil. Leaving the river we struck into the mountains, but after nearly breaking our sled to pieces, and endangering our necks more than once, we found it necessary to return to the river and follow its windings into the interior.

“After many days of as rough travelling as I ever experienced, we came to the lake district on the height of land, and travelled for some time more rapidly and with much greater ease. There were plenty of ptarmigan here, so that we saved our provisions—a matter of importance, as you know, in a country where we might have found nothing fit for food. One evening, towards sunset, as we were crossing a large lake, it came on to snow heavily, and ere long we could not see the land.

“‘What shall we do, Maximus?’ said I; ‘it seems to me that if we go on we may wander out of our course and lose much time ere we find it again. Shall we turn back?’

“‘Better go on,’ replied Maximus.

“Oolibuck seemed to be of the same opinion, so I gave my whip a flourish to urge on the dogs, which were beginning to flag, owing to the difficulty of drawing the sled through the deepening snow. But the two rear dogs could hardly be prevailed on to move. Even Chimo was knocked up. In this dilemma Maximus came to my aid. He hung one of the ptarmigan at his belt, and letting the dogs smell it, walked on before. The hungry animals brightened up instantly, and went forward for a considerable distance with alacrity.

“But after trudging on for two or three miles, the snow fell so thickly that we thought proper to call a halt and hold another council of war.

“‘Now,’ said I, ‘it is my opinion that we should encamp on the ice; there is no use in wearying the dogs, and ourselves in uncertainty; what think you, lads?’

“‘Me t’ink so too,’ said Oolibuck.

“Maximus nodded his head by way of assent, so we immediately set to work to make our encampment. You recollect the hut we built on the lake when I was so badly hurt, and when you were lost, Eda? Well, we made a snow-house just like that one; and as we worked very hard, we had it up and were all snug under its shelter in little more than two hours. Meanwhile, the dogs were fed; and a small piece of wood, that we fortunately brought with us on the sled, was cut up, and a fire kindled. But this only served long enough to boil the kettle; and then it went out, leaving us to eat our supper in the dark, for by this time the sun had set. However, we did not mind that much; and when we had finished, and were stretched out side by side on the snow, smoking our pipes, while the dogs lay at our feet and kept us warm, I thought that a palace could not have been more comfortable than our snow-house.

“As we had no wood wherewith to make another fire, and so could not procure water except by the tedious process of digging through the ice, I resolved to try an experiment which I had once heard had been attempted with success. This was, to fill a bottle with snow and take it to bed with me. During the night the heat of my body melted the snow, and in the morning we had sufficient water to give us each a draught at breakfast.

“When morning came we found that it was blowing and drifting so hard that we could not venture to move; so we made up our minds to remain where we were until the weather should moderate.

“‘Maximus,’ said I, after our breakfast of cold boiled ptarmigan was over, ‘set to work outside and dig a hole through the ice. I have no doubt we shall find fish in this lake. If we do, they will form an excellent addition to our fare. I will prepare the lines and hooks.’

“Maximus, whose huge body was stretched out at full length, while he enjoyed his pipe, rose to obey; but as he was about to leave the hut Oolibuck said a few words to him.

“‘Please, sir,’ said Oolibuck, with his usual oily smile, ‘my countrymen fish in igloo when blow hard. Pr’aps ve make hole here, if you like.’

“‘Very good,’ said I; ‘make the hole where you please, and look sharp about it, else I shall have my lines prepared before you reach the water.’

“The two Esquimaux immediately set to work, and in less than an hour a hole about six feet deep was yawning in the middle of our floor. Through this we set two lines, and our usual luck attended us immediately. We caught five or six excellent white-fish, and one or two trout, in the first half-hour, so that we were enabled to give the dogs a capital feed. Moreover, we froze as many as we could carry along with us for future use; but we had not the satisfaction of having a good dinner of them that day, as we had no wood wherewith to make fire. You would have been greatly amused had you peeped in at the ice-window of our igloo that day, as we sat round the hole in the floor with eager, excited looks. I confess, however, that I left the work principally to the two men, who seemed to relish it amazingly. Maximus was earnest and energetic, as he always is; but the expression of Oolibuck’s face underwent the most extraordinary transformations—now beaming with intense hope, as he felt, or thought he felt, a tug; anon blazing with excitement, while his body jerked as if a galvanic shock had assailed it, under the influence of a decided pull. Then his visage was elongated as the fish escaped, and was again convulsed by another pull, or shone in triumph as he hauled the wriggling captive into the light of day.

“Towards evening the wind fell, and we resumed our journey. We were not again interrupted by weather for more than a week after this, but were much perplexed by the chains of small lakes into which we came. At last we reached Clearwater Lake, and had a long consultation as to the best course to pursue, because it was now a question whether we should follow the chain of lakes by which we came up to Ungava in our canoes, or make a straight cut for the coast and take our chance of finding it. While we were yet uncertain what to do, our course was decided by a polar bear!”

“A polar bear!” cried Edith, in surprise.

“Ay; a polar bear and her cub settled the question for us, as you shall hear presently,” replied Frank. “But first hand me papa’s tobacco-pouch, please, as my pipe is exhausted.

“There, now,” continued Frank, re-lighting his pipe, and throwing a fresh log on the fire, “that’s comfortable. Well, as I said, we were somewhat perplexed as to what we should do, when, in wandering about the lake endeavouring to find the outlet, I came upon the track of a polar bear; and by the side of it were little foot-prints, which showed me that it was a she-bear with her cub. I observed that the tracks were quite fresh.

“‘Now, then, Maximus,’ said I, pointing to the tracks, which went to the westward, ‘there is a sure guide who will conduct us by the quickest route to the coast.’ I could tell this, Eda, because I knew that the bear had found food rather scarce in those high regions, and would descend Clearwater River in order to fish in the open water at the falls, which are very numerous in that river. On reaching the coast it would find plenty seals in the sea. In the meantime I had nothing to do but follow its track to be conducted by the shortest route to Clearwater River, the commencement of which was difficult to find owing to the flatness of the margin of the lake at this end. Away we went then, and, as I had expected, were soon led to the river, down the banks of which we scrambled, over rocks and crags, through bushes and snow, until we came to the coast at Richmond Gulf.

“But it took us many weeks to accomplish the journey which I have briefly sketched thus far, and when we reached the coast, worn with hard travel, and our clothing uncomfortably ragged, the spring was well advanced—rivers were breaking up, ducks and geese were passing to the north, and there were thousands of deer, so that we found ourselves suddenly in the midst of abundance. Just before reaching the gulf I witnessed the breaking up of a river, which was one of the grandest sights I ever saw.

“The river was not a very large one. On reaching it we were much struck with a curious barrier of ice that was jammed across it. On examination I saw that the ice had given way some time before we arrived there, and an enormous cake, of many yards surface and fully six feet thick, had, while being hurled along by the swelling water, caught upon the rugged rocks and been tilted upon end. Thus it formed a temporary barrier, against which other masses were forced until the outlet was completely checked, and the water began to rise with great rapidity. As we stood on the high cliff, looking down on the wild ravine in which this was going on, I heard a loud crack. In another instant the obstructing barrier burst like a thunderclap, and the pent-up waters leaped with one mighty roar into their accustomed channel! The devastation created was inconceivably grand. Rocks of many tons weight were torn up, cast like playthings on the rushing ice, and hurled on the cliffs below, while trees, and ice, and water swept down the gorge in a mad whirl, that made my brain reel as I gazed at it. In an hour the worst of this awful scene was over, but the unutterable desolation that was left will remain for centuries, I believe, to tell of the mighty rush that happened there.

“Our first experience of Richmond Gulf was not by any means pleasant. When we arrived it was covered with ice; but we did not know that, although it appeared to be solid enough, it was in reality little better than frozen sludge or foam. Oolibuck happened to be walking first, with the line of his little sled over his shoulder. For a short distance we plodded on, intending to cross the gulf; but I was suddenly aroused from a reverie by a shout from Maximus. Looking hastily up, I beheld nothing of Oolibuck except his head above the ice, while Maximus was trying to pull him out by hauling at the tail-line of the sled. Luckily Oolibuck had kept fast hold of the line which was over his shoulder, and after much trouble we succeeded in dragging him out of the water. A sharp frost happened to have set in, and before we got back to the shore the poor fellow’s garments were frozen so stiff that he could not run.

“‘This is a bad job, Maximus,’ said I; ‘we must carry him. Do you lift his head, and I’ll take the feet.’

“‘Oh be queek! I is frizzen up,’ cried Oolibuck, casting a rueful look through his tangled locks, which were a mere mass of icicles!

“Maximus gave a loud chuckle, and before I could assist him he seized his comrade in his powerful arms, heaved him over his shoulder like a sack, and ran towards the shore as lightly as if his burden were a child instead of a big over-fed Esquimau!

“Arrived at the woods, we wrapped Oolibuck in our blankets; then we kindled a fire, and in two hours after his clothes were dried and himself ready to proceed. This might have turned out a more serious accident, however, and we felt very thankful when we had our damp companion steaming beside a good fire. The lesson was not thrown away, for we coasted round Richmond Gulf instead of attempting to cross it.

“And now,” continued Frank, stirring the fire and re-lighting his pipe, which invariably went out at the interesting parts of his narrative—“now I come to that part of my story which bears on the fate of Maximus.

“As I have said, we had arrived at the coast, and began to look forward to Moose Fort as the first resting-place on our journey. By far the greater part of the journey lay before us, Eda; for, according to my calculation, I have travelled since last spring a distance of three thousand miles, nearly a thousand of which have been performed on foot, upwards of a thousand in boats and canoes, and a thousand by sea; and in the whole distance I did not see a civilised spot of ground or a single road—not so much as a bridle-path. As Bryan’s favourite song has it—

“‘Over mountains and rivers I was pelted to shivers.’

“But I’m happy to say I have not, as the same song continues, ‘met on this land with a wathery grave.’ I was very near it once, however, as you shall hear.

“Well, away we went along the coast of James’s Bay, much relieved to think that the mountains were now past, and that our road henceforth, whatever else it might be, was level. One evening, as we were plodding wearily along, after a hard day’s march over soft snow alternated with sandy beach—for the spring was fast advancing—we came suddenly on a camp of Indians. At first I thought they must be some of the Moose Indians, but on inquiry I found that they were a party of Muskigons, who had wandered all over East Main, and seemed to be of a roving, unsettled disposition. However, we determined to encamp along with them for that night, and get all the information we could out of them in regard to their hunting-grounds.

“We spent a great part of the night in the leathern wigwam of the principal chief, who was a sinister-looking old rascal, though I must say he received us hospitably enough, and entertained us with a good deal of small-talk, after time and the pipe had worn away his reserve. But I determined to spend part of the night in the tent of a solitary old woman who had recently been at Moose Fort, and from whom I hoped to hear some news of our friends there. You know I have had always a partiality for miserable old wives, Eda; which accounts, perhaps, for my liking for you! This dame had been named Old Moggy by the people at Moose; and she was the most shrivelled, dried-up, wrinkled old body you ever saw. She was testy too; but this was owing to the neglect she experienced at the hands of her tribe. She was good-tempered by nature, however; a fact which became apparent the longer I conversed with her.

“‘Well, Old Moggy,’ said I, on entering her tent, ‘what cheer, what cheer?’

“‘There’s no cheer here,’ she replied peevishly, in the Indian tongue.

“‘Nay, then,’ said I, ‘don’t be angry, mother; here’s a bit o’ baccy to warm your old heart. But who is this you have got beside you?’ I asked, on observing a good-looking young girl, with a melancholy cast of countenance, seated in a dark corner of the wigwam, as if she sought concealment. I observed that she was whiter than Indians usually are, and supposed at first that she was a half-breed girl; but a second glance convinced me that she had little if any of the Indian blood in her veins.

“‘She is my only friend,’ said Old Moggy, her dark eye brightening as she glanced towards the girl. ‘She was to have been my son’s wife, but the Great Spirit took my son away. She is all that is left to me now.’

“The old woman’s voice trembled as she spoke the last few words, and she spread her skinny hands over the small fire that smouldered in the centre of the floor.

“I was proceeding to make further inquiries into this girl’s history, when the curtain-door of the tent was raised and Oolibuck thrust in his shaggy head.

“‘Please, sir, de ole chief him wants baccy. I have smoke all mine. Vill you give some?’

“‘Here you are,’ said I, throwing a lump to the Esquimau. ‘Send Maximus to me; I want to speak with him.’

“‘I is here,’ said Maximus, outside the tent.

“‘Ah! that’s right.—Now, Old Moggy, I’ll be back in a few minutes, so don’t go to sleep till I return.’

“As I was about to issue from the tent, the young girl passed me hastily, and, drawing the hood over her head and face, darted through the opening. I found Maximus gazing after her in surprise.

“‘Hallo, Maximus! what’s wrong? Do you think the girl’s a witch?’

“‘No; but I t’ink she be funny. She look close into my face, and fly ’way when you come hout o’ tent.’

“‘That’s odd. Did you ever see her before?’

“‘I not see her yet. She keep face covered up.’

“‘Well, come along, it doesn’t signify. I want you to go with me to the chief’s wigwam, to ask where we are to put the dogs for the night, and to see about our own quarters.’

“Old Moggy’s wigwam stood at the distance of several hundred yards from the other tents of the village, from which it was separated by a belt of stunted trees and willows. Through this copsewood Maximus and I took our way, following one of the many beaten tracks made by the Indians. The night was clear, and we found no difficulty in picking our steps among the low shrubs. When we were about half-way through this wood, I observed a female form gliding among the bushes. She ran towards Maximus, who walked in advance and concealed me with his bulky form. But a slight bend in the road revealed my figure, and the woman paused, as if uncertain what to do.

“‘Surely that is your unknown friend again,’ said I, as we both halted. Then I beckoned her to approach. At first she appeared unwilling to do so; but suddenly she seemed to change her mind, and walking boldly up to Maximus, she threw back her hood and stood before him. I observed that she was Moggy’s young friend, but a wondrous change had come over her. The pale cheeks were now covered with a bright blush, and the sad eyes were sparkling with animation, as she gazed intently into the face of the Esquimau. For a few seconds Maximus looked like one thunder-struck. ‘Aneetka!’ he exclaimed vehemently, and, striding forward with a suppressed cry, clasped the girl in his arms.

“You may easily conceive my surprise at this scene. Immediately the recollection of the attack by the Indians on the Esquimau camp, and of Maximus’s young bride having been carried off, flashed upon me, and I had no doubt that the Esquimau girl now stood before me. Indeed, the fact of the broken exclamations uttered by the pair being in the Esquimau tongue put this beyond a doubt. A feeling of great delight filled my heart as I looked upon the couple thus unexpectedly reunited; while they, quite oblivious of my presence, poured out a flood of question and reply, in the midst of which they ever and anon embraced, to make sure, no doubt, of their physical identity. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I was behaving very ill, so I wheeled about and sauntered away to a little distance in the direction of the shore, in order to take some astronomical observations of the sky, and gaze inquiringly up at the moon, which at that moment broke through a bank of clouds, tipping the icebergs on the sea and the branches of the overhanging trees with silver light.

“In quarter of an hour Maximus came to me and presented his long-lost bride, Aneetka, whose pretty face beamed with joy, while her lover’s frame appeared to expand with felicity until he looked like an exaggerated Hercules. But we had no time to waste in talking of the past. The present required our instant and earnest attention; so we sat down on the stem of a fallen tree to consult as to how we were to get Aneetka out of the hands of her Indian captors. Her brief history, after she was captured at Ungava, was as follows:—

“The Indian who had intended to make her his bride found her resolved rather to die than to marry him; but hoping that time would overcome her objection, he placed her under the care of his widowed mother, Old Moggy, on returning to his village in the interior. Soon afterwards this Indian was killed by a brown bear, and the poor mother became a sort of outcast from the tribe, having no relations to look after her. She was occasionally assisted, however, by two youths, who came to sue for the hand of the Esquimau girl. But Aneetka, true to her first love, would not listen to their proposals. One of these lovers was absent on a hunting expedition at the time we discovered Aneetka; the other, a surly fellow, and disliked by the most of his comrades, was in the camp. From the day of her son’s death, a feeling of sympathy had sprung up between Old Moggy and the Esquimau girl, and this had gradually strengthened into affection.

“Thus matters stood when we fell in with her. After much deliberation, it was resolved that I should go to the old chief and tell him that Old Moggy and her adopted child wished to quit the tribe and go to Moose with us, to live there; while Aneetka should go and acquaint her old protectress with our plans and her own altered circumstances.

“‘Adieu, then, Aneetka,’ said I, as the girl pushed her lover away and bounded into the woods.—‘Now, Maximus, nothing will do for it but stout hearts and strong arms. Come along, lad.’

“I found, to my surprise, that the old chief had no objection to the arrangement I proposed. A few of the others did not seem inclined to part with their captive; but I explained to them the advantage it would be to them to have friends at court, as it were, and said that the fur-traders would be glad to support Moggy in her old age—which was true enough, for you all know as well as I do that there is not a post in the country where there are not one or more old or otherwise helpless Indians supported gratuitously by the Hudson’s Bay Company. The only man who resolutely opposed the proposal was Meestagoosh, the rejected lover; but I silenced him in a novel manner. He was a tall, powerful fellow, of about my own size.

“‘Come,’ said I to his assembled comrades, in the Indian language, for I found they understood my bad mixture of Cree and Sauteaux very well—‘come, friends, let us deal fairly in this matter. My man there has taken a fancy to the girl—let Meestagoosh and Maximus wrestle for her.’

“A loud laugh greeted this proposal, as the Indians surveyed the huge proportions of my Esquimau.

“‘Well, then,’ I continued, ‘if Meestagoosh is afraid of the Esquimau, I have no objections to try him myself.’ The Indian looked at me with an angry glance, and seemed, I thought, half inclined to accept the challenge; so, to cut the matter short, I took him by the throat and hurled him to the ground—a feat which was evidently enjoyed by his countrymen.

“Meestagoosh rose and retired with a savage scowl on his face, and I saw no more of him. Indeed, I believe he left the camp immediately.

“After this no opposition was offered, and I made the matter sure by distributing a large quantity of powder, shot, and tobacco to the chiefs. Old Moggy made no objection to our plan, so we set out the next day with an additional dog purchased from the Indians in order to make our team strong enough to haul the old woman when she got knocked up with walking. Six days brought us to Moose Fort, just as the ice on the river was breaking up. Here, as I have already told you, Maximus and Aneetka were married in due form by the Wesleyan missionary, after they had received some instruction and expressed their desire to become Christians. Then they were supplied with a canoe and all necessary provisions, and sent off to go round the coast to Ungava, accompanied by our good dog Chimo, for whom we had now no further use, and by Old Moggy, who would not consent to be separated from her friend Aneetka. They started along the coast on a fine spring day, and the back of his sealskin coat, shining in the sun’s rays like velvet, as the canoe swept out to sea, and disappeared behind a low point, was the last that I saw of Maximus.

“I will not weary you just now,” continued Frank, “with the details of my subsequent journeying, as, although full of incidents, nothing of a very thrilling character occurred except once. At Moose I remained till the rivers were clear of ice, and then set off into the interior of the country with a small canoe and five men, Oolibuck being bowsman. For many days we voyaged by rivers and lakes, until we arrived at the Michipicoten River, which is a very rough one, and full of tremendous falls and rapids. One day, while we were descending a rapid that rushed through a dark gorge of frowning rocks, and terminated in a fall, our canoe was broken in two, and the most of us thrown into the water. We all swam ashore in safety, with the exception of one man, who clung to the canoe, poor fellow, and was carried along with it over the fall. We never saw him more, although we searched long and carefully for his body.

“We now found ourselves in a very forlorn condition. We were dripping wet, without the means of making a fire, and without provisions or blankets, in the midst of a wild, uninhabited country. However, we did not lose heart, but set off on foot to follow the river to its mouth, where we knew we should find relief at Michipicoten Fort. The few days that followed were the most miserable I ever passed. We allayed the cravings of hunger by scraping off the inner bark of the trees, and by a few of last year’s berries which had been frozen and so preserved. Once or twice we crossed the river on rafts of drift-wood, and at night lay down close to each other under the shelter of a tree or cliff. At length we arrived at the fort on Lake Superior, quite worn out with fatigue and starvation. Here we waited until the canoes from Canada passed; and after a somewhat similar voyage, through woods, rivers, and lakes, arrived at length, about the beginning of autumn, at York Fort, on Hudson’s Bay.

“Here I spent some weeks in recalling to memory and recording on paper the contents of my dispatches, which had been lost, along with our canoe and baggage, in Michipicoten River; and when these were finished and delivered, I embarked, along with our outfit of goods, in the Beaver, and sailed for Ungava. I need scarcely add that the voyage was a prosperous one, and that the brightest day in it all was that on which we found the boat, with our dear little Edith, beset among the ice near the entrance to Ungava Bay.”

While Frank was thus occupied in narrating the events of his long journey in the hall of Fort Chimo, Oolibuck was similarly employed in entertaining the men. After the day’s toil of unloading the ship was over, he was placed in the middle of the circle, directly in front of the blazing fire, by Dick Prince and Massan; while Moses, Oostesimow, Gaspard, and Ma-istequan sat on his right; and Bryan, La Roche, François, and Augustus supported him on the left—all having pipes in their mouths, which were more or less blackened by constant use. A pipe was then handed to Oolibuck, and the order given, generally by Bryan, “to blaze away.”

This the oily-visaged Esquimau did with right good-will; and the shouts of laughter which issued from the house occasionally, as he proceeded with his interminable narration, proved that the spirit and humour of the stout voyageur had not been crushed by the trials and dangers of his long, eventful journey.

Chapter Thirty Five.

A stirring period in the life of Maximus.

Intermingled joy and sorrow is the lot of man. Thus it has ever been; thus, no doubt, it shall continue to be until the present economy shall have reached its termination. “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?” is a sufficient reply to those who would fain have it otherwise. But, independently of this view of the subject, may we not, with the painter’s eye, regard joy as the light, sorrow as the shade, in the picture of life? And who would have a painting all light or all shadow?

Maximus found it so in his experience. The shadows in the picture of his life had of late been broad and dark, but a flash of vivid brilliancy had crossed it when he found his bride. Afterwards the light and shade were chequered, as we shall see.

On leaving Moose, Maximus proceeded a day’s journey along the coast, and at night, as the weather was fine, he encamped with his wife and Old Moggy and Chimo on the open seashore. Here he held a consultation as to their future proceedings. As long as they were on the shore of James’s Bay they were in danger of being found by Indians; but once beyond Richmond Gulf they would be comparatively safe, and in the land of the Esquimaux. After mature deliberation it was resolved that they should travel during the night, and rest and cook their food during the daytime, when a fire would not be so likely to attract attention if kindled in sequestered places.

This plan answered very well, and they passed stealthily along the coast when the Indians, if there were any there, were buried in repose. On approaching the camp of the tribe, however, from whom Aneetka had been taken, Maximus deemed it advisable to paddle far out to sea—the weather being fortunately calm—and to rest for a day and a night as well as they could in their frail bark. Maximus sat in the stern of the canoe and steered; his wife sat in the bow and paddled day after day as vigorously as if she had been a man. As for poor Old Moggy, she sat in the middle and paddled a little when she felt cold; but she slept during the greater part of the journey. Chimo conceived it to be his duty to enjoy himself, and did so accordingly, at all times and in every possible way.

During that livelong day and night, and all the following day, the giant’s arm never flagged; Aneetka, too, rested only once or twice at the earnest request of her husband; but the little bark never once slackened its speed until the second night. Then Old Moggy was awakened.

“Mother,” said Aneetka, who acted as interpreter between her husband and the old woman, “we want to sleep for an hour or two. You seem to have rested well. Will you wake and watch?”

The old woman yawned, rubbed her eyes, and assented, after the question had been twice repeated. Then laying their heads on opposite sides of the canoe, without otherwise changing their positions, the husband and wife sank into repose.

Two hours afterwards the old Indian woman, who had remained motionless as a dark statue all the time, uttered a slight sound. Instantly the sleepers awoke, for those who are in the midst of danger sleep lightly.

“It is time to go on,” said the old woman, as she lay back again in her lair, rolled herself up into a bundle, and went to sleep.

Maximus and his wife resumed their paddles, and the light craft glided swiftly on its way to the far north.

As the sun rose they neared the land, and soon after they were seated not far from a high cliff, eating their breakfast beside a small fire, which sent so thin a column of smoke into the air that it was almost dissipated ere it reached the tree-tops. It was hoped that the Indians had been now so far overshot that there was no danger of even a straggler being near them. But they took the precaution to load their two guns with ball, and lean them against a tree within reach of their hands. When the meal was over, Maximus retired from the fire a few paces, and throwing himself at full length on the green moss beneath a tree, he fell into a sound sleep.

He had not lain thus more than quarter of an hour when he was startled by the report of a gun, which was followed by a wild scream and a chorus of unearthly yells. At the same instant, and ere he could attempt to rise, his legs and arms were pinioned to the ground by four powerful Indians. For an instant Maximus was paralysed. Then the terrible reality of his position, the scream of Aneetka, and the sight of the thong with which his captors were about to bind him, caused his spirit to rebound with a degree of violence that lent him for the moment the strength of a giant. With a shout, in which even a tone of contempt seemed to mingle the Esquimau hurled his captors right and left, and sprang to his feet. The Indians fled; but one, who was a moment later in rising than the others, received a blow that felled him instantly. Maximus glanced quickly round in search of his wife, and observed her being hurried away by two Indians. As the arrow leaps from the bow the Esquimau sprang forward in pursuit. The Indians saw him coming. In bitter anger they prepared to let her go and fly, for having dropped their guns in the scuffle they were unable to fire upon their approaching foe. But there were other Indians in the bush whose weapons were levelled at the breast of Maximus, and the next moment would have been his last, but for a stone thrown from the cliffs above, which struck him on the forehead and stretched him bleeding and insensible upon the ground.

When Maximus recovered from the effects of the blow, he found himself lying on the cold earth in total darkness, and firmly bound hand and foot. It is impossible to describe the agony of that bold spirit as he lay writhing on the ground, in the vain effort to burst the cords that bound him. He thought of Aneetka and his own utter helplessness, while she was, no doubt, in urgent need of his strong arm to deliver her. The thought maddened him, and again he strove in vain to burst his fetters, and yelled aloud in despair. The echoing rocks gave back his cry, and then all was silence. The dreadful thought now flashed across him that the Indians had buried him alive in some dark cavern, and brave though he was, he trembled in every limb with agony.

Thus Maximus lay until the grey dawn shone in upon him, and showed that he was in a cave. Scarcely had he noted this fact when the figure of a man darkened the cave’s mouth and approached him. As the Indian bent over his helpless foe he revealed the savage features of Meestagoosh. For an instant he cast a look of mingled hatred and triumph on his enemy; then drawing a scalping-knife from his girdle, he stooped and cut the thong that bound his feet, at the same time signing to him to rise, for he knew that Maximus did not understand Indian. The Esquimau obeyed, and was led by the Indian through the woods towards the cliff where the struggle of the previous night had taken place. Here they came suddenly into view of the Indian camp.

There were no tents: several green blankets that lay on the moss under the trees indicated where the party had lain during the night; and at a considerable distance apart from these sat Old Moggy, with her face buried in her skinny hands. Beside her stood Aneetka, with a calm but slightly anxious expression on her pale countenance. Chimo was held in a leash by an Indian. From the fact of the Indians being without tents or women, and having their faces daubed with red paint, besides being armed with knives, guns, and tomahawks, Maximus concluded that they composed a war party.

On seeing her husband, Aneetka uttered a suppressed cry and bounded towards him; but ere she had proceeded two paces an Indian laid his hand on her arm, and led her back to where the old woman sat. Meestagoosh led Maximus to the same spot, and having confronted him with his wife, he said to the latter,—“Now, she-bear of the north, translate between us. If I think you tell lies, the dogs shall have your bones to pick.”

Aneetka replied meekly, “You cannot hurt one hair of our heads unless the Great Spirit permit you.”

“We shall see,” retorted the Indian with a scornful laugh. “Tell the polar bear,” continued Meestagoosh, in a contemptuous tone, “that I did not expect to catch him so soon. I have been fortunate. It was kind of him to come in my way, and to bring his she-bear with him. Tell him that I and my braves are going to pay a visit to his nation, to take a few scalps. I let him know this piece of good news because he will never know it from his friends, as he shall be food for dog very soon.”

On this being translated, the face of Maximus assumed an expression of deep gravity mingled with sadness. His mind flew to the far north, and he thought of the midnight assault and the death-cry of women and children. The nature of the Esquimau was too noble and generous to be easily ruffled by the contemptuous tone of such a man as Meestagoosh; but his heart sank within him when he thought of the power as well as the will that the Indian had to put his threat into execution.

“Tell him,” said Maximus quietly, “that I have no wish to talk with him, but remind him that Indians are not gods; they are men.”

“Yes, he says truly,” retorted Meestagoosh, “the Indians are men, but Esquimaux are dogs.”

While this conversation was going on, and the Indians were intent upon the scene, Old Moggy, who was not deemed worthy of being noticed, contrived unobserved to possess herself of a knife, and springing suddenly towards Maximus with an agility of which she seemed utterly incapable, she endeavoured to cut the thongs that bound his arms. Her hand was caught, however, by Meestagoosh, in time to frustrate her intention. Without deigning a word of remark, the Indian struck her a heavy blow on the cheek with the back of his open hand, which nearly stunned her. Staggering backward, she fell upon the ground with a low wail.

The bosom of Maximus felt as if it would burst with rage. Before any one could prevent him, he raised his foot and struck Meestagoosh so violently on the chest that he fell as if he had been shot. In a moment he recovered, drew his knife, and springing like an infuriated tiger at his enemy, drove it with deadly force at his throat. Fortunately the arms of Maximus were tied in front of him, so that by raising them he was enabled to guard his chest and receive the stab on his wrist. The knife passed quite through the fleshy part of his left arm, but in doing so it severed one of the cords that bound him. Thought is not quicker than the mighty wrench with which the Esquimau burst the remaining cord and dashed his opponent to the ground. Before the astonished Indians could level their guns, Maximus had seized Aneetka in his arms and was bounding madly towards the cliff, which was not more than fifty yards distant. Every gun poured forth its deadly contents before he gained it; but his very nearness to the Indians seemed to contribute to his safety, and the suddenness of his flight rendered their hasty aim uncertain. In another moment he was round the point and behind the sheltering cliff, while the Indians uttered a terrific yell and darted forward in pursuit. Just about thirty paces beyond the point of the cliff that hid him for a few moments from view was the cave in which Maximus had spent the night. Quick as thought he sprang up the steep short ascent that led to its narrow entrance and darted in.

Scarcely had he placed Aneetka behind a projection that formed an ample shelter at the mouth of the cave, when Chimo, who had broken from his captors, also darted in and crouched at his master’s feet. Meanwhile the Indians came sweeping round the point, and seeing by the entrance of the dog where the fugitives had taken shelter, they bounded up the ascent. The first who reached the cave’s mouth rashly passed the entrance. Ere he could fire his piece he received a blow from the fist of the Esquimau that fractured his skull, hurled him down the steep ascent, and dashed him against his comrades in the rear. This sudden repulse effectually checked the Indians, who are notoriously bad at storming. Indeed they would never have ventured to enter the cave in this manner had they not known that Maximus was totally unarmed.

Withdrawing to a distance of about forty yards, the Indians now formed in a line, and loading their guns, fired volley after volley into the cave’s mouth. But Maximus and his wife crouched with the dog behind the ledge of rock at the entrance, and remained there in perfect safety. In a few minutes the Indians ceased firing, and one of their number cautiously approached the cave, supposing, no doubt, that the fusillade must have wounded if it had not killed those within; but the instant he passed the entrance, knife in hand, he was caught in the powerful arms of Maximus and hurled down the slope.

A yell of indignation from the Indians followed this feat, and another volley was fired into the cave, but without effect; and the savages, seeing that it was impossible in this way to dislodge their foe, assembled in a group to consult.

Meanwhile Old Moggy had made good use of the opportunity thus afforded her to effect her escape. She darted into the bushes and made for the rocky ground in the rear of the camp. In doing so she happened to pass the tree against which leaned the two guns belonging to her friends. They had escaped notice during the mêlée of the previous day, and, with the shot-belts and powder-horns, remained where they had been placed when she and her companions landed. The old woman eagerly seized these, and clambered with them over the rocks at a rate that would have done credit to more youthful limbs. On reaching a ridge of rock that overlooked the cave where Maximus was sheltered, Old Moggy became aware of how matters stood. She could also see, from her elevated position, that a track, or the bed of a dried-up watercourse, led through the bushes towards the cave. Without a moment’s delay she descended it; but, on drawing near to the cave, she found that there was a barren spot of about thirty yards in extent between the place of refuge and the edge of the bushes. This open space was completely exposed to the view of the natives, who at that time were firing across it into the cavern; for, after their consultation, they had changed their position and renewed the fusillade. Moggy was now in despair. She knew that it would be impossible to pass the open ground without being shot, and she also felt certain that, when the Indians found their present attempts were fruitless, they would resort to others, in prosecuting which they would in all probability discover her. While she meditated thus, she looked earnestly towards the cave, and observed the astonished gaze of Maximus fixed upon her; for, from his position behind the ledge of rock, he could see the old woman without exposing himself to the Indians. While they gazed at each other a thought occurred to Old Moggy. She made a series of complicated signs, which, after frequent repetition, were understood by Maximus to mean that he was to expose himself to the view of the Indians. Instantly comprehending her meaning, the Esquimau stepped boldly from his place of concealment and shook his fist contemptuously in the face of his enemies. A shower of bullets and a yell of rage followed the act. This was just what Old Moggy had expected and desired. Not a gun remained undischarged, and before they could reload, she passed quickly over the open ground and bounded into the cave, where she turned and shook aloft the two guns with a hoarse laugh of triumph ere she sought the shelter of the ledge of rock.

The Indians were so filled with fury at being thus outwitted by an old woman, that they forgot for a moment their usual caution, and rushed in a body up the slope; but ere they had accomplished half the distance two of their number fell, to rise no more. This was sufficient to check their career. Howling with baffled rage, and without waiting to pick up their fallen comrades, they darted right and left to seek the shelter of the bushes, for they could no longer remain in the open ground, now that their enemies were armed.

For nearly an hour after this all was silence. Maximus and his companions could only form conjectures as to the movements of the Indians, for none of them were to be seen. However, as they had no resource but to remain in their retreat until night-fall, they endeavoured to make the place as comfortable as possible, and busied themselves in cleaning their arms.

It happened that from the cave’s mouth they could see their canoe, which still lay on the beach where they had originally left it; and, while they were looking at it, they perceived one of the Indians stealing down towards it. Fortunately Maximus had a gun in his hand ready loaded, and the instant the Indian appeared he fired and shot him. No second Indian dared to venture towards the little craft, although it lay only a few yards distant from the edge of the forest; for they knew that the watchful eye of the Esquimau was upon them, and that instant death would be the fate of him who should make the attempt. The little canoe now became an object of intense interest to both parties. The Indians knew that if their foe should succeed in reaching it he could easily escape. This, of course, he could not hope to do as long as daylight lasted; nor even when night should arrive, unless it were a very dark one. But, on the other hand, they knew that they did not dare to venture near it so long as there was sufficient light to enable Maximus to take aim at them with his deadly gun. Both parties, therefore, remained silent and apparently inactive during the remainder of the day.

But the busy brains both of Indians and Esquimaux were, during this weary interval, employed in planning how to circumvent each other. As the shades of night deepened, each became more watchful. Once only did Maximus move from his post, in order to go to the farther end of the cave, where the large powder-horn had been placed for safety. As he did so, Chimo, who was tied to a rock, tried to follow him, and on finding that he was restrained, uttered a loud, mournful howl. This cry sent a thrill to the heart of Maximus, for it immediately occurred to him that any attempt to leave the cave stealthily would instantly be intimated to the watchful foe by the dog, and to take Chimo with them was impossible.

“The dog must die,” said Old Moggy, who divined at once what was passing in the man’s mind.

Maximus shook his head sadly.

“I cannot kill Chimo,” he said to Aneetka; “he is Edith’s dog.”

Aneetka made no reply, for she felt the power of her husband’s objection to injure the dog of his little favourite; yet she could not but perceive that the cry—which was invariably repeated when any of the party moved away from the animal—would betray them in the moment of danger. Nothing further was said for some time, but Old Moggy, who had no tender reminiscences or feelings in regard to the dog, proceeded quietly and significantly to construct a running-noose on the stout thong of leather that encircled her waist and served as a sash.

While she was thus engaged the sun’s last rays faded away and the night began to deepen around them. To the satisfaction of both parties the sky was draped with heavy clouds, which gave promise of a night of intense darkness. This was absolutely essential not only to the Indians but to Maximus, who had at length formed a plan by which he hoped to turn the dreaded cry of the dog to good account, although he had little hope of saving it from the Indians, should he succeed in escaping with the women. As the night grew darker he began to put this plan in execution.

Taking his station at the entrance of the cave, he took a long and steady aim at the bow of the canoe, which could now be only seen dimly. Having adjusted the gun to his satisfaction he marked its position exactly on the rock, so that, when the canoe should be entirely hid from sight, he could make certain of hitting any object directly in front of it. Then he ordered Moggy and his wife to keep moving about the cave, so that the howling of Chimo should be kept up continually, and thus not appear unusual when they should really forsake the cave and attempt their escape. In order to show that he was still on the alert, he shortly after aimed at the canoe, which was now quite invisible, and fired. The effect was more startling than had been expected. A death-cry rent the air and mingled with the reverberations of the shot, proving that it had taken deadly effect on one of the Indians, who, under cover of the darkness, had ventured to approach the coveted canoe. A volley was instantly fired in the direction of the cave from various parts of the bushes, but without effect.

Maximus now kept up a continued fire, sometimes discharging a succession of rapid shots, at other times firing at irregular intervals of from three to ten minutes. This he did purposely, with a view to his future plans. In the meantime the dog was made to keep up a continuous howling.

“Now, Aneetka,” said Maximus, as the ring of his last shot died away, “go, and may the Great Spirit guide thee!”

Without a word of reply, the two women glided noiselessly like shadows into the thick darkness. About two minutes after they had disappeared, Maximus again fired several shots, taking care, however, to point considerably to the right of the canoe. Then he ceased for three minutes, and again fired several shots irregularly. At the last shot he passed from the cave so silently and quickly that even Chimo was deceived, and snuffed the air for a moment ere it renewed its sad wailing. In less than two minutes the Esquimau had glided, with the noiseless tread of a panther, to the spot where the canoe lay. Here he found his wife and the old woman crouching beside it. The water’s edge was about ten yards distant. A few seconds would suffice to lift the light bark in his powerful arms and launch it. Aneetka and the old woman, who had already received minute instructions what to do, had glided quietly into the sea the instant Maximus touched them; for, as we have said, it was intensely dark and they could not see a yard before them. The women now stood up to the knees in water, with their paddles in their hands ready to embark.

Stooping down, the Esquimau seized the canoe; but, just as he was about to lift it, he observed a tall dark object close to his side.

“Wah!” whispered the Indian, “you are before me. Quick! the Esquimau dog will fire again.”

The words of the Indian were cut short by the iron gripe of Maximus on his throat, and the next instant he was felled by a blow that would have stunned an ox. So decided and quick was the action that it was not accompanied by more noise than might have been caused by the Indian endeavouring to lift the canoe, so that his comrades were not alarmed. Next moment the canoe was in the water. But the long silence, which had now been unbroken for eight or ten minutes, except by the howling of Chimo in the cave, began to arouse the suspicion of the red men; and no sooner was this the case than they glided from the bushes in all directions with noiseless tread. In a second or two the body of their fallen comrade was discovered, and a yell of fury rent the air (for concealment was now unnecessary), while they dashed into the water in pursuit. The darkness favoured the fugitives for a few seconds, and enabled the women to embark; but just as Maximus was about to step into his place, Meestagoosh seized him by the throat!

Maximus was possessed of that ready presence of mind and prompt energy of character which are so necessary to a warrior, especially to him who wars with the prowling and stealthy savage. Almost in the same instant he gave the canoe a shove that sent it bounding out to sea, and raised his hand to catch the invisible arm which he knew must be descending with the deadly knife towards his heart. He succeeded so far that, although he did not arrest it, he turned the blow aside, receiving only a slight wound on the shoulder. Ere it could be repeated, he dealt his adversary a blow on the forehead, and hurled him back insensible into the water.

The Esquimau immediately glided out into deep water; and now, for the first time in his life, he felt keenly the disadvantage of not being able to swim. This is an art which the inhabitants of the icy seas have never acquired, owing probably to the shortness of the season of open water, and the intense cold of the ice-laden seas, even in summer. The Indians, on the contrary, who live beside the warm lakes and rivers of the interior, are many of them pretty expert swimmers. Thus it happened that Maximus was obliged to stand up to his neck in the water, not daring to move or utter a sound, while his friends and foes alike sought in vain for him in the darkness.

While he stood thus, uncertain how to act, he heard the water rippling near to him, and distinguished the hard breathing of a swimmer. Soon he observed a dark head making straight towards him. A sarcastic smile played for a moment on the face of the gigantic Esquimau, as he thought of the ease with which he should crush his approaching foe; and his hand was already raised to strike when it was arrested by a low whine, and the next moment Chimo was endeavouring to clamber upon his shoulder!

It instantly occurred to Maximus that he might turn the dog’s swimming powers to good account. Seizing Chimo by the flanks with both hands, he turned its head out to sea, and keeping it in that position, was dragged into deep water. When he had been thus conveyed what appeared to be about fifty yards, he uttered a low cry. He was heard by the Indians as well as by those in the canoe; but the latter happened to be nearer to the spot, and a few strokes of the paddles sent them alongside of their comrade, who quickly caught the stern of the bark. The women plied their paddles, the Esquimau gave a shout of triumph, and half immersed in the water, was dragged away from shore. A yell of anger, and, soon after, a desultory discharge of firearms, told that the Indians had given up the chase.

But it was now a question how Maximus was to be got into the canoe. The frail bark was so crank that a much lighter weight than that of the burly Esquimau would have upset it easily; and as the stern was sharp, there was no possibility of climbing over it. This was a matter of considerable anxiety, for the water was excessively cold, being laden with ice out at sea. While in this dilemma, the canoe grated on a rock, and it was discovered that in the dark they had well-nigh run against a low cape that jutted far out from the land at this part of the coast. Here Maximus and the dog landed, and while the one shook its wet sides, the other wrung the moisture from his garments; after which necessary operation he leaped, with his canine friend, into the canoe, and they pushed well out to sea.

When daylight returned, they were far beyond the reach of their Indian enemies.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Happy meetings and joyous feastings—Love, marriage, desertion, desolation, and conclusion.

After the escape narrated in the last chapter, the stout Esquimau and his companions travelled in safety; for they had passed the country of the Indians, and were now near the lands of their own people.

But if Maximus had not now to fight with men, he was not exempted from doing fierce battle with the elements of these inhospitable climes. For hundreds of miles he travelled along the east coast of Hudson’s Bay and the southern shores of the Straits, now driven ashore by the storm, anon interrupted by drift-ice, and obliged to carry his canoe for miles and miles on his shoulders, while the faithful Aneetka trudged by his side, happy as the day was long; for, although her load was necessarily a heavy one, her love for Maximus made it rest lighter than the eider-down that floated from her fingers when she plucked the wild birds for their evening meal. Moggy, too, waddled along after her own fashion, with a resolution and energy that said much for her strength and constitution. She only carried the light paddles and a few trifling articles that did not incommode her much.

During the spring and summer and autumn they pursued their arduous journey, living from hand to mouth on the produce of their guns, nets, seal-spears, and fishing-lines, which generally supplied them with enough for their daily wants, sometimes with abundance, but not unfrequently with just sufficient to keep them alive. Three or four times they met with Esquimaux, and rendered essential service to them, and to the fur-traders, by telling them of the new fort at Ungava, recounting the wonders of the store there, and assuring them that the chief desire of the traders, after getting their furs, was to do them good, and bring about friendly intercourse between them and the Indians.

Late in the autumn the three voyageurs drew near to Ungava Bay, and in passing along the coast opposite to the island on which Edith had spent the winter, they overtook Annatock and his whole tribe, with a flotilla of oomiaks and kayaks, on their way to the same place. At the mouth of the bay they were joined by the Esquimaux of False River, who were carrying supplies of seal-blubber to the fort for the use of the dogs in winter, and a few deerskins to trade.

It was a bright and beautiful autumn afternoon (a rare blessing in that dreary clime) when they passed the narrows of the river, and came in sight of Fort Chimo.

On that day an unusually successful deer-hunt had taken place, and the fiddle had, as Bryan expressed it, been “sarved out” to the men, for the purpose of rejoicing their hearts with sweet sounds. On that day a small band of Indians had arrived with a rich and unusually large stock of furs, among which there were one or two silver foxes and a choice lot of superb martens. This tended to gladden the heart of Stanley; and truly he needed such encouragement. At one of the Company’s inland trading-posts such a bundle of furs would have been received as a matter of common occurrence; but it was otherwise with the poverty-stricken Ungava, from which so much had been expected before its dreary, barren character was known.

On that day, too, a picturesque iceberg had grounded near the fort at high water, and Frank took Edith in the small canoe to paddle her among its peaked and fantastic fragments.

“You will be steersman and sit in the stern, Eda,” said Frank, as they embarked. “I will stand in the bow and keep you clear of ice-tongues.”

“How beautiful!” exclaimed the delighted child, as their light craft glided in and out among the icy pinnacles which overhung them in some places as they passed. “Don’t you hear a strange noise, Frank?”

Truly Frank did hear a strange noise, and beheld a strange sight, for at that moment the Esquimau flotilla passed the narrows and swept round the bay; while the natives, excited by their unusual numbers and the unexpected return of Maximus, yelled and screamed and threw about their arms in a manner that defies description.

“There must be strangers among them,” said Frank, as he paddled towards the shore; “they are too numerous for our friends of False River.”

“That seems to be an Indian canoe coming on ahead,” remarked Stanley, who, along with his wife and most of the men, had hurried to the beach on hearing the shouts of the approaching multitude.

“Can it be possible?” exclaimed Frank, as the canoe drew near; “does it not look like Maximus—eh?”

“Oh! o-o-o-oh! there’s Chimo!” screamed Edith, her eyes dancing with mingled amazement and delight.

The dog in his anxiety to reach the shore had leaped into the water; but he had miscalculated his powers of swimming, for the canoe instantly darted ahead. However, he was close on the heels of Maximus.

“Give him a chare, bays,” cried Bryan, as he ran down to the beach waving a large hammer round his head. “Now thin, hooray!”

The appeal was responded to with heartfelt energy by the whole party, as their old comrade sprang from the canoe, and leaving his wife to look after herself, ran toward Stanley and Frank and grasped them warmly by the hands, while his huge face beamed with emotion.

“I hope that’s your wife you’ve brought with you, Maximus,” said Stanley.

“I can answer for that,” said Frank; “I know her pretty face well.”

“Ah! le poor chien,” cried La Roche; “it vill eat Miss Edith, I ver’ much b’lieve, voilà!”

This seemed not unlikely, for the joy manifested by poor Chimo at the sight of his young mistress was of a most outrageous character, insomuch that the child was nearly overturned by the dog’s caresses.

“Musha! what have ye got there, Maximus?” said Bryan, who had been gazing for some time past in solemn wonder at the figure of Old Moggy, who, regardless of the noise and excitement around her, was quietly carrying the goods and chattels from the canoe to the beach. “Shure ye’ve found yer ould grandmother. She’s the mortial parsonification of my own mother. Faix if it wasn’t that her proboscis is a taste longer, I’d swear it was herself.”

At this point Massan stepped forward and took Maximus by the arm.

“Come along, lad; there’s too much row here for a comfortable palaver; bring your wife wi’ you. Ye’ve run out o’ baccy, now? Of coorse ye have. Come, then, to the house; I’ll fill yer pipe and pouch, too, boy.—See after his canoe, La Roche; and bring the old ooman, Bryan.”

“Mind yer own consarns an’ let yer shupariors proceed ye,” said Bryan, as he shoved past, and tucking Old Moggy’s arm within his own, marched off in triumph to the fort.

Meanwhile, the main body of Esquimaux had landed, and the noise and confusion on the shore were so great that scarcely an intelligible sound could be heard. In the midst of all this, and while yet engaged in caressing Chimo, Edith felt some one pluck her by the sleeve, and on looking round she beheld the smiling faces of her old friends Arnalooa and Okatook. Scarcely had she bestowed a hearty welcome on them, when she was startled by an ecstatic yell of treble laughter close to her ear; and turning quickly round, she beheld the oily visage of Kaga with the baby—the baby—in her hood, stark naked, and revelling in mirth as if that emotion of the mind were its native element—as indeed it was, if taken in connection with seal-fat.

Scarcely had she recovered from her delight at this meeting, when she was again startled by a terrific shout, and immediately after Peetoot performed a violent dance around her, expressive of unutterable joy, and finished off by suddenly seizing her in his arms, after which he fled, horrified at his own presumption.

To escape from this scene of confusion the traders returned to the fort, having directed the Esquimaux to pitch their camp on the point below; after which they were to assemble in the yard, for the double purpose of palavering and receiving a present of tobacco.

That night was spent by the inhabitants of Fort Chimo in rejoicing. In her own little room Edith entertained a select tea-party, composed of Arnalooa, Okatook, Peetoot, Chimo, and the baby; and really it would be difficult to say which of them made most noise or which behaved most obstreperously. Upon mature consideration we think that Chimo behaved best; but that, all things considered, is not saying much for him. We rather think the baby behaved worst. Its oily visage shone again like a lustrous blob of fat, and its dimples glided about the surface in an endless game of hide-and-seek! As for Peetoot, he laughed and yelled until the tears ran over his cheeks, and more than once, in the excess of his glee, he rubbed noses with Chimo—a piece of familiarity which that sagacious animal was at length induced to resent and put a stop to by a gentle and partial display of two tremendous rows of white ivory.

In the hall Stanley held a levee that lasted the greater part of the evening; and in the men’s house a ball was got up in honour of the giant’s return with his long-lost Aneetka.

Ah, reader! although the countenances of the men assembled there were sunburnt and rough, and their garments weather-worn and coarse, and their language and tones unpolished, think not that their hearts were less tender or sympathetic than the hearts of those who are nurtured in softer scenes than the wilds of Ungava. Their laugh was loud and uproarious, it is true, but there was genuine, heartfelt reality in it. Their sympathy was boisterously expressed, mayhap, if expressed at all, but it was truly and deeply felt, and many an unbidden tear glanced from the bronzed cheeks of these stalwart men of the north, as they shook their gigantic comrade by the hand and wished him joy, and kissed his blooming bride.

Aneetka had long since laid aside her native garb, and wore the more graceful and womanly costume of the Indian women, and Maximus wore the capote and leggings of the voyageur. But there were not wanting gentlemen from the camp at the point whose hairy garments and hoods, long hair and beards, did honour to the race of the Esquimaux; and there were present ladies from the same place, each of whom could a tail unfold that would have been the admiration and envy of tadpoles, had any such creatures been there to see them. They wore boots too, to which, in width at least, those worn by fishermen are nothing. Some of them carried babies in their hoods—little naked imps, whose bodies and heads were dumplings (suet dumplings, we may add, for the information of the curious), and whose arms and legs were sausages.

Bryan was great that night—he was majestic! The fiddle all but spoke, and produced a sensation of dancing in the toes of even those who happened to be seated. Bryan was great as a linguist, too, and exhibited his powers in this respect with singular felicity in the vocal entertainment that followed the dancing. The Esquimau language seemed a mere trifle to him, and he conversed, while playing the violin, with several “purty craytures” in their native tongue, with an amount of volubility quite surprising. Certainly it cannot be said that those whom he addressed expressed much intelligence; but Esquimaux are not usually found to be quick in their perceptions. Perchance Bryan was metaphysical!

Mirth, hearty, real mirth reigned at the fort, not only that day, but for many a day afterwards; for the dangers, and troubles, and anxieties of the first year were past. Hope in the future was strong, despite the partial failures that had been experienced; and through the goodness of God, all those who composed the original band of the “forlorn hope” were reunited, after many weary months of travel, danger, and anxiety, during part of which a dark and dreary cloud (now happily dispelled) had settled down on Fort Chimo.

Years have rolled away since the song and shout of the fur-trader first awakened the echoes of Ungava. Its general aspect is still the same, for there is no change in the everlasting hills. In summer the deer still wander down the dark ravines and lave their flanks in the river’s swelling tide, and in winter the frost-smoke still darkens the air and broods above the open water of the sea; but Fort Chimo, the joy and wonder of the Esquimaux and the hope of the fur-trader, is gone, and a green patch of herbage near the flat rock beside the spring alone remains to mark the spot where once it stood.

In the course of time the changes that took place in the arrangements of the Fur Company required the presence of Stanley at another station, and he left Ungava with his wife and child. The gentleman who succeeded him was a bold, enterprising Scottish Highlander, whose experience in the fur trade and energy of character were a sufficient guarantee that the best and the utmost would be done for the interests of the Company in that quarter. But however resolute a man may be, he cannot make furs of hard rocks, nor convert a scene of desolation into a source of wealth. Vigorously he wrought and long he suffered, but at length he was compelled to advise the abandonment of the station. The Governor of the Company—a man of extraordinary energy and success in developing the resources of the sterile domains over which he ruled—was fain to admit at last that the trade of Ungava would not pay. The order to retreat was as prompt and decisive as the command to advance. A vessel was sent out to remove the goods, and in a brief space of time Fort Chimo was dismantled and deserted.

The Esquimaux and Indians soon tore down and appropriated to their own use the frames of the buildings, and such of the materials of the fort as had been left standing; and the few remnants that were deemed worthless were finally swept away and every trace of them obliterated by the howling storms that rage almost continually around these desolate mountains.

And now, reader, it remains for me to dismiss the characters who have played their part in this brief tale. Of most of them, however, I have but little to say, for they are still alive, scattered far and wide throughout the vast wilderness of Rupert’s Land, each acting his busy part in a new scene; for it is frequently the fate of those who enter this wild and stirring service to be associated for a brief season under one roof, and then broken up and scattered over the land, never again to be reunited.

George Stanley, after a long sojourn in the backwoods, retired from the service, and, with his family, proceeded to Canada, where he purchased a small farm. Here Edith waxed strong and beautiful, and committed appalling havoc among the hearts of the young men for thirty miles around her father’s farm. But she favoured no one, and at the age of seventeen acquired the name of being the coldest as well as the most beautiful and modest girl in the far west.

There was a thin young man, with weak limbs and a tendency to fall into a desponding state of mind, who lived about three miles from Mr Stanley’s farm. This young man’s feelings had been so often lacerated by hopes and fears in reference to the fair Edith, that he mounted his pony one evening in desperation, and galloped away in hot haste to declare his passion, and realise or blast his hopes for ever. As he approached the villa, however, he experienced a sensation of emptiness about the region of the stomach, and regretted that he had not taken more food at dinner. Having passed the garden gate, he dismounted, fastened his pony to a tree, and struck across the shrubbery towards the house with trembling steps. As he proceeded, he received a terrific shock by observing the flutter of a scarf, which he knew intuitively belonged to Edith. The scarf disappeared within a bower which stood not more than twenty yards distant from him, close beside the avenue that led to the house. By taking two steps forward he could have seen Edith, as she sat in the bower gazing with a pensive look at the distant prospect of hill and dale, river and lake, in the midst of which she dwelt; but the young man could as easily have leaped over Stanley’s villa, farm and all, as have taken these two steps. He essayed to do so; but he was rooted to the ground as firmly as the noble trees under which he stood. At length, by a great effort, he managed to crawl—if we may so express it—to within a few yards of the bower, from which he was now concealed only by a few bushes; but just as he had screwed up his soul to the sticking point, and had shut his eyes preparatory to making a rush and flinging himself on his knees at Edith’s feet, he was struck powerless by the sound of a deep sigh, and, a moment after, was all but annihilated by a cough!

Suddenly the sound of horse-hoofs was heard clattering up the avenue. On came the rider, as if in urgent haste. In a few seconds a curve in the avenue brought him into view. He was a man of handsome and massive proportions, and bestrode a black charger that might have carried a heavy dragoon like a feather. A wheel-barrow had been left across the track, over which the steed went with an easy yet heavy bound, betokening well-balanced strength and weight; and a bright smile lighted up the rider’s bronzed face for an instant, as his straw-hat blew off in the leap and permitted his curling hair to stream out in the wind. As he passed the bower at a swinging gallop, an exclamation of surprise from Edith attracted his attention. The charger’s hoofs spurned the gravel while he was reined up so violently that he was thrown on his haunches, and almost before the thin young man could wink in order to clear his vision, this slashing cavalier sprang to the ground and entered the bower.

There was a faint scream, which was instantly followed by a sound so peculiar that it sent a thrill of dismay to the cavity in which the heart of the weak young man had once lodged. Stretching out his hand he turned aside the branches, and was brought to the climax of consternation by beholding Edith in the arms of the tall stranger! Bewildered in the intellect, and effectually crippled about the knees and ankles, he could only gaze and listen.

“So you have come—at last!” whispered Edith, while a brilliant blush overspread her fair cheek.

“O Edith!” murmured the stalwart cavalier, in a deep musical voice, “how my heart has yearned for this day! How I have longed to hear your sweet and well-remembered voice! In the desolate solitudes of the far north I have thought of you. Amid the silent glades of the forest, when alone and asleep on my mossy couch or upon my bed of snow, I have dreamed of you—dreamed of you as you were, a fair, sweet, happy child, when we wandered together among the mountains of Ungava—and dreamed of you as I fancied you must have become, and as I now find you to be. Yes, beloved girl, my heart has owned but one image since we parted, years ago, on the banks of the Caniapuscaw River. Your letters have been my bosom friends in all my long, long wanderings through the wilderness; and the hope of seeing you has gladdened my heart and nerved my arm. I have heard your sighs in every gentle air that stirred the trees, and your merry laugh in the rippling waters. Even in the tempest’s roar and the thundering cataract I have fancied that I heard you calling for assistance; and many a time and oft I have leaped from my couch to find that I did but dream. But they were pleasant and very precious dreams to me. O Edith! I have remembered you, and thought of you, and loved you, through months and years of banishment! And now—”

Again was heard the peculiar sound that had thrilled with dismay the bosom of the weak young man.

“Halo! whence came this charger?” shouted a hale, hearty voice, as Stanley walked towards the bower. “Eh! what have we here?” he exclaimed, rushing forward and seizing the stranger in his arms,—“Frank—Frank Morton!”

This was too much. The weak young man suddenly became strong as Hercules. He turned and fled down the avenue like a deer. The pony, having managed to unfasten its bridle, stood in the centre of the way gazing down the avenue with its back towards its master. Unwonted fire nerved the youth’s limbs; with one bound he vaulted leap frog over the animal’s back into the saddle, dashed his spurs into its sides, and fled like a whirlwind from the scene of his despair.

Frank Morton and George Stanley, being both men of promptitude and decision, resolved that one month was long enough to make preparations for the marriage; and Edith, being the most dutiful daughter that ever lived, did what she was bid.

That beautiful cottage which stands in the midst of most exquisite scenery, about two miles from Stanley’s villa, is inhabited by Frank Morton and his family. That crow which you have just heard proceed from the nursery was uttered by the youngest of five; and yonder little boy with broad shoulders, who thrusts his hands into his pockets in a decided manner, and whistles vociferously as he swaggers down the avenue, is Master George F. Morton, on his way to school.

La Roche and Bryan were so fortunate as to be appointed to the same establishment after leaving Ungava—somewhere near the mouth of the Mackenzie River, and within the region of all but perpetual frost and snow. They are sometimes visited by Esquimaux, which is fortunate; for, as Bryan says, “it guves him an opportunity o’ studyin’ the peecoolier dialects o’ their lingo.”

Dick Prince was the only one who lost his life in the “forlorn-hope.” He was drowned while out shooting in the bay alone in his canoe. A sudden storm upset his frail bark and left him struggling in the water. Prince was a strong swimmer, and he battled long for his life; but the ice-laden sea benumbed his hardy limbs, and he sank at last, without a cry, to rise no more. He was a noble specimen of his class—a brave, modest, unobtrusive son of the forest, beloved and respected by his companions; and when his warm heart ceased to beat, it was felt by all that a bright star of the wilderness had been quenched for ever. His body was found next day on the beach, and was interred by his mourning comrades in a little spot of ground behind the fort. It was many a long day after this melancholy event ere Massan could smile; and when the fort was finally deserted, he put in practice his long-meditated intention of becoming a hunter and taking to the Rocky Mountains, where he wanders now, if he has escaped the claws of the dreaded grizzly bear and the scalping-knife of the Red Indian.

Moses, finding the life of a fur-trader not quite to his taste, rejoined his countrymen, and reverted to killing seals and eating raw blubber. The two Indians also returned to a purely savage life, which, indeed, they had only forsaken for a time. Augustus and Oolibuck died; and the latter left a son, who has already rendered good service as interpreter to the arctic expeditions, as his worthy father did before him. François and Gaspard are still together at one of the posts of the interior. They are now fast friends, and have many a talk over the days when they quarrelled and messed together at Fort Chimo.

As for the poor Esquimaux, they were for a time quite inconsolable at the departure of the fur-traders, and with a species of childlike simplicity, hung about the bay, in the hope that they might, after all, return. Then they went off in a body to the westward, and the region of Ungava, to which they had never been partial, was left in its original dreary solitude. It may be that some good had been done to the souls of these poor natives during their brief intercourse with the traders. We cannot tell, and we refrain from guessing or speculating on a subject so serious. But of this we are assured—if one grain of the good seed has been sown, it may long lie dormant, but it cannot die.

Maximus accompanied his countrymen, along with Aneetka and Old Moggy, who soon assumed the native costume, and completely identified herself with the Esquimaux. Maximus was now a great man among his people, who regarded with deep respect the man who had travelled through the lands of the Indians, had fought with the red men, single-handed, and had visited the fur-traders of the south. But the travelled Esquimaux was in reality a greater man than his fellows supposed him to be. He fully appreciated the advantages to be derived from a trading-post near their ice-girt lands, and resolved, when opportunity should offer, to do all in his power to strengthen the friendship now subsisting between the Indians and the Esquimaux of Ungava, and to induce his countrymen, if possible, to travel south towards the establishment on James’s Bay.

He still retains, however, a lingering affection for the spot where he had spent so many happy days, and at least once a year he undertakes a solitary journey to the rugged mountains that encircled Fort Chimo. As in days of yore, with wallet on shoulder and seal-spear in hand, the giant strides from rock to rock along the now silent banks of the Caniapuscaw River. Once again he seats himself on the flat rock beside the spring, and gazes round in sadness on those wild, majestic hills, or bends his eye upon the bright green spot that indicates the ancient site of the trading-post, not a vestige of which is now visible, save the little wooden cross that marks the lonely grave of Dick Prince; and the broad chest of the giant heaves with emotion as he views these records of the past, and calls to mind the merry shouts and joyous songs that used to gladden that dreary spot, the warm hearth at which he was wont to find a hearty welcome, and the kind comrades who are now gone for ever. Ungava spreads, in all its dark sterility, around him, as it did in the days before the traders landed there; and that bright interval of busy life, in which he had acted so prominent a part, seems now but the fleeting fancy of a bright and pleasant dream.

The End.

ENDNOTE

Note 1. Esquimau name for Indians.

Chapter One.

The Outpost.

On the northern shores of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence there stood, not very long ago, a group of wooden houses, which were simple in construction and lowly in aspect. The region around them was a vast uncultivated, uninhabited solitude. The road that led to them was a rude one. It wound round a rugged cliff, under the shelter of which the houses nestled as if for protection from the cold winds and the snowdrifts that took special delight in revelling there.

This group of buildings was, at the time we write of, an outpost of the fur-traders, those hardy pioneers of civilisation, to whom, chiefly, we are indebted for opening up the way into the northern wilderness of America. The outpost was named the Cliff after the bold precipice near the base of which it stood. A slender stockade surrounded it, a flag-staff rose in the centre of it, and a rusty old ship’s carronade reared defiantly at its front gate. In virtue of these warlike appendages the place was sometimes styled “the Fort.”

When first established, the Cliff Fort lay far beyond the outmost bounds of civilised life, but the progress of emigration had sent forward wave after wave into the northern wilderness, and the tide rose at last until its distant murmur began to jar on the ears of the traders in their lonely dwelling; warning them that competition was at hand, and that, if they desired to carry on the trade in peace, they must push still further into the bush, or be hopelessly swallowed up in the advancing tide.

When the unwelcome sounds of advancing civilisation first broke the stillness of this desolate region, the chief of the trading-post was seated at breakfast with his clerk. He was a tall, good-looking, young Englishman, named Reginald Redding. The clerk, Bob Smart, was a sturdy youth, who first saw the light among the mountains of Scotland. Doubtless he had been named Robert when baptised, but his intimates would not have understood you had you mentioned him by that name.

Bob had just helped Reginald to the wing of a salt goose, and was about to treat himself to a leg of the same when the cook entered.

This cook was a man. It may also be said with truth that he was more than most men. At the outpost men were few, and of women there were none. It may be imagined, then, that the cook’s occupations and duties were numerous. François Le Rue, besides being cook to the establishment, was waiter, chambermaid, firewood-chopper, butcher, baker, drawer-of-water, trader, fur-packer, and interpreter. These offices he held professionally. When “off duty,” and luxuriating in tobacco and relaxation, he occupied himself as an amateur shoemaker, tailor, musician, and stick-whittler, to the no small advantage of himself and his fellow-outcasts, of whom there were five or six, besides the principals already mentioned.

Le Rue’s face bore an expression of dissatisfaction and perplexity as he entered the hall.

“Oh, Monsieur Redding,” he exclaimed, “dem squatters, de black scoundrils what is be called Macklodds has bin come at last.”

“Ho, ho! the McLeods have come, have they?” said Redding, laying down his knife and fork, and looking earnestly at the man; “I had heard of their intention.”

“Oui, yis, vraiment,” said Le Rue, with vehemence, “dey has come to Jenkins Creek more dan tree veeks pass. Von sauvage come an’ tell me he have see dem. Got put up von hut, an’ have begin de saw-mill.”

“Well, well, François,” returned Redding, with a somewhat doubtful smile, as he resumed his knife and fork, “bring some more hot water, and keep your mind easy. The McLeods can’t do us much harm. Their saw-mill will work for many a day before it makes much impression on the forests hereabouts. There is room for us all.”

“Forests!” exclaimed the cook, with a frown and a shrug of his shoulders, “non, dey not hurt moche timber, but dey vill trade vid de Injins—de sauvages—an’ give dem drink, an’ git all de furs, an’ fat den vill come of dat?”

Without waiting for a reply the indignant cook went in quest of hot water, leaving the traders to discuss the salt goose and the news.

“That’s bad news,” said Bob Smart. “What do you propose to do in the circumstances?”

“Something definite must be done,” replied Redding, “but I don’t yet see my way as to what.”

Having finished the goose between them, and turned its skeleton over with an inquisitive glance to make sure that nothing eatable had escaped, the two friends finished their frugal meal with a cup of tea and a fried cake of the simplest elements—flour and water—after which they drew their chairs to the fireplace,—a large open chimney well filled with blazing logs,—lighted their pipes, and entered on a discussion of the McLeods and their present position.

When their pipes were emptied, Redding arose, and, turning his back to the fire, said:—

“Well, Bob Smart, this is the outcome of our cogitations. I am almost certain that these McLeods have taken up their quarters within the boundary of our Company’s reserve lands, and if so, they must be routed out of their nest at once. Delay in such matters is often fatal. The law of use and wont, Bob, is soon established; but I have a strong objection to act in uncertainty. I will therefore drive up to the hut of Jonas Bellew, with whom I shall leave horse and sleigh, as the track ends at Boulder Creek, and proceed on snow-shoes to the new settlement in Partridge Bay, where the surveyor lives, who has the plans of our reserve lands. I shall examine these plans, and if I find that our property has been invaded, then—”

“Death and confusion to the McLeods,” interrupted Bob. “Well, perhaps that is the best thing to do; but the spring is well advanced. The thermometer stood high this morning. If a thaw should set in, you will find the walking in snow-shoes bad.”

“‘If’ is a word to which you attach too much importance, Bob. We have not at present to do with what may be, but with what is.”

“True, nevertheless a prudent man has regard to probabilities,” replied Bob, with an air of much wisdom, as he relighted his pipe.

“Just so,” returned Redding, “and as there is every probability that I shall be absent a good many days, I leave you in charge of this establishment, with strict injunctions to keep aloof from the McLeods, and at the same time to keep an eye on them. François Le Rue will accompany me. I shall start immediately, therefore be pleased to go and tell Le Rue to get himself and the sleigh ready while I put on my travelling gear.”

Obedient to the order, Smart left the room while his superior clothed himself in a leathern coat and leggings, fur cap, moccasins, and mittens.

In half an hour Redding and his man stepped into a sleigh, which was barely large enough to hold them. They packed themselves up to the armpits in bearskin rugs, and then Redding gave his rough little nag a touch of the whip, which caused him to start forward with a jerk that set all the bells on his harness ringing merrily. Another minute and they dashed out at the gate, swept round the base of the beetling cliff that frowned above the outpost, and entered the sombre shadow of the forest.

Chapter Two.

The Recluse of Boulder Creek.

The road along which the travellers proceeded was desolate and dreary in the extreme.

Already darkened by clouds and snow-drift, it was rendered still more gloomy by overhanging and snow-laden branches of stunted pines. It was just broad enough to permit the passage of a single vehicle, being a mere woodman’s track, which had been extended beyond the ordinary limits of such tracks, for his personal convenience, by Jonas Bellew, a trapper who dwelt at that part of the coast already mentioned as Boulder Creek. The track followed the windings of a streamlet which was at that time covered with snow, and only distinguishable by the absence of bushes along its course. It turned now to the right, now to the left, as rocks, or mounds, or cliffs presented obstacles. In some places it dived precipitately into a hollow that necessitated careful driving; in others it ran straight up to the brow of a hill at an angle that obliged the travellers not only to get out and walk, but also to aid their panting pony by putting their shoulders to the back of the sleigh. Here and there a level patch occurred over which they trotted briskly, and then down they went again by a steep incline into the bed of an ice-buried stream, to find a similarly steep ascent on the other side. Occasionally, coming to a wall-like cliff surrounded by a tangled and trackless forest, they were forced to seek the shores of the sea, and there, among rocks and ice-drift, pick their way slowly along.

Fortunately this road, just opposite to Jenkins Creek, where the McLeods had commenced their squatting operations, ran along the shore at some distance from the entrance to the creek, so that Redding could pass without encountering the newcomers, whom he was anxious to avoid until the question of the invasion of the Fur Company’s rights was settled.

Despite their utmost efforts, night began to close upon the travellers before they reached Bellew’s shanty in Boulder Creek.

“Take care, Monsieur, there is von portion dangereux here,” said François Le Rue.

“Where?” asked Redding, as he checked the pony a little and looked earnestly ahead.

“Ah! dere!” exclaimed Le Rue.

His remark was needless, for at that moment the sleigh turned over a ledge of rock and pitched its occupants into a snow-drift.

“Killded?” gasped the Canadian, as he emerged from the snow with eyes, ears, and nostrils stuffed full; “no—not quite!”

Satisfying himself that no bones were broken, he turned abruptly to look for his companion, whose motionless legs sticking out of the drift were the only visible portions of his body.

Anxiously and swiftly did François drag his master out, and great was his relief when poor Redding looked at him with a bewildered gaze and demanded to know what had happened!

“Oh! I see, capsized,” he said, rising and pressing his hand to his brow, “I believe I must have hit my head against a stump, for I’ve been slightly stunned. However, ‘all’s well that ends well.’ Not hurt, François?”

“No, Monsieur,—not fatever.”

“That’s right, lend a hand to lift the sleigh—hoop! there—jump in.”

Le Rue obeyed. The bear-rug was replaced around them, and the pony, which had stood as quiet as a lamb during the accident, started forward again.

“Voilà! von light,” exclaimed the Canadian.

At that moment they had rounded the corner of a high cliff, and come into view of Boulder Creek. There was just light enough to make the chaotic grandeur of the place visible in a ghostly degree. Great boulders and masses of rock, which had fallen from the neighbouring mountains and cliffs, lay piled about in the creek or gully in wildest confusion. Some of these masses were as large as a small hut, but they were of all sizes as well as shapes. It was a weird scene, and forbidding; nevertheless some human being had seen fit to take up his abode there, as was made apparent by the light referred to by Le Rue.

Picking their way carefully among the boulders, the travellers at last reached a log-hut which was so small, weather-worn, and grey, that, from a short distance, it might have easily been mistaken, even in daylight, for one of the rocks by which it was surrounded.

The door stood wide open, and through it streamed the light of a roaring fire of wood. So powerful was the contrast between the ruddy light and the cold grey scene without, that to the approaching travellers it appeared as if the whole interior of the hut glowed with fervent heat.

In the small doorway stood the figure of a man who was so large as almost to fill up the entrance, and so black, by contrast with the glowing background, that neither feature nor form was distinguishable save his sharp outline. The outline, however, was a remarkably telling one. It told of a broad chest and square shoulders, of massive limbs, and an easy air, and a sturdy attitude, and suggested difficulty in the way of entering that hut without leave asked and obtained.

“Hallo!” exclaimed the outline, in a voice so deep that it must have been unfathomable.

“How d’ee do, Bellew?” cried Reginald Redding, as he drove into the stream of light, pulled up, and sprang from the sleigh.

“Hearty, sir, hearty, thank ’ee,” replied the outline, advancing and becoming a little more visible on the surface as he did so. “Hallo! Le Rue, how are ’ee? Glad to see you both. Step in. A good fire on a coldish night is cheery—ain’t it, Mister Redding?”

“Indeed it is, Bellew, especially when the night happens to be also darkish.”

“Ha! oui,” interposed Le Rue, bustling into the hut with the bear-rug, “it vas so darkish dat ve capsize under de cliff an’ a’most knock de whole affair to smattoms—sleigh, cheval, an’ peepil.”

“I’m glad to see that the ‘peepil’ is all right, however,” said Bellew, glancing at his visitors with what may be called a grave smile; “it might have bin worse, for that’s an ugly corner under the cliff, an’ needs careful drivin’ even in daylight.”

“I’ve not come off quite scatheless, however,” said Redding, rubbing the top of his head tenderly, “for here is a bump that would perplex the whole college of phrenologists.”

“Skin broke, sir?” asked Bellew, advancing and examining the part. “No, all right. A good supper will be the best cure for it. If I was a phrenologist now, I’d name it the bump of top-heaviness. Sit down, sir; sit down, Le Rue, an’ look after my kettle while I see to your nag.”

So saying, their host went out and left his unexpected, but evidently welcome, guests to make themselves comfortable.

Although Jonas Bellew was a recluse, he was by no means an ascetic. He was marked by deep gravity of countenance coupled with a kindly humorous disposition. No one knew where he came from or why he had taken up his abode in such a lonely spot. Many of the rough fellows who hang on the outskirts of the wilderness had tried as they said, to “pump” him on these points, but Jonas was either a dry well or a deep one, for pumping brought forth nothing. He gained a livelihood by shooting, fishing, trapping wild animals for their skins, and, sometimes, by doing what he called “odd jobs” in the settlements.

“Your home appears to me to grow wilder every time I see it,” said Redding, as Bellew re-entered the hut, and busied himself in spreading on a rough deal table the materials of a plain but substantial meal.

“That seems to be the idea of most men who come here,” replied the trapper, “but it’s not many that favour me with a visit.”

“Ha! vraiment, dat must be true,” interposed the Canadian, “for no body vill com’ here ’xcept them as do want hims legs broke.”

“Well, I have seen a few damaged shins and broken heads since I came to this location,” said Jonas, “but such accidents occur chiefly among the Canadian French, who seem on the whole to be a clumsy set.”

“Not von half so clumsy as de Engleesh, or Irish, or Scosh,” retorted Le Rue.

“Perhaps you’re right, an’ mayhap you’re wrong, lad, anyway here is supper. The Frenchmen are always good at their victuals, so sit in an’ go to work. Take the keg, Mister Redding. I’ve not found time yet to make chairs, but it’s wonderful how well a man gets along without such luxuries.”

“Especially when a man sits down to a venison-steak like this,” said the fur-trader, taking the offered seat, while his man sat down on a block of wood set on end, and prepared to prove the truth of the trapper’s assertion in regard to French capacity for food.

“’Taint venison,” said Bellew, assisting his companions to the meat in question, “it’s bear.”

“Indeed? and not bad food for a hungry man,” returned Redding, as he began supper. “Where got you him?”

“Down near Jenkins Creek, where the McLeods are setting up their saw-mill.”

“The McLeods!” exclaimed Redding, looking up suddenly, “have you seen the McLeods?”

“Ay, I’ve bin helpin’ them a bit wi’ the mill. Goin’ down again to-morrow. If this weather holds, the ice must give way soon, and then we’ll be able to push ahead faster.”

The trapper said this quietly and without looking up from the bear-steak with which he was busy, so that Redding’s look of surprise appeared to be lost on him. The fur-trader and his man exchanged glances.

For a few minutes the process of mastication completely engrossed the trio, but the thoughts of the fur-trader were busy, for he was disappointed to find that one whom he respected so much as Jonas Bellew should thus coolly state that he was aiding the interlopers.

Presently he laid down his knife and fork, and said:—

“Are you aware, Bellew, that these McLeods have settled themselves on the Company’s reserve lands?”

“No, sir, I wasn’t aware of it.”

“Well, then, I now tell you that they have,” said Redding, who, unfortunately for himself and others, possessed an easily-roused spirit and was apt to become irascible when the rights—real or supposed—of the Company which he represented appeared in danger of violation. “At least,” he continued, in a less positive tone, “I have reason to believe that such is the case, and I am now on my way to—”

He paused abruptly, feeling the impropriety of revealing his plans to one who, although a quiet and sensible man, and not given to talk too much, was, nevertheless, by his own admission, an aider and abettor of the enemy.

“Whereabouts is the boundary line?” asked Bellew, after a short silence.

“At Jenkins Creek—that creek is the boundary,” answered the fur-trader. “On which side of the creek have they begun to build the mill?”

“They haven’t begun yet, sir, but I believe they intend to commence on the south side.”

“So far well,” replied Redding, “but if I find that they have raised a stone or planted a stake on the north side of the creek, I’ll—”

Here feeling that he was about to give way to a boastful spirit, he got himself out of the difficulty of having to finish the sentence by making a sudden and somewhat stern demand for “more bear-steak.”

“Vid pleasieur, Monsieur,” said Le Rue, placing a huge slice on his master’s plate.

“Well, sir, I hope you’ll find that they haven’t overstepped the boundary,” said Bellew, “because the McLeods look as if they’d be troublesome customers to deal with.”

The fur-trader made no reply. He felt indignant at the bare idea of his being checked in doing his duty by any man, or men, who were “troublesome,” by which expression he understood Bellew to mean that they were resolute and physically powerful in opposition; he therefore thought it best to avoid any further tendency to boast by holding his tongue.

Not so his volatile retainer, who stuck his fork into a lump of meat vindictively, as if it had been the body of a McLeod, and exclaimed:—

“Hah! vat you say? troblesom, eh? who care for dat? If de Macklodds do touche, by von small hinch, de lands of de Companie—ve vill—hah!”

Another stab of the fork was all that the savage Le Rue vouchsafed as an explanation of his intentions.

In this frame of mind Reginald Redding and his man started off next morning on foot at an early hour, slept that night at a place called Sam’s hut, and, the following evening, drew near to the end of their journey.

Chapter Three.

A Brief but Agreeable Meeting.

The little outskirt settlement of Partridge Bay was one of those infant colonies which was destined to become in future years a flourishing and thickly-peopled district of Canada. At the period of our story it was a mere cluster of dwellings that were little better than shanties in point of architecture and appearance. They were, however, somewhat larger than these, and the cleared fields around them, with here and there a little garden railed in, gave them a more homelike aspect than the dwellings of the wood-men.

The valley in which the settlement stood was one of those magnificent stretches of primeval forest which used to be the hunting-grounds of the red man, and from which he had not at that time been thrust by the “paleface,” for, here and there, his wigwam might still be seen sending its wreath of blue smoke above the tree-tops.

It was evening—a calm, sunny, glorious, spring evening—when Redding and his man overtopped the heights that enclosed the vale, and paused as well to gaze upon the scene as to recover breath. Far below them lay the hamlet, a cluster of black dots on a field of pure snow. Roseate lights on undulations, and cold blue shadows in hollows, were tamed down in effect by the windows of the hamlet which shot forth beams of blazing fire at the setting sun. Illimitable space seemed to stretch away to the place where the horizon would have been if it had not lost itself in a golden glory, and this vast reach was a varied irregular network of dark pines and fields of snow—the pines tipped everywhere with sparkling snow-wreaths, the fields streaked everywhere with long shadows. Little winding lines of a grey colour which radiated from the hamlet indicated the tracks where the settlers drove their sleighs and wood-sledges. Many of these were seen moving along the far-off tracks like insects, while the tinkle of the sleigh-bells floated upwards like fairy music.

“Yes, I shall take up my abode there,” murmured Redding, as he gazed in rapt admiration on the beautiful scene.

“Monsieur?” said his companion.

“I say that I should like to dwell there,” answered Redding. “It is a splendid country, and will be better known in days to come.”

“Vraiment, truly, a magnifircent kontry,” returned Le Rue, “gorgeows, magnifique! I vould giv moche, ver moche, to have leetil cottage, an vife, an cow, an pigs dere.”

As Redding had been thinking of something similar, he laughed, and commenced the descent of the zigzag track that led to the hamlet.

They had proceeded only a few yards when, turning round a cluster of pines, they suddenly discovered some travellers in difficulty—a man whose horse had shied or stumbled off the narrow track and was embedded up to the girths in the soft snow, and two females, whose furry garments, all besprinkled with snow, showed that they had just emerged from the sledge, which lay on its side behind the horse. The driver’s chief anxiety seemed to be to quiet and restrain his horse, which being high-spirited, was plunging in vain and frantic efforts to extricate himself, to the great danger of shafts and harness.

To run up and aid the man was of course the instant impulse of our travellers.

“Ah! good luck to ’ee,” exclaimed the driver, in tones that were unmistakably Irish, “here, howld ’is head till I get the sled clear.”

“All right,” cried the Englishman, seizing the reins near the mouth of the terrified animal and holding its head forcibly down, while Le Rue assisted the owner to unharness.

In a few minutes the vehicle was righted, and the horse released.

While the driver was busy readjusting the harness, he accompanied the operation with a running fire of grateful expressions, such as— “there now, ain’t ye in luck, Rooney? Arrah! gentleman, it’s my blissin’ I bestow on yez. Och! but I’d have bin lost intirely widout ye. Well well, it’s always the way. I’m no sooner in a scrape than I’m sure to get out of it. It’s meself is a favoured man. Now thin, ladies, git in, for we’re late enough on the road.”

On the two “ladies” thus addressed Redding and his man had been gazing in silent surprise, for they were so good-looking and so blooming, that it seemed to the two men, who had been accustomed of late to the sight of none but the brown dames of the red skins, as if a couple of beings from another and a purer world had dropped suddenly upon their path. One of the two was evidently a lady, and was possessed of no common share of beauty. Her dark hair contrasted powerfully with the fairness of her skin and the whiteness of her teeth. Her dazzling black eyes almost, and her red lips altogether, laughed as she observed Redding’s gaze of astonishment. Her companion, a very pretty Canadian girl, was evidently her maid.

“We owe you many thanks, kind sirs,” said the lady, “for your opportune assistance.”

“Pardon me, madam,” said Redding, hastening forward in some confusion as he recovered from his rather rude stare of surprise, “I dwell in the wilderness and have been so unaccustomed of late to the sight of ladies that—that—allow me to assist you into the sleigh!”

“Mademoiselle, permettez moi,” said Le Rue, advancing to the waiting-maid and politely offering his hand.

Another moment and the “ladies” were seated in the vehicle and carefully repacked by our travellers, while their Irish driver mounted to his seat in front and gathered up the reins.

“Thanks, gentlemen, many thanks,” repeated the ladies, with bewitching smiles.

“Good luck to ’ee both,” cried the driver, as he flourished his whip and drove away.

Redding and his man stood silently gazing for several minutes at the turn in the road where the vision had vanished.

“Heaven for two minits, an’ now—gone for evair!” said Le Rue, with a deep sigh.

Redding echoed the sigh, and then laughed at the lugubrious expression of his man’s face.

“Oh such eyes!” exclaimed Le Rue.

“Yes, she’s rather good-looking,” replied Redding, thinking of the lady.

“Good-looking! non—bootifool—exiquitely bootifool,” cried Le Rue, thinking of the maid.

Again Redding laughed. “Well well, François,” said he, “whether good-looking or beautiful matters little, for it’s not likely that we shall ever see them again, so the less you think about them the better.—Allons! we are late enough and must not loiter.”

They pushed ahead at once at a rapid pace, but although neither spoke, each thought with somewhat similar feelings of the little incident just described.

Lest the reader should be surprised at so small a matter affecting them so deeply, we must remark that these fur-traders had lived for some years in a region where they saw no females except the brown and rather dirty squaws of the Indians who visited the Cliff Fort with furs. Their fort was indeed only three days’ journey from the little settlement of Partridge Bay, but as the space which lay between was a particularly rugged part of the wilderness, with only a portion of road—unworthy of the name—here and there, and the greater part of the way only passable on foot or by means of dog-sledges, none but an occasional red man or a trapper went to and fro; and as the nature of the fur-trader’s business called for very little intercourse with the settlements—their furs being sent by water to Quebec in summer—it followed that the inhabitants of the Cliff Fort rarely visited Partridge Bay. The sudden vision, therefore, of two pretty females of a higher type had not only the effect on Redding and his man of novelty, but also stirred up old memories and associations.

Such good use did they now make of their time that the settlement of Partridge Bay was reached before dark, and our hero went off immediately in quest of the surveyor.

Mr Gambart was a cheerful, healthy, plump little man, with a plump little wife, and three plump little daughters. Plumpness was not only a characteristic of the Gambarts, but also of their surroundings, for the cottage in which they dwelt had a certain air of plumpness about it, and the spot on which it stood was a round little knob of a hill.

Here Reginald Redding was hospitably received—we might almost say joyfully, because visitors to the settlement were so rare that whoever made his appearance was sure to be received as a “welcome guest” if he only carried the credentials of honesty and ordinary good nature on his countenance.

Redding’s impatience, however, to get at the truth of the matter that had brought him there, induced him very soon to forsake the society of the three plump little daughters and retire to the plump little father’s work-room.

“It is my opinion,” said Mr Gambart, as he carefully unfolded the plan, “that you may find the McLeods have trespassed somewhat on your reserves, for, if my memory serves me rightly, there is a small islet—as you see here—just in the centre of the creek, half of which belongs to you.”

“I see it,” said the fur-trader, earnestly gazing on the dot which represented the said island.

“Well,” continued the surveyor, “that islet is a mere rock just above the waterfall, and I am of opinion that it would be almost impossible for any one to erect a mill there without encroaching to some extent on your half of it.”

“Good,” replied the fur-trader, “can you let me have a copy of the plan to-morrow?”

“To-night if you please. I have one by me.”

“Then I’ll be off by daybreak the day after to-morrow,” said Redding, with much decision.

“Why such haste?” asked the surveyor, “the McLeods are not likely to run away from you. I know them well, for they dwelt long in this settlement, and were ever regarded as men of firm purpose—quite immovable indeed when once they had made up their minds on any point, so you’ll be sure to find them at Jenkins Creek carrying out their plans, even though you should delay your return for a month. Come, make up your mind to stay with us at least a few days. It will do you as well as me good, and will send you back to banishment in a better frame of mind.”

Redding, although strongly tempted by the comforts of civilised life and the hospitality of his host—not to mention the attractions of the plump little daughters—sternly resolved not to swerve an inch from the path of what he believed to be his duty. He entertained a strong suspicion that these McLeods had penetrated into the wilderness to the neighbourhood of the Cliff Fort, not so much for the purpose of cutting timber as for secret opposition in the fur-trade, of which the company he represented had for many years enjoyed almost a monopoly. His pride was touched, his spirit was fired. Perhaps the peaceful and secluded life he had led rendered this little opportunity of warfare more a pleasure than a pain to him. At all events the thing was not to be tolerated. The saw-mill, which the McLeods had an undoubted right to erect on the unoccupied lands, was being planted on the very border of the Company’s reserve lands, which they had purchased, and which were clearly laid down in plans. He would see to it that these interlopers did not trespass by an inch—no, not by an eighth of an inch—if he had power to prevent it! The fact that the McLeods were said to be resolute men made him more determined to assert his rights. He therefore declined Mr Gambart’s invitation firmly.

“I will stay,” said he, “only one day, to look out for a house, and then return.”

“Look out for a house!” exclaimed the surveyor, in surprise, “what mean you? Do you think of settling down here?”

“Indeed I do,” replied Redding, with a smile. “I have long been brooding over that subject. The fact is, Mr Gambart, that I am tired of solitude. I am a sociable being, and find it hard to endure the society of only five or six men in a place where there are no women, no children, and no end of bears! I intend to leave the Fur Company’s service,—indeed my resignation is already sent in,—purchase a small farm here, and get—”

“Get a wife, a horse, a dog, and a gun, and settle down to enjoy yourself, eh?” interrupted the surveyor.

“Well, I had not gone quite so much into details,” answered Redding, with a laugh, “but you are right in so far as settling down goes. My only fear is that it won’t be easy to find a place that will at once suit my fancy and my purse. The small sum of money left me by my father at his death two years ago will not purchase a very extensive place, but—”

“I know the very thing to suit you,” interrupted the surveyor with emphasis, “a splendid little cottage—quite a mansion in miniature—with garden, fences, fields, outhouses, etcetera, all complete and going literally for an old song. Come, we’ll ‘go visit it by the pale moonlight’ just now, return to have tea with the ladies, and to-morrow we’ll go see it by daylight. It is close at hand, the name is Loch Dhu, and it has only one objection.”

“What may that be?” asked Redding, much amused at the abrupt little man’s energy.

“Won’t tell you till you’ve seen it; come.”

Without more ado they sallied forth and walked along the snowy track that led to the cottage in question. A few minutes sufficed to bring them to it, and the first glance showed the fur-trader that his friend had not exaggerated the beauty of the place. The cottage, although small, was so elegant in form and so tastefully planned in every respect that it well deserved the title of a mansion in miniature. It stood on a rising ground which was crowned with trees; and the garden in front, the summer-house, the porch, the trellis-work fence, the creepers, the flower-beds—everything in fact, told that it had been laid out and planned by a refined mind.

Of course Redding had to call in the aid of his imagination a little, for at the moment when he first beheld it, the whole scene was robed in a mantle of snow. Close to the house, and in sight of the front windows, was a small lake or pond, by the side of which rose an abrupt precipice of about fifty feet in height. Beyond this, a little to the right, lay the undulating fields of the settlement, dotted with clumps of trees and clusters of cottages.

“Most beautiful!” exclaimed the fur-trader, “but why named Loch Dhu, which, if I mistake not, is the Gaelic for Black Lake?”

“Because that little pond,” answered the surveyor, “when freed from its wintry coat, looks dark and deep even at mid-day under the shadow of that beetling cliff.”

“Truly, I like it well,” said Redding, as he turned again to look at the cottage, “are you its architect?”

“I am,” answered Mr Gambart, “but a greater mind than mine guided my pencil in the process of its creation.”

“Indeed! and what is the objection to it that you spoke of?”

“That,” replied the surveyor, with a mysterious look, “I must, on second thoughts, decline to tell you.”

“How, then, can you expect me to buy the place?” demanded Redding, in surprise.

“Why, because I, a disinterested friend, strongly recommend you to do so. You believe in me. Well, I tell you that there is no objection to the place but one, and that one won’t prove to be an objection in the long run, though it is one just now. The price is, as you know, ridiculously small, first, because the family who owned it have been compelled by reverses of fortune to part with it, and are in urgent need of ready cash; and, secondly, because few people have yet found out the beauties of this paradise, which will one day become a very important district of Canada.”

“Humph, well, I believe in your friendship, and to some extent in your wisdom, though I doubt your capacity to prophesy,” said Redding. “However, if you won’t tell me the objection, I must rest content. To-morrow we will look at it in daylight, and if I then see no objections to it myself, I’ll buy it.”

The morrow came. In the blaze of the orb of day Loch Dhu looked more beautiful than it did by moonlight. After a thorough examination of house and grounds, the fur-trader resolved to purchase it, and commissioned his plump little friend to carry out the transaction. Thereafter he and his man retraced their steps to the wilderness, still breathing unutterable things against the entire clan of McLeod.

Chapter Four.

Pioneering.

We turn now to “the enemy”—the McLeods. The father and his two sons sat in a rude shanty, on a bench and an empty keg, drinking tea out of tin cans. They were all stalwart, dark-haired, grave-visaged mountaineers of Scotland. Unitedly they would have measured at least eighteen feet of humanity. The only difference between the father and the sons was that a few silver hairs mingled with the black on the head of the former, and a rougher skin covered his countenance. In other respects he seemed but an elder brother.

“Ian,” he said to his first-born, as he refilled his tin can with tea, “how many more timbers have you to prepare for the dam?”

“Six,” replied the son laconically.

“It seems to me,” observed Kenneth, the second son, “that if the frost holds much longer we shall be thrown idle, for everything is ready now to begin the works.”

“Idle we need not be,” returned the father, “as long as there is timber to fell in the forest. We must prepare logs to be sawn as well as the mill to saw them.”

“I can’t help thinking, father,” said Ian, “that we did not act wisely in spending all the remainder of our cash in an order for goods from England. We should have waited to see how the mill paid before setting up a store. Besides, I have my doubts as to the wood-cutters or other people passing this out-o’-the-way spot in sufficient numbers to make a store pay for many a day to come, and even if they do, people coming up the coast will have the Fur Company’s store at the Cliff Fort to go to for supplies.”

“It’s too late to think of these things now,” retorted the elder McLeod; “we have made the venture, and must go through with it. Our case shows the folly of taking the advice of a friend of whose wisdom one is not well assured. No doubt Gambart meant to do us a service, and fancied that he knew this coast well, but it is quite plain that he was mistaken, for I have no doubt now, from the situation of the place, that there will be little or no traffic here for a long time to come.”

“So, then, we might as well have thrown the remnant of our wrecked fortunes into the sea,” said Kenneth gravely.

“Not quite,” returned the father, with a smile. “If we can only manage to hold on for a year or two, we shall be sure to succeed, for there can be no question that the tide of immigration is beginning to set in this direction, but it does not flow fast, and our great difficulty in the meantime will be the want of ready cash.”

“Act in haste and repent at leisure,” said Ian.

“One can scarcely be said to act in haste,” retorted his father, “who is almost forced into a course of action. My chief mistake was in putting too much trust in Gambart.”

“Well,” said Kenneth, rising and stretching his huge frame as he placed a hatchet on his shoulder, “there’s nothing like a good breakfast for giving a man heart to face difficulties. I’ll away to work. What a pity that we may not raise some of our timbers on the other side of the creek, for it is admirably adapted to our purpose. Don’t you think we might, father?”

“No,” replied the elder McLeod, “the other side belongs to the fur-traders, whose rights must be respected.”

Ian and his father soon followed Kenneth to the scene of their labours.

The spot was a wild one, but in many respects it was well-suited to the purpose for which these adventurers had chosen it. The coast line at Jenkins Creek was precipitous. Cliffs, crowned with pines, rose in some places perpendicularly from the shingly beach of the gulf, and elsewhere the ground was very rugged. The creek itself was a mere streamlet which ran a short course from the mountains of the interior, brawling down a wild gully of inconsiderable extent. Near its mouth was a cascade, divided by a small rock or islet. It was between this rock and the south shore that the McLeods purposed to erect their dam when the ice should have cleared away, and here, in the meantime, the three men busied themselves in cutting and shaping the necessary timbers, and forming the rougher parts of the machinery of the mill.

They toiled steadily till noon, and then returned to their log-hut for dinner, which consisted of cold pork, hot tea, biscuit, and salt butter. They were still in the midst of this meal when the door opened and a man entered, carrying under his arm a pair of long snow-shoes, which he had just taken off.

“Glad to see you, Bellew, we had expected you earlier,” said the elder McLeod, rising and shaking hands with the trapper.

“I would have been earlier,” replied Bellew, handing a letter to McLeod, “but for a redskin whom I met on the way, who delayed me somewhat. He tells me something about a wreck having been seen by some of his tribe a good bit down the gulf, but what between the difficulty of makin’ out his lingo, and his stupidity, or unwillingness to communicate all he knew, I have found out very little about it. This only I feel pretty sure of, that a wreck must have occurred, and that, from something he said, there may perhaps be some poor fellows lying on the shore there.”

“If so, they will surely perish in such weather,” said McLeod, “and the least we can do is to go and try to rescue them.”

“No need for you to go,” said the trapper, “I will go alone with a small supply of provisions, and see whether it be true. If I find any of ’em alive I can make them comfortable enough for a short time, and then return here for such help as may be required.”

“You’ll start at once, then?” asked McLeod.

“Yes, at once.”

“Here, have something to eat first,” said Kenneth, pointing to the viands.

Jonas Bellew accepted the invitation. At once he sat down, and ate in silence heartily, while the elder McLeod read the letter.

“Have you bad news?” asked Ian, as he watched his father’s face.

“Not exactly bad, but it’s disappointing. This is from Gambart.—Listen.

“MY DEAR MCLEOD,—I have just heard that the flour-mill in this place which you were so anxious to purchase has come unexpectedly into the market, owing to the sudden death of its owner. It is to be had cheap too—at a very much lower figure than you offered before leaving Partridge Bay. I strongly advise you to secure it without delay. This letter goes by Sam Smalls to Bellew the trapper, who will doubtless deliver it to you. You’d better send him straight back with your reply.”

“Humph! good advice this time,” said Ian when his father ceased to read, “if we could only take it. ’Tis hard to have every penny we possess locked up, with such a chance before us. Couldn’t we borrow, in the meantime, from Gambart himself?”

“I will never purchase property with borrowed capital,” replied the elder McLeod.

“Well, it can’t be helped,” said Ian, consoling himself with another slice of cold pork.

“Now I’m ready to start,” said Bellew, rising and wiping his mouth with the cuff of his capote.

In a few minutes the trapper, on snow-shoes, and with a pack of provisions on his back, was striding down the coast at a pace that soon left the Creek far behind him.

Three days after this incident the trio at Jenkins Creek were aroused, while sitting at their mid-day meal, by the tinkle of sleigh-bells. Their sitting-room window was filled chiefly with parchment, but there was one square of it filled with glass. Through this, as from a loop-hole, the inmates could reconnoitre any one who approached their hut.

“Two dog-sleighs!” exclaimed Ian, turning from the loop-hole with a look of surprise.

“Flora and Elise!” cried Kenneth and his father, in the same breath, as they started up eagerly and hastened to the door.

They were right. Flora, jumping out of the furs of a vehicle which resembled a slipper-bath, and was drawn by four panting dogs, ran into the hut, exclaiming, “Dear father,” and threw her arms round the neck of the elder McLeod, who was not slow to return the embrace. Elise entered with smiling face, and curtsied to the young men, who advanced and shook her heartily by the hand.

“Hould their hids, Mister Kenneth,” exclaimed the driver of the foremost sleigh, as he sought to undo the traces of the dogs. “Sure they’re all alike—horses or dogs, they never will lay still when they’re wanted to; bad luck to ’em intirely. Me heart is all but broke. There—git along wid ye.”

“Don’t be hard on them, Rooney,” said Kenneth, laughing, “they seem to have done good service.”

“True for ye,” replied Rooney, “it wouldn’t have bin aisy to git the ladies down here widout ’em, the snow was so soft wi’ the thaw that it nigh tore the snow-shoes off me feet, an’ my poor legs is at laist three inches longer than whin I set out, if not four.”

“Well, Flo,” said Ian, “although I know you to be a resolute girl, I didn’t believe you would undertake a journey over a country without a road at such a season of the year.”

“I knew she would come,” said her father, patting the girl’s head tenderly, “but didn’t expect her quite so soon.”

“That’s just the reason why I came,” said Flora, bustling about the room in search of a reasonably clean spot on which to deposit her fur cap and muff; “I wanted to take you by surprise, you dear old duck. Here, Elise, take these things and put them on a bed, or something of that sort, if there is one in the house. I declare there is not a spot in this room that is not covered with smoke and grease. How can you be so dirty? It is high time that Elise and I came to put your house in order. You needn’t laugh, Kenneth, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. This is dinner-time, I fancy. Have you any to spare for us? Let me see—but stay; first tell me how you have been and what you have done, and—”

“Please, Miss,” said the maid, returning from a little side-room, “there isn’t a spot clean enough to put your things on. The beds are no better than the chairs and tables.”

“Oh you dirty thing!” said Flora, seating herself on her father’s knee, and gazing remonstratively into his face.

A quiet smile played on the dark visage of the elder McLeod as he kissed her and said:—

“How could you expect us, Flo, to keep things very tidy in a place like this, where we’ve had to work hard with our axes every day and all day, and no woman to help us in domestic affairs? Why, sometimes we’ve been so tired at the end of a day, that instead of cleaning up, we have tumbled into bed, boots and all! But there is one little corner of our otherwise dirty hut which we have reserved for lady-visitors. See here!”

He rose, unlocked a little door in a corner of the dining-hall, and throwing it open, disclosed to the astonished gaze of his visitors a small apartment which was a perfect marvel of cleanliness and propriety. True, it was a very simple and what may be styled a home-made apartment. The walls, floor, and ceiling were of unpainted wood, but the wood was perfectly fresh, and smelt pleasantly of resin. The window was preposterously small, with only four squares of glass in it, and it was curtained with mere calico, but the calico was rose-coloured, which imparted a delightfully warm glow to the room, and the view from the window of pine-woods and cliffs, and snow-fields, backed by the distant sea, was magnificent. Two little beds in the corner furthest from the window looked so snug that the tendency of beholders to lie down and go to sleep forthwith was only overcome by a sensation of fear lest the fairies, to whom they unquestionably belonged, might object. There was a rather clumsily-made chest of drawers in one corner, the workmanship of Kenneth; a book-shelf fashioned by Ian; and a table, with three chairs, made by McLeod senior.

“Oh, how kind of you,” said Flora to her father, when she afterwards sat with him alone in this boudoir, and looked round on everything with the deepest interest.

“Well, it was natural that I should get ready a comfortable place for my only flower.”

“Your only flower,” exclaimed Flora, “why, what do you call Ian, and Kenneth, and Roderick?”

“Not flowers, certainly,” replied her father, pulling her down on his knee; “they may be regarded as useful vegetables, if you will, but they are scarcely flowers that one likes to fondle.”

“There, now, sir, you have fondled me enough at present, so tell me all about yourself and your doings.”

“Tell me first, Flo, how it fared with you by the way.”

“Oh, that is soon told. After you left me I remained with old Mrs Crowder in peaceful serenity until Rooney came back from Quebec, and then I consulted with him as to the possibility of getting down here before the close of winter. Being an old nor’-wester, and an Irishman, he had his answer ready. ‘Sure,’ said he, ‘there’s nothin’ aisier. The masther bade me go down to Jenkins Creek wi’ the things as soon as possible, which or’narily mains faster than yer able, so I meant to be off to-morrow be daybreak on fut, wid a sled behind me. But if your ladyship intinds to honour me wid yer company, this is how we cud do it. I’ll hire a sleigh an’ drive ye down to Sam Small’s hut. I know that Sam has got one or two sleds and teams of dogs, for, like myself, he’s an owld nor’-wester, an’ likes to revive owld memories by takin’ a trip now an’ then in the owld fashion. There’s no road av coorse, but dogs ain’t like horses; they don’t have no need of roads, so that don’t matter. I’ll git owld Bogus, the Injin, to help. He an’ I can bate the tracks wid our snowshoes, and the dogs ’ill follow kindly, an’ so we’ll all go down to the creek together.’”

“Well,” continued Flora, “this plan was carried out at once. We started next day and got on famously in the sledge. We had only one upset. It might have been an awkward one, for the horse was very restive when he got off the track into the deep snow, but fortunately, just at the time, up came two travellers, one of them such a handsome man! and they got us out of our difficulty.”

“Were you in danger, my pet?” asked McLeod.

“Not exactly in danger, except the danger of having to walk at night through the forest, and without snow-shoes.”

“Hm! not such a small danger that as you seem to think, Flo,” said McLeod gravely. “However, these gentlemen got you out of the scrape—well, go on.”

“Well, on we went, came to Sam Small’s hut, slept there, got two dog-sledges, slept at the hut of Jonas Bellew in Boulder Creek, whose door we were obliged to break open, for he wasn’t at home—and, here we are.”

“Well, my pet, here you are likely to remain for some time to come. It’s not exactly as fine a residence as you’ve been accustomed to, but there are many worse.”

“Worse,” exclaimed Flora, “there couldn’t be many better—in the circumstances. I regard it as a small palace. Dear father,” she added, “don’t let our reverses weigh so heavily on you. Think of your favourite saying, ‘It’s an ill wind that blows no good.’ Perhaps good may be in the wind somewhere for us.”

“Ay, and I’ll think of one of your favourite sayings too, Flo, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’”

“But I’ve got a better saying than that now, father,” said Flora, with sudden earnestness, “the saying that dear mother was so fond of quoting from the Bible before she died: ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ Oh, father, that word comforts me now, for I have gone to Jesus and have pleaded with Him His own promise that whatever we shall ask in His name God will give it to us.”

“Bless you, Flo,” said her father tenderly, “and what did you ask for,—success in our new enterprise?”

“No, I asked for guidance in every step of it, for that is certain to lead to success.”

“Do you feel sure of getting an answer to that prayer, Flo?” asked McLeod, gazing at his daughter with a perplexed expression.

“Quite sure,” replied Flo confidently, “because God, who cannot lie, has promised.”

“Now, what will you say if we fail in this enterprise?” asked her father.

“That my prayer has been answered,” replied Flo.

“What? if he guides us to failure will you count that an answer?”

“Yes, indeed I will. More than that, I will count our failure to be success, for whatever God leads us to must be success if we commit our ways to Him.”

“That’s a convenient doctrine,” replied McLeod, with a slight smile, as he called to remembrance several conversations he had had with infidels during his travels, “and no one will ever be able to refute you, for, whatever betide, you will still be able to maintain, logically, that you have received an answer.”

“Just so, father, and why not? Is not that convenient doctrine, as you call it, in accordance with the word of God Himself, who says that ‘all things work together for good to them that love Him?’”

“You have learned to talk like your dear mother, Flo,” said McLeod, rising; “we will continue this subject another time. At present I must away to work with the boys.”

He left the room hastily, and his daughter, calling in the assistance of Elise, proceeded to arrange her little boudoir in a somewhat more sedate, though by no means less joyful, frame of mind than that in which she had made her entry into her new and unquestionably humble residence.

Chapter Five.

The “Enemy.”

Meanwhile, Reginald Redding—still breathing defiance to the clan of McLeod, with his heart steeled against all softer influences, and with all his bristles erect—arrived at Jenkins Creek.

Seeing no one about the door of the hut, he passed it with an indignant frown, and proceeded direct to the cascade, where, from a considerable distance, he had observed the three settlers as they busily plied their axes.

A thaw had set in. The little cascade was beginning to roar ominously, almost savagely, behind the curtain of ice which had concealed almost the whole of it during winter. The ice on the edge of the Saint Lawrence had already given way, and was being swept out to sea in variously-sized fields and masses. Everything gave indication that the reign of winter had come to an end, that the short-lived spring had laid its warm hand on the whole region, and that summer was not far distant. Summer acts its part with promptitude in those regions.

Men out there are usually vigorous in taking advantage of the change; the McLeods were making the most of their time when the fur-trader approached.

“It should be getting near supper-time,” said the elder McLeod, looking at the sun.

“Not far from it,” said Kenneth, flinging down his axe and wiping the perspiration from his brow, as he glanced in the same direction, “what a comfort it is to have Flo to look after meals; it makes one feel—hallo! who come here?—see, two men, rounding the cliff just above the house.”

The elder McLeod made no reply, but waited until the strangers were sufficiently near to be addressed; then, touching his cap, he said, “Good evening,” heartily.

To this Reginald Redding replied, “Good evening,” stiffly, while his man bestowed a gaze of unmistakable scorn all round.

A little surprised, but not much alarmed, by their manner, McLeod said that it was an unusual pleasure to meet with strangers in such an out-of-the-way place; that he and his sons, having finished their day’s work, were about to return to their hut for supper, and that he would be more than delighted if they would take “pot-luck” with them.

Redding, who was by nature of a kindly sociable disposition, felt rather put out by this reception, especially when the invitation was pressed on him with much cordiality by Kenneth, as well as by Ian. Even the scorn on Le Rue’s lip began to melt away like the snow! But the fur-trader felt that the interests of his employers were at stake; besides, had he not said to others, had he not vowed to himself, that he would not give way an inch—no, not so much as a hair’s-breadth—to these long-legged interlopers, who, now that he beheld them, were evidently fur-traders in disguise,—men who made use of a so-called saw-mill as a mere blind to divert attention from the real object they had in view.

“Sir,” said Redding, with quiet dignity, “I am the Fur Company’s agent in this district, in charge of the Cliff Fort.”

Had Redding been in charge of the Rock of Gibraltar, with its mighty armament of heavy guns, he could not have assumed an air of greater importance.

“I am glad to hear it,” replied McLeod, more and more perplexed by the youth’s manner, “because I have been anxious for some days to consult you as to the exact boundary line of your Company’s reserve.”

“If you will accompany me to the creek,” replied Redding, pointing to the islet on which the McLeods had already marked off a portion of rock and planted a couple of stakes, “I will enlighten you on that point.”

“Willingly,” answered McLeod, preparing to follow with his two sons.

“Hah!” thought Redding, as he drew near the spot and observed the stakes, “not a doubt of it; inches indeed; they have encroached feet—feet—if not yards on our property.”

He gave no audible sound, however, to his thoughts, until the party had reached the islet, which was connected with the mainland by a plank, then he turned to McLeod with the air of a man who has resolved to wage war to the knife for his rights. Le Rue, seeing his master in this mood, drew himself up, compressed his lips, and darkened his frown.

“The line of demarcation,” said Redding slowly, but with much decision of tone and manner, “runs exactly down the centre of this stream and cuts precisely across the centre of this rock. Now, sir,” he turned abruptly here to look his adversary full in the face. In doing so his vision, passing over the shoulders of his enemy, encountered the bright face and astonished gaze of Flora McLeod, who had just come to let her father and brothers know that their evening meal awaited them.

Reginald Redding was struck dumb. Glancing round to see what had fascinated the gaze of the fur-trader, McLeod turned with a smile, and said:—

“My daughter Flora, Mister—ah!—I beg pardon—your name is, I think—”

“Redding,” murmured the fur-trader, with hesitation, for he had begun to doubt his own identity.

“Just so. Flo has come to tell us, Mr Redding, that supper is ready, so, if you will condescend to accept of our rough and ready hospitality, we shall be delighted. But, before going, pray let us finish this matter. You were about to say—”

“Oh, nothing,—nothing worth mentioning,” said Redding hurriedly, endeavouring to recover himself; “I merely—the fact is—that—a rock like this is so—so utterly insignificant that the idea of trespassing on it is quite absurd, quite out of—why, surely I cannot be mistaken,” he added, lifting his cap, “this must be the young lady whom I had the pleasure of meeting on the road hither at a time when—”

“When your presence and aid were most opportune,” interrupted Flora, as she held out her hand with a gracious smile and a blush.

Why Flora blushed is best known to herself. The same may be said in regard to the fact that Reginald Redding felt rather awkward—though not naturally an awkward man—and looked rather sheepish as he took the hand timidly. It is also worthy of record that the touch of Flora’s hand sent a galvanic stream up Redding’s arm, which curled round his head, ran down his spine, and passed out into the rock at the extremities of his ten toes!

“Indeed!” exclaimed McLeod senior, while a peculiar expression crossed his swarthy countenance as if a new idea had hit him; “then, Mr Redding, I am your debtor; but come, let us to supper before it cools. I suppose that no more need be said about the boundary line. I have not been guilty of trespassing, it seems, on your Company’s reserves?”

“Not in the least,” answered the fur-trader promptly, with a glance at his man.

“Vraiment, non, cer’nly not!” exclaimed Le Rue emphatically, not a trace of scorn being now visible on his benign countenance.

Matters being thus amicably disposed of, the party adjourned to the hut, where they sat down to a substantial repast, the foundation of which was boiled bacon and tea; the superstructure, biscuits and butter.

Here François Le Rue met with a profound disappointment. He had rightly judged that, where the mistress dwelt, the maid must necessarily abide; accordingly, on entering the hut, he had the extreme satisfaction of obtaining a glance of grateful recognition from Elise’s bright eyes. But the sanguine trader had also counted on the pleasure of her company at supper in the kitchen of the establishment, while his master should sup with the McLeods in the parlour. In this he was mistaken. In such an out-of-the-way region the young Canadian girl was counted as much a companion as a servant, and while she performed the duties of attendant at the table in the hall, she also sat modestly down at the same table to partake of the evening meal. François, on the other hand, was told to go to the kitchen and make himself comfortable.

The kitchen was a little out-house, not unlike a gigantic dog-kennel, separated by a space of six feet or so from the principal dwelling.

Opening its door, Le Rue entered with a heavy heart, supposing that he should have to eat his supper in dreary solitude, “not dat I cares moch for dat,” thought he, as he raised the latch, “for I’s accostomed to solitairness; but ah! ven I tinks of—”

“Hooroo!” shouted a gruff voice, scattering at once his thoughts and his “solitairness.”

Le Rue started as he encountered the surprised gaze of a man, but, being in a crusty humour, he only exclaimed— “Hah!” and returned the gaze.

“Sure it’s you or yer ghost,” exclaimed the identical driver whom the two fur-traders had so lately assisted out of difficulties. “Give us yer fist, young man. Ah, then, it’s good luck is yer portion, Rooney. Didn’t I think to sit down to me supper in solitood, whin in comes like a vision the frind as was a frind indade to me and the ladies the other day. Come in, come in, sit ye down there; an’ ait till yer fit to bust. Och! but it’s mesilf is glad this night. There, putt off yer capote; if yer at all like me ye’ll not be fit to taste a morsel till yer in yer shirt sleeves. Howld—I’ll hang it on the peg for ’ee. Now thin, go to work. Don’t spare it. Faix, there’s plinty more where that came from, though there ain’t much variety here. It’s pig for breakfast, pig for dinner, an’ pig for supper—wid a slice o’ cowld pig at odd times whin yer extra hungry. An’ then ye’ll have to pig-in wid myself at night, for there’s only wan bed in this coolinairy mansion, not bein’ room to howld more! That’s yer sort—the tae’s hot, anyhow.”

There was no withstanding such a welcome as this. François Le Rue thawed instantly, and thereafter warmed up to intense cordiality while he plied his knife and fork on the “pig,” and quaffed the steaming “tae,” talking between mouthfuls as his voluble friend gave him opportunity.

An abrupt check, however, was put to the pleasant flow of his spirits when Rooney, having occasion to refer to “the ladies,” remarked in an enthusiastic tone that Elise was “a angel—nothin’ more nor less—only widout wings.”

The demon jealousy instantly fired the soul of the Canadian.

“Vat you knows about she?” he demanded, with suppressed emotion.

“Knows about her!” exclaimed Rooney, with increased enthusiasm, while Le Rue’s spirit dilated with increasing jealousy, “what do I not know about her, is the question. Sure I’ve knowed her iver since she was a purty little curly-hided child; I’ve knowed her goodness to her parients till the day of their death, an’ her gentleness in the time of sorrow, an’ her jollity in the time of joy, an’ her faithfulness to her mistress in adversity, an’ her gin’ral goodness at all times, blissin’s on her!”

François ceased devouring “pig,” and played with his knife, while he mentally, almost unconsciously, measured the number of inches that lay between the outside of Rooney’s chest and the core of his heart.

“You’se verai fond of her, it seems,” he said, with deep sarcasm.

“That’s just what I am,” replied Rooney, stuffing an enormous piece of bacon into his no less enormous mouth. “It’s raison I have too,” he added thickly, but quite audibly, “for she nursed my poor wife through a long illness, an’ it’s my belaif she wouldn’t ha’ bin alive this day but for the care and attintion she got from Elise.”

The demon fled horrified out at the key-hole—the window being shut—and Le Rue, feeling the deepest regard for Rooney, relieved his feelings with a sigh and more “pig.”

While the Irishman and Canadian were entertaining each other thus in the kitchen, the Highlanders and Englishman were no less cordial and busy in the hall. Rough and ready the hospitality indeed was, for the board was not only uncovered but unplaned, and the dishes were cracked and dinted—according to their nature; but the heartiness of the welcome, the solidity of the simple viands, the strength of appetite, and, above all, the presence of bright eyes and gentle spirits threw a luxurious halo round the humble apartment, in the light of which Reginald Redding revelled.

Tea,—the cup which cheers but does not inebriate,—was used at that board as if it had been brandy and water. The men not only drank it during the progress of the meal, but afterwards sat long over it, and dallied with it, and urged each other to “have some more” of it, and quaffed it to the health of absent friends, and told stories, and cut jokes, and sang songs over it, and replenished it with hot water to such an extent that it gradually changed its nature and became that harmless beverage loved by Frenchmen, eau sucré.

That it cheered was evident, for laughter was often loud and sometimes long. That it did not inebriate was equally clear, for the talk of the party was frequently grave as well as gay.

It was especially grave when, towards the end of the evening, McLeod senior, in answer to some allusion of his guest as to the beauties of Partridge Bay, became confidential, and told how he had once dwelt in that settlement for many years, in a happy home which he had specially built for himself, or rather, as he said, with a kindly glance at his pretty daughter, which he had built specially for his wife and child. How it had pleased God to take from him his dear partner before they had been long in the new house; how the failure of a friend had involved him in ruin, and compelled him to sell off all he had possessed and begin life anew with the scanty remnants of his fortune; how he had taken the advice of another friend, and come to Jenkins Creek to set up a saw-mill, having previously invested nearly all his funds in an order for goods from England, for the purpose of setting up a general store, as it was highly probable the country would go on prospering, and the demand for such a store become great; how he had had letters from his youngest son, Roderick,—a lad of nineteen who had been educated in the “old country,”—telling him that the goods had been bought and shipped in the Betsy of Plymouth, and how that he, Roderick, intended to take passage in the same ship the week following, and join his father and brothers in their new sphere of labour; how that, sometimes, he felt depressed by the sudden reverse of fortune, but was always cheered and raised up again by his daughter Flo, who had a wonderful way—somewhat like her mother—of inducing him, when things looked darkest, to turn his eyes to the source of all light, and comfort, and hope, and prosperity.

You may be sure that Reginald Redding listened to all this with the deepest interest and sympathy, for as he glanced at Flora’s speaking countenance—and he did glance at it pretty frequently—he observed new beauty in her expression, and bright tear-drops in her eyes.

“Ah, Flo,” said her father, when he had finished, “no one has such good cause to regret the loss of our old home as yourself, for I don’t think Mr Gambart could have planned it without your aid.”

“What!” exclaimed Redding, with a look of sudden surprise, “what was the name of your place in Partridge Bay?”

“I gave it a Highland name,” said McLeod, with a sad smile, “after a place in Scotland that once belonged to my mother’s family,—Loch Dhu.”

For a moment or two the young fur-trader remained speechless. He looked first at Flora and then at her father, and after that at her brothers, without being able to make up his mind how to act. He now understood the reason of Gambart’s silence as to the former owners of Loch Dhu, and he would have given worlds at that moment if he had never seen or heard of the place, for it seemed such a heartless position to be placed in—the fortunate owner of the lovely spot, over the loss of which Flora and her family evidently mourned so deeply. He could not bear the thought of having to reveal the truth; still less could he bear the thought of concealing it. He was therefore about to make the disagreeable confession, when the thoughts of the whole party were suddenly diverted to another channel, by the opening of the door and the entrance of one of those gaunt sons of the forest who were wont to hang on the skirts of civilisation, as it advanced to wrest from them their native wilderness.

The Indian stalked into the room, handed a dirty piece of folded paper to McLeod, and sat down beside the fire, after the fashion of his race, in solemn silence.

Chapter Six.

Out in the Snow.

When Jonas Bellew set off in search of the rumoured wreck, as related in a previous chapter, he passed the Cliff Fort without calling there, partly because he did not wish to waste time, and partly because he had no desire to hold converse at that time with Mr Smart, who, he rightly suspected, must have shared in Redding’s suspicions as to the intentions of the McLeods.

Making a straight cut, therefore, across the bay in front of the fur-trading establishment, on ice that had not yet been floated away, he gained the land below the fort and continued his journey down the coast. That night he slept in the snow.

Let not the reader entertain the mistaken idea that such a sleeping-place was either cold, wet, or uncomfortable. It was the reverse of all that, being warm, dry, and cosy. The making of this bed we record here, for the benefit of housemaids, and all whom it may concern.

First of all, the sturdy trapper walked along the coast, sometimes on snow-shoes when fields of snow-covered ice projected out to sea; at other times on foot, with the snow-shoes slung over his back, when long stretches of sand or shingly beach, from which the ice had been swept away, presented themselves. This process of progression he continued till night began to close upon him. Then he bethought him of encamping, and retired to the neighbouring woods for the purpose.

The woods referred to consisted chiefly of pines, which fringed the base of the precipitous hills by which that part of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence is bordered. Here he selected the largest tree he could find, and threw down his bundle of food and blankets under the flat spreading branches thereof. Resting one of his snow-shoes against the stem of the tree, he proceeded to dig a huge hole in the snow, using his other snow-shoe as a shovel. The operation cost him much labour, for he had to dig completely down to the ground, and the snow in the woods was still between three and four feet deep. When a hole of ten feet long by five broad was thus cleared to the bottom, the natural walls were raised by the snow thrown out, to a total height of about six feet. This was Bellew’s bedchamber. The spreading pine-branches overhead were its admirable roof. Next, the trapper cut down a young pine, with the tender branches of which he covered the floor of his chamber to a depth of ten or twelve inches. This was his mattress, and a soft, warm, elastic one it was, as the writer of this narrative can testify from personal experience. The head of the mattress rested against the stem of the pine tree, and a convenient root thereof served Bellew for a pillow. At the foot of the bed he had left the floor of his chamber uncovered; this was his fireplace, and in the course of ten minutes or so he cut down and chopped into billets enough of dry wood to fill it with materials for a splendid fire. These being arranged, with a core of dry moss and broken twigs in the centre, the patient man struck a light by means of flint, steel, and tinder, and applied it. While the first few tongues of fire were crackling in the core of moss, he spread a thick blanket on his bed, and then stood up leisurely to fill his pipe and dreamily to watch the kindling of the fire.

And this was a sight worth watching, for the change in the aspect of affairs was little short of miraculous. Before the flames shot forth, Jonas Bellew, looking over the edge of a black hole that was disagreeably suggestive of a tomb, could dimly perceive a stretch of cold, grey, ghostly forest, through the openings of which hummocks of ice could be seen floating away over the black waters of the sea. The little starlight that prevailed only served to render darkness visible, and thus to increase the desolate aspect of the scene. But when the ruddy flames began to shoot forth and tip with a warm glow the nearest projections, they brought out in startling prominence the point of Bellew’s nose and the bowl of his little pipe. Continuing to gain strength they seemed to weaken the force of distant objects in proportion as they intensified those that were near. The pale woods and dark waters outside deepened into invisible black, while the snow-walls of Bellew’s chamber glowed as if on fire, and sparkled as if set with diamonds. The tree stem became a ruddy column, with Bellew’s shadow lying black as ink against it, and the branches above became like a red-hot roof.

It may, perhaps, be supposed that the snow-walls melted under this ordeal; nothing of the sort. Their tendency to do so was checked effectually, not only by a sharp frost, but by the solid backing of snow behind them; and the little that did give way in close proximity to the fire ran unobtrusively down to the earth and crept away under the snow towards the sea, for Bellew had made his camp with the fire at its lower end, so that not a drop of water could by any means reach the spot whereon he lay.

Having stuffed his little tin can or kettle with snow, he put this on the fire to melt, and then spread out his bacon and biscuit, and sugar and tea, all of which being in course of time prepared, he sat down to enjoy himself, and felt, as well as looked, supremely happy.

Then Jonas Bellew went on his knees and prayed—for he was one of those men who do not think it unmanly to remember the Giver of all that they enjoy—and thereafter he rolled himself in his blanket, pillowed his head on the tree-root, and sank into profound repose—such repose as is known only to healthy infants and hard-working men and women. Little by little the fire burnt low, the ruddy lights grew dim, the pale lights reappeared, and the encampment resumed its tomb-like appearance until the break of another day gave it a new aspect and caused Jonas Bellew to rise, yawn, shake the hoar-frost from his blanket, pack up his traps, and resume his journey.

Chapter Seven.

A Sad Discovery.

A wreck on a rocky shore is at all times a dreary sight, but especially so when the shore is that of an uninhabited land, and when the rocks as well as the wreck are fringed with snow-wreaths and cumbered with ice.

Some such thoughts probably filled the mind of the trapper when, on the afternoon of the day whose dawn we have mentioned, he stood beside the wreck of what had once been a full-rigged ship and gazed intently on the scene of desolation.

Life and death were powerfully suggested to him. Many a time had he seen such a craft breasting the waves of the broad Saint Lawrence, when every dip of the bow, every bend of the taper masts, every rattle of the ropes, and every mellow shout of the seamen, told of vigorous life and energy; and now, the broken masts and yards tipped and fringed with snow-wreaths, the shattered stern, out of which the cargo had been evidently washed long ago, the decks crushed down with snow, the bulged sides, the bottom pierced by rocks, the bowsprit burst to shivers by the opposing cliff, the pendant and motionless cordage, even the slight ripple of the sleeping sea, which deepened rather than broke the prevailing silence, all told eloquently of death,—death, perchance to passengers and crew, at all events to sanguine hopes and prospects. Nevertheless there was much life connected with that death-like scene, as the sequel of our tale will show.

The trapper, although fond of moralising, was not prone to indulge in sentiment when circumstances called him to action. He had come suddenly in sight of the wreck on turning the point of the frowning cliff where the gallant ship had met her doom, and stood only for a few seconds to gaze sadly on the scene.

Hastening forward he proceeded at once to make a thorough survey of the vessel.

First he went to the stern to ascertain, if possible, her name. The greater part of the stern had, as we have said, been torn away; but, after careful search, he discovered a piece of wood on which he could plainly trace portions of the letters B and E and T. The remainder of the word, whatever it was, had been completely erased.

Bellew did not at first climb on board the ship, because from her general aspect he knew full well that there could be no survivor in her, besides, through the yawning stern he could see nearly the whole of the interior.

His next step was to search the neighbourhood for tracks, in order to see whether or not the wreck had been lately visited by human beings. This search resulted in discoveries which perplexed him greatly, for not only did he find numerous footprints which crossed each other in various directions, but he knew from their appearance that these had been recently made, and that they were those of white men as well as red; some of them showing the prints of shoes, while others displayed the marks of moccasins.

Had Bellew discovered one or two tracks made by men of the forest like himself, his knowledge of wood-craft would have enabled him at once to decide which way they had come and whither they had gone; but, with at least a dozen meandering tracks radiating from the ship in all directions, as well towards the sea as the land, he felt himself puzzled. He knew well enough that they were too fresh to be those of the wrecked crew, unless indeed the crew had remained by the ship; but in that case there would have been evidences of an encampment of some sort, such as fittings-up on board, or huts on shore. He followed the tracks that led to the sea and found that they terminated abruptly, as if those who had made them had plunged into the water and drowned themselves. Before following up those that went landward he returned to the ship and clambered on board, but found nothing to reward him for his pains. The sea had swept the hold fore and aft so completely that nothing whatever was left.

These investigations did not take up much time. The trapper, after one or two circuits, found the spot where the footsteps became disentangled from the maze of individual tracks, and led, not along the shore as he had supposed they would, but up into a narrow gorge; and now he learned that the tracks of what appeared a multitude of people had been made by the running to and fro of not more than a dozen men, six of whom were natives. Thinking it probable that the party could not be far distant, for the gorge up which they had proceeded seemed of very limited extent, the trapper pushed forward with increasing expectation, not unmingled with anxiety.

Turning the point of a projecting cliff he came suddenly on a sight that filled him with sadness. It was the mouldering remains of a human being—one who had been a seaman, to judge from the garments which covered him. One glance sufficed to show the trapper that his services there were not required. He also observed that the fresh tracks which he had been following circled round the body of the seaman and then led straight on.

Following these, Bellew soon came to an open circular space at the head of the gorge, where the appearance of smoke, rising from among the trees, arrested his attention. In a few minutes he had reached the spot whence it issued, and there to his surprise found Mr Bob Smart with five of his men and several Indians standing in solemn silence round something on the ground that appeared to rivet their attention. Some of the men looked up as Bellew approached and nodded to him, for the trapper was well-known in the district; they also moved aside and let him pass.

“What’s wrong, Mr Smart?” he asked, on coming up.

The fur-trader pointed to the ground, on which lay a group of men, who, at a first glance, appeared to be dying. One in particular, a youth, seemed to be in the very last stage of exhaustion. Smart had just risen from his side after administering a cup of hot tea, when the trapper appeared.

“I fear he won’t last long,” said Smart, turning to Bellew, with a shake of his head.

“What have you been givin’ him?” asked Bellew, stooping and feeling his pulse.

“Just a cup of tea,” replied Smart; “I have unfortunately nothing better. We only heard of the wreck yesterday, and came down in our boat in such haste that we forgot spirits. Besides, I counted on bringing whoever I should find up to the fort without delay, but although we may move most of these poor fellows, I doubt much that we daren’t move him.”

This was said in a whisper, for the poor fellows referred to, although unable to rise, lay listening eagerly to every word that was spoken. There were six of them—one a negro—all terribly emaciated, and more or less badly frost-bitten. They formed the remnant of a crew of twenty-five, many of whom, after suffering dreadfully from hunger and frost-bites, had wandered away into the woods, and in a half delirious state, had perished.

“You have hot water, I see,” said the trapper, hastily unfastening his pack, “fetch some.”

Bob Smart promptly and gladly obeyed, for he saw that Bellew was a man of action, and appeared to know what to do.

“You’re right, Mr Smart,” said Bellew, as he poured a little of the contents of a bottle into the tin pannikin that had served him for a tea-cup the night before, “this poor lad couldn’t stand moving just now. Fortunately I’ve brought some spirits with me. It will start fresh life in him if he’s not too far gone already. Here, sir,” he continued, in a louder tone, “let me put this to your lips.”

The youth opened a pair of brilliant black eyes and gazed earnestly at the speaker, then smiled faintly and sipped the offered beverage.

As might have been expected, he at once revived a little under its influence.

“There, that’s enough just now; it don’t do to take much at a time. I’ll give ’ee somethin’ else in a minute,” said Bellew, as he went from one to another and administered a teaspoonful or two to each.

They were very grateful, and said so in words more or less emphatic. One of them, indeed, who appeared to have once been a jovial seaman, intimated that he would be glad to take as many more teaspoonfuls of “that same” as Bellew chose to administer! but the trapper, paying no attention to the suggestion, proceeded to open his store of provisions and to concoct, in his tin tea-kettle, a species of thin soup. While this was simmering, he began to remove the blankets with which Bob Smart had covered the unfortunate men.

“Don’t you think,” said Bob, “that it would be well to leave their wraps alone till we get them up to the fort? They’re badly bitten, and I know little about dressing sores. By the time we get there Mr Redding will probably have returned from Partridge Bay, and he’s more than half a a doctor, I believe.”

“Nevertheless I’ll have a look,” said Bellew, with a smile, “for I’m a bit of a doctor myself in such matters,—about a quarter of one, if I may say so.”

Without further parley the trapper laid bare their sores, and truly the sad sight fully justified Smart’s remark that the poor fellows were badly bitten. One of them, the seaman above referred to, whom his comrades styled Ned, had only lost the ends of one or two toes and the forefinger of his left hand, but some of the others had been so severely frost-bitten in their feet that all the toes were rotting off; the negro in particular had lost his left foot, while the heel-bone of the other was exposed to the extent of nearly an inch, and all the toes were gone. (We describe here, from memory, what we have actually seen.)

In perfect silence, but with a despatch that would have done credit to hospital training, the trapper removed the dead flesh, dressed the sores, applied poultices of certain herbs gathered in the woods, and bandaged them up. This done, he served out the thin soup, with another small allowance of spirits and hot water, after which, with the able assistance of Bob Smart and his men, he wrapped them up in their blankets and made arrangements for having them conveyed to the boat which had been pulled into a convenient creek further down the shore than the wreck.

Strange to say, the youth who appeared to be dying was the least injured by frost-bites of the party, his fingers and face being untouched, and only a portion of the skin of his feet damaged; but this was explained by the seaman, Ned, who, on hearing Bellew’s expression of surprise, said, with a touch of feeling:—

“It’s not the frost as damaged him, sir, it’s the water an’ the rocks. W’en we was wrecked, sir,—now three weeks ago, or thereby,—we’d ableeged to send a hawser ashore, an’ not one of us could swim, from the cap’n to the cabin-boy, so Mister McLeod he wolunteered to—”

“Mister who?” demanded Bellew hastily.

“Mister McLeod.”

“What was your ship’s name?”

“The Betsy, sir.”

“From what port?”

“Plymouth.”

“Ho ho! well, go on.”

“Well, as I was a-sayin’, sir, Mister McLeod, who’s as bold as a lion, he wolunteered to swim ashore wi’ a line, an’ swim he did, though the sea was rollin’ in on the cliffs like the Falls o’ Niagery,—which I’m told lie somewhere in these latitudes,—leastwise they’re putt down in all the charts so. We tried for to dissuade him at first, but when the starn o’ the ship was tore away, and the cargo began to wash out, we all saw that it was neck or nothin’, so we let him go. For a time he swam like a good ’un, but when he’d bin dashed agin’ the cliffs two or three times an’ washed back again among the wreck of spars, cargo, and riggin’, we thought it was all over with all of us. Hows’ever we wasn’t forsooken at the eleventh hour, for a wave all of a sudden washed him high and dry on a ledge of rock, an’ he stood up and waved his hand and then fell down in a swound. Then we thought again it was all up with us, for every wave went roarin’ up to young Mister McLeod, as if it wor mad to lose him, and one or two of ’em even sent the foam washin’ in about his legs. Well, sir, the last one that did that seemed to bring him to, for as it washed over his face he jumped up and held on to the rocks like a limpet. Then he got a little higher on the cliff, and when we saw he was looking out to us we made signs to him that a hawser was made fast to the line, an’ all ready. He understood us an’ began to haul away on the line, but we could see that he had bin badly hurt from the way he stopped from time to time to git breath, and rested his head on a big rock that rose at his side like a great capstan. Hows’ever, he got the hawser ashore at last, an’ made it fast round the big rock, an’ so by means of that, an’ the blessin’ o’ Providence, we all got ashore. P’r’aps,” added Ned thoughtfully, “it might have bin as well if some of us hadn’t—hows’ever, we wasn’t to know that at the time, you understand, sir.”

It must not be supposed that Ned said all this in the hearty tones that were peculiar to his former self. The poor fellow could only utter it sentence by sentence in a weak voice, which was strengthened occasionally by a sip from “that same” beverage which had first awakened his admiration. Meanwhile the object of his remarks had fallen asleep.

“Now, Mister Smart,” said Bellew, taking the fur-trader aside, “from all that I have heard and seen it is clear to me that this wreck is the vessel in which the McLeods of Jenkins Creek had shipped their property from England, and that this youth is Roderick, the youngest son of the family. I’ve bin helping the McLeods of late with their noo saw-mill, and I’ve heard the father talking sometimes with his sons about the Betsy of Plymouth and their brother Roderick.”

At another time Bob Smart would not have been at all sorry to hear that the interloping McLeods had lost all their property, but now he was filled with pity, and asked Jonas Bellew with much anxiety what he thought was best to be done.

“The best thing to do,” said Bellew, “is to carry these men to the boat and have them up to the Cliff Fort without delay.”

“We’ll set about it at once. You’ll go with us, I suppose.”

“No, I’ll remain behind and take care of young McLeod. In his present state it would likely cost him his life to move him.”

“Then I’ll leave some of my men with you.”

“Not needful,” replied the trapper, “you know I’m used to bein’ alone an’ managin’ things for myself. After you get them up you may send down a couple of men with some provisions and their hatchets. For to-night I can make the poor fellow all snug with the tarpaulin of your boat.”

In accordance with these plans the shipwrecked men were sent up to the Cliff Fort. Roderick McLeod was sheltered under a tarpaulin tent and carefully tended by Bellew, and one of Smart’s most active Indians was despatched with a pencil-note to Jenkins Creek.

It was this note which interrupted the conversation between Reginald Redding and the elder McLeod at a somewhat critical moment, and this note, as the reader may easily believe, threw the whole establishment into sudden consternation.

Chapter Eight.

Shifting Winds.

Immediately on receipt of the note referred to, vigorous preparations were made to convey relief to Roderick McLeod. Such provisions as the party at Jenkins Creek could muster were packed into the smallest possible space, because the boat, or cobble, which was to convey them down the gulf was very small—scarcely large enough to hold the party which meant to embark in it. This party consisted of McLeod senior, Kenneth, and Flora, it being arranged that Ian and Rooney should remain to prosecute, as well as to guard, the works at the Creek.

Seeing that there was so little room to spare in the boat, Reginald Redding decided to hasten down on foot to the Cliff Fort, in order to see to the comfort of the wrecked men who had been sent there. He, however, offered the rescue party the services of his man, Le Rue, an offer which was accepted all the more readily that the Canadian possessed some knowledge of the coast.

It was very dark when they started, but, fortunately, calm. McLeod had resolved to travel night and day, if the weather permitted, until he should reach the scene of the wreck, and to take snatches of rest if possible in the boat.

There were only two oars in the boat, so that one of its crew was always idle. This, however, proved to be rather an advantage, for, by affording frequent relief to each rower, it saved the strength of all, and at the same time enabled them to relieve the tedium of the journey to poor Flora.

At first they proceeded along under the deep shade of the ghost-like cliffs in unbroken silence, the mind of each no doubt being busy with the wreck of their last remnant of fortune, as well as with the dangerous condition in which the youthful Roderick lay; but as the dawn of day approached they began to talk a little, and when the sun arose its gladdening beams appeared to carry hope to each breast, inducing an almost cheerful state of mind. In the case of François Le Rue, the influence of sunshine was so powerful that a feeling of sympathy and respect for the McLeods in the calamity which had overtaken them alone restrained him from breaking out into song!

“Father,” said Flora, as her sire, wearied by a long spell at the bow oar, resigned his seat to Kenneth, and sat down beside her, “that glorious light brings to my remembrance a very sweet verse, ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’”

“True, true, Flo,” returned her father, “I wish I had the simple faith that you seem to possess, but I haven’t, so there’s no use in pretending to it. This,” he added bitterly, “seems only a pure and unmitigated disaster. The last remnant of my fortune is wrecked, I am utterly ruined, and my poor boy is perhaps dying.”

Flora did not reply. She felt that in his present state of mind nothing she could say would comfort him.

At that moment Le Rue suddenly roused himself and suggested that it was about time to think of breakfast.

As all the party were of the same mind, the boat was allowed to drift down the gulf with the tide, while the pork and biscuit-bags were opened. Little time was allowed for the meal, nevertheless the mercurial Canadian managed, between mouthfuls, to keep up a running commentary on things in general. Among other things he referred to the property which his master had just purchased in Partridge Bay.

“Whereabouts is this property that you talk of?” asked McLeod, becoming interested at the mention of Partridge Bay.

“About la tête of de village near de house of Monsieur Gambart.”

“What like a place is it?” asked McLeod, becoming suddenly much more interested.

“Oh! one place mos bootiful,” replied Le Rue, with enthusiasm; “de house is superb, de grounds splendeed, et le prospect magnifique, wid plenty of duck—perhaps sometimes goose, vild vons—in von lac near cliff immense.”

At the mention of the lake and the cliff McLeod’s brow darkened, and he glanced at Flora, who met his glance with a look of surprise.

“Did you happen to hear the name of the place?” asked McLeod.

“Oui, it vas, I tink, Lac Do, or Doo—someting like so.”

“The scoundrel!” muttered McLeod between his teeth, while a gleam of wrath shot from his eyes.

Le Rue looked at him with some surprise, being uncertain as to the person referred to by this pithy remark, and Flora glanced at him with a look of anxiety.

After a brief silence he said to Flora in a low tone, as though he were expressing the continuation of his thoughts, “To think that the fellow should thus abuse my hospitality by inducing me to speak of our fallen fortunes, and of our being obliged to part with the old home we had loved so well, and never to utter a word about his having bought the place.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Flora, “you had not mentioned the name of the place, and so it might not have occurred to him that—”

“Oh yes, I did,” interrupted her father, with increasing anger, as his memory recalled the converse with Redding on the preceding night, “I remember it well, for he asked the name, and I told it him. It’s not that I care a straw whether the old place was bought by Tom, Dick, or Harry, but I can’t stand his having concealed the fact from me after so much, I may say, confidential conversation about it and our affairs generally. When I meet him again the young coxcomb shall have a piece of my mind.”

McLeod was, as we have said, an angry man, and, as the intelligent reader well knows, angry men are apt to blind themselves and to become outrageously unreasonable. He was wrong in supposing that he did not care a straw who should have bought the old place. Without, perhaps, admitting it to himself, he had entertained a hope that the home which was intimately associated with his wife, and in which some of the happiest years of his life had been spent, would remain unsold until he should manage to scrape together money enough to repurchase it. If it had been sold to the proverbial Tom, or Dick, or Harry, he would have been bitterly disappointed; the fact that it was sold to one who had, as he thought, deceived him while enjoying his hospitality, only served as a reason for his finding relief to disappointment in indignation. Flora, who had entertained similar hopes in regard to Loch Dhu, shared the disappointment, but not the indignation, for, although it did seem unaccountable that one so evidently candid and truthful as Redding should conceal the actual state of matters, she felt certain that there was some satisfactory explanation of the mystery, and in that state of mind she determined to remain until time should throw further light on the affair.

Neither she nor her father happened to remember that the truth had broken on Redding at the moment when the Indian entered the hut at Jenkins Creek with the news of the wreck, which created such a sudden excitement there that it banished thoughts of all other things from the minds of every one.

The elder McLeod was a man of very strong and sensitive feelings, so that, although possessed of an amiable and kindly disposition, he found it exceedingly difficult to forget injuries, especially when these were unprovoked. His native generosity might have prompted him perhaps to find some excuse for the fur-trader’s apparent want of candour, or to believe that there might be some explanation of it, but, as it was, he flung into the other scale not only the supposed injury inflicted by Redding, but all his weighty disappointments at the loss of his old home, and of course generosity kicked the beam!

Acting on these feelings, he turned the bow of the boat inshore without uttering a word, and when her keel grated on the gravelly beach, he looked somewhat sternly at Le Rue, and said:—

“You may jump ashore, and go back to your fort.”

“Monsieur?” exclaimed Le Rue, aghast with surprise.

“Jump ashore,” repeated McLeod, with a steady, quiet look of impassibility. “Go, tell your master that I do not require further assistance from him.”

The Canadian felt that McLeod’s look and tone admitted of neither question nor delay. His surprise therefore gave way to a burst of indignation. He leaped ashore with a degree of energy that sent the little boat violently off the beach, and the shingles spurted from his heels as he strode into the forest, renewing his vows of vengeance against his late friends and old enemies, “de Macklodds!”

Chapter Nine.

Surmisings, Disagreements, Vexations, and Botherations.

Great was the amazement and perplexity of Reginald Redding when his faithful cook returned to the Cliff Fort bearing the elder McLeod’s message. At first he jumped to the conclusion that McLeod had observed his affection for Flora, and meant thus to give him a broad hint that his addresses were not agreeable. Being, like McLeod, an angry man, he too became somewhat blind. All his pride and indignation were aroused. The more he brooded over the subject, however, the more he came to see that this could not be the cause of McLeod’s behaviour. He was terribly perplexed, and, finally, after several days, he determined to go down to the scene of the wreck and demand an explanation.

“It is the proper course to follow,” he muttered to himself, one day after breakfast, while brooding alone over the remnants of the meal, “for it would be unjust to allow myself to lie under a false imputation, and it would be equally unjust to allow the McLeods to remain under a false impression. Perhaps some enemy may have put them against me. Anyhow, I shall go down and try to clear the matter up. If I succeed—well. If not—”

His thoughts were diverted at this point by the entrance of Bob Smart. That energetic individual had been to visit the frost-bitten seamen, for whose comfort an old out-house had been made weather-tight, and fitted up as a rough-and-ready hospital.

“They’re all getting on famously,” said Bob, rubbing his hands, as he sat down and pulled out the little black pipe to which he was so much addicted. “Green’s left little toe looks beautiful this morning, quite red and healthy, and, I think, won’t require amputation, which is well, for it is doubly a left little toe since you cut off the right one yesterday. His big toe seems to my amateur eye in a thoroughly convalescent state, but his left middle finger obviously requires removal. You’ll do it to-day, I suppose?”

“Yes, I meant to do it yesterday,” answered Redding, with much gravity, “but gave it another chance. How’s Brixton?”

“Oh, he’s all right. He groans enough to make one believe he’s the worst of ’em all, but his hurts are mostly skin deep, and will heal no doubt in course of time. His nose, certainly, looks blobby enough, like an over-ripe plum, and I rather think it’s that which makes him growl so horribly; but after all, it won’t be shortened more than quarter of an inch, which will be rather an advantage, for it was originally too long. Then as to Harper and Jennings, they are quite cheery and their appetites increasing, which is the best of signs, though, I fear, poor fellows, that the first will lose a hand and the other a foot. The dressings you put on yesterday seem to have relieved them much. I wish I could say the same for the poor nigger. His foot is sure to go. It’s in such a state that I believe the cleverest surgeon alive couldn’t save it, and even if he could what’s left of it would be of no use. You know I have a mechanical turn and could make him a splendid wooden leg if you will pluck up courage to cut it off.”

“No,” said Redding decidedly; “it’s all very well to lop off a finger or a toe with a razor, but I don’t think it’s allowable for an amateur to attempt a foot except under circumstances of extreme urgency.”

“Well, it don’t much matter,” continued Bob Smart, drawing vigorously at the black pipe, “for we’ll have an opportunity of sending them up to Quebec in a week or so, and in the meantime the poor fellows are very jolly considering their circumstances. That man Ned Wright keeps them all in good humour. Although, as you know, he has suffered severely in hands and feet, he feels himself well enough to limp about the room and act the part, as he says, of ‘stooard and cook to the ship’s company.’ He insisted on beginning last night just after you left, and I found him hard at it this morning when I went to see them. He must have been the life of the ship before she went ashore, for he goes about continually trolling out some verses of his own composing, though he has got no more idea of tune in him than the main-top-mast back-stay, to which, or something of the same kind, he makes very frequent reference. Here is a verse of his latest composition:—”

O-o-o-o-h! it’s once I froze the end of my nose,

On the coast of Labrador, sir,

An’ I lost my smell, an’ my taste as well,

An’ my pipe, which made me roar, sir;

But the traders come, an’ think wot they done!

They poked an’ pinched an’ skewered me;

They cut an’ snipped, an’ they carved an’ ripped,

An’ they clothed an’ fed an’ cured me.

Chorus.—Hooroo! it’s true

An’ a sailor’s life for me.

“Not bad, eh?” said Bob.

“Might be worse,” answered Redding, with the air of one whose mind is preoccupied.

“I’ve often wondered,” continued Bob Smart, in a moralising tone, and looking intently at the wreaths of smoke that curled from his lips as if for inspiration, “I’ve often wondered how it is that sailors—especially British sailors—appear to possess such an enormous fund of superabundant rollicking humour, insomuch that they will jest and sing sometimes in the midst of troubles and dangers that would take the spirit out of ordinary men such as you and me.”

“Bob Smart,” said Redding earnestly.

“Yes,” said Bob.

“D’you know it strikes me that I ought to go down to the wreck to see how the McLeods are getting on.”

“O ah! well, to change the subject, d’you know Mr Redding, that same idea struck me some days ago, for Jonas Bellew has left them to look after his own affairs, and the Indians were to go north on the 13th, so the McLeods must have been living for some time on salt provisions, unless they have used their guns with better success than has been reported of them. If you remember, I have mentioned it to you more than once, but you seemed to avoid the subject.”

“Well, perhaps I did, and perhaps I had my reasons for it. However, I am going down now, immediately after dressing the poor fellows’ sores. Will you therefore be good enough to get the small boat ready, with some fresh meat, and tell Le Rue and Michel to be prepared to start in an hour or so.”

The day after the above conversation McLeod senior walked down to the wreck accompanied by Flora. Kenneth had been left in charge of the invalid, whose system had received such a shock that his recovery was extremely slow, and it had been deemed advisable not only to avoid, but to forbid all reference to the wreck. Indeed Roderick himself seemed to have no desire to speak about it, and although he had roused himself on the arrival of his relations, he had hitherto lain in such a weak semi-lethargic state that it was feared his head must have received severer injury than was at first supposed. On the morning of the day in question an Indian had arrived with a letter from Mr Gambart of Partridge Bay, which had not tended to soothe the luckless father.

“It seems very unfortunate,” said Flora, in a sympathetic tone.

“Seems unfortunate?” exclaimed McLeod, with some asperity, “it is unfortunate. Why, what could be more so? Just think of it, Flo! Here am I without a penny of ready cash in the world, and although Gambart knows this as well as I do myself, he writes me, first, that he has sold Loch Dhu to that fellow Redding, and now that he has bought Barker’s Mill for me without my sanction!”

“But you gave him leave to sell Loch Dhu,” suggested Flora.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course, and I told him to let it go at a low sum, for I needed cash very much at the beginning of this venture at Jenkins Creek. But I find that our expenses are so small that I could afford to hold on for some time on the funds I have. To be sure Gambart could not know that, but—but—why did the fellow go and buy that mill for me? It’s being a great bargain and a splendid property, just now are no excuse, for he knew my poverty, and also knew that I shall feel bound in honour to take it off his hands when I manage to scrape the sum together, because of course it was done in a friendly way to oblige me. No doubt he will say that there’s no hurry about repayment, and that he won’t take interest, and so forth, but he had no business to buy it at all!”

Flora made no reply to this, for she saw that her father was waxing wroth under his misfortunes.

Her silence tended rather to increase his wrath, for he was dissatisfied with himself more than with others, and would have been glad even of contradiction in order that he might relieve his feelings by disputation.

While this state of mind was strong upon him they reached a turn in the path that brought the wreck into view and revealed the fact that a boat lay on the beach, from which three men had just landed. Two of these remained by the boat, while the third advanced towards the woods.

Flora’s hand tightened on her father’s arm.

“Surely that is Mr Redding,” she said.

The frown which had clouded McLeod’s brow instantly deepened. “Go,” he said, “walk slowly back towards the hut. I will overtake you in a few minutes.”

Flora hesitated. “Won’t you let me stay, father?”

“No, my dear, I wish to talk privately with Redding—go.”

He patted her kindly on the head, and she left him with evident reluctance.

“Good-morning, Mr McLeod,” said Redding, as he approached.

“Good-morning,” replied the other stiffly, without extending his hand.

Redding flushed, but restrained himself, and continued in a calm matter-of-course tone:

“Thinking it probable that you might be in want of fresh provisions, I have run down with a small supply, which is at your service.”

“Thank you,” replied McLeod, still stiffly, “I am not quite destitute of fresh provisions, and happen to have a good supply of ammunition; besides, if I were starving I would not accept aid from one who has deceived me.”

“Deceived you!” exclaimed Redding, waxing indignant more at McLeod’s tone and manner than his words, “wherein have I deceived you?”

As he put the question his mind leaped to the line of demarcation between the properties at Jenkins Creek, and he racked his brains hastily to discover what he could have said or done at their first interview that could have been misunderstood. McLeod was one of those men in whom anger is easily increased by the exhibition of anger in others. It was therefore in a still more offensive tone that he said:—

“Sir, you deceived me by violating the laws of hospitality—by keeping silence when candour required you to speak.”

“Sir,” exclaimed Redding, still thinking of the line of demarcation, and losing his temper altogether, “in all that has passed between us I have invariably spoken with candour, and if at any time I have kept silence I consider that in so doing I have done you a favour.”

When two fiery men clash, an explosion is the natural result.

“Very well, sir,” said McLeod, with a look of withering contempt, “as I don’t accept your favours I don’t thank you for them, so you may take yourself off as soon as you please.”

He waited for no reply but turned abruptly on his heel and walked away, while Redding, with a face of scarlet, strode down the beach and leaped into his boat.

Not a word did he utter to his astonished men beyond ordering them to pull back to the fort. Apparently the rate of rowing was not fast enough to please him, for in a few minutes he ordered Michel to take the helm, and himself seized the oar, which he plied with such vigour that, as Michel afterwards averred, the rudder had to be kept nearly hard a-port all the time to prevent the boat being pulled round even though Le Rue was working like a steam engine and blowing like a grampus!

Towards the afternoon this exercise, coupled with reflection, cooled Reginald Redding’s spirit while it warmed his body, and at last he deemed it right to pause for the purpose of letting the men have a pipe and a mouthful of food. While they were busy refreshing themselves he leant over the stern, gazed down into the water, and brooded over his supposed wrongs.

Whether it was the clearness of the still water, through which he could see the little fish and crabs floating and crawling placidly among the pebbles at the bottom, or the soothing influence of the quiet afternoon, or the sedative effect of a reflective condition of mind, we know not, but it is certain that before the pipes were smoked out he fur-trader observed that his reflected visage wore a very unpleasant-looking frown, insomuch that a slight smile curled his lips. The contrast between the frowning brows and the smiling lips appeared so absurd that, to prevent the impropriety of becoming too suddenly good-humoured, he turned his eyes towards his men and encountered the perplexed gaze of Le Rue, as that worthy sat with his elbows on his knees in the calm enjoyment of his pipe.

Redding at once resumed his frown.

“François,” said he, “did you have much conversation with McLeod before he dismissed you on the way down?”

“Oui, Monsieur, we had ver moche conversatione.”

“Can you remember what it was about?”

“Oh oui. ’Bout a’most all tings. I tell him de mos’ part of my histoire,—me fadder, me moder, broder, sister, an’ all dat, ’bout vich he seem not to care von buttin. Den ve convarsatione ’bout de fur-trade, an’ de—”

“Well well,” interrupted Redding, “but what was the last thing, just before he sent you off?”

“Ah let me zee. Oui—it was ’bout you’self. I tell him ’bout de property—de Lock Doo vat you was—”

“Le Rue,” exclaimed Redding, suddenly and very angrily, “you’re a consummate ass!”

“Vraiment,” said Le Rue, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, “I am so for remaining in de service of von goose!”

There was such good-humoured impudence in the man’s face as he said this that Redding laughed in spite of himself.

“Well,” he said, “your readiness to talk has at all events caused bad feeling between me and the McLeods. However, it don’t matter. Ship your oars again and give way with a will.”

The men obeyed, and as Redding sat buried in meditation at the helm he became convinced that McLeod’s anger had been aroused by his silence in regard to the purchase of Loch Dhu, for he himself had almost forgotten that the sudden entrance of the Indian had checked the words which were at the moment on his lips. When he thought of this, and of Flora, he resolved to pull back and explain matters, but when he thought of McLeod’s tone and manner he determined to proceed to the fort. Then, when he thought of Roderick’s precarious state, his mind again wavered, but, other thoughts and plans suggesting themselves, he finally decided on returning home.

That night he encamped in the woods and continued to brood over the camp-fire long after his men were asleep. Next day he reached the Cliff Fort, when, after seeing to the welfare of the wrecked men, he informed Bob Smart that he meant to absent himself for about a week, and to leave him, Bob, in charge. He also gave orders that no one should quit the post, or furnish any assistance to the McLeods.

“But, sir,” said Bob Smart, in surprise, “they will be sure to starve.”

“No fear of them,” replied Redding, “Kenneth is young and active, and they have plenty of ammunition.”

“If report be true,” returned Bob, “neither Kenneth nor any of his kin can hit a sheep at twenty yards off. Bellew says they are as blind as bats with the gun.”

“No matter. They have a boat, and one of them can row back to Jenkins Creek for fresh meat. Anyway, do as I bid you, and be very careful of the wrecked men.”

Smart, although fond of discussion, knew how to obey. He therefore said no more but bade Redding good-night and retired to his humble couch, which, he was wont to say, was a fine example of compensation, inasmuch as the fact of its being three inches too narrow was counterbalanced by its being six inches too long.

Chapter Ten.

A Friend in Need.

“Look here, my love,” said plump little Mr Gambart to his plump little wife, bustling into the parlour with an open letter in his hand, “isn’t this vexatious! Just listen—it’s from McLeod:—

“‘MY DEAR GAMBART,—I take the opportunity of Jonas Bellew leaving me to write a line in reply to your last, which was brought on to me by the Indian. You will be sorry to learn that the Betsy of Plymouth, in which all my goods were embarked, is lying here a total wreck, and the goods have been washed out of her—not a bale or cask saved! But, worse than that, poor Roderick has been badly injured in getting ashore, and now lies here unable to move. Many of the poor fellows who composed the crew have been lost, and those saved are in a sad condition. I was sorry to hear of Loch Dhu being sold, but now that my fortunes have been so utterly and literally wrecked it is perhaps as well as it is. I’m sorry, however, that you bought Barker’s Mill for me. In the circumstances I will find it difficult to repay you for a long time to come.’

“Now,” said Gambart, “isn’t this vexing? I thought it would please him so much, for of course he knows that I would never press him for the money.”

“Did you tell him,” asked Mrs Gambart, “that in the event of his not wanting the mill you would gladly take it yourself?”

“No, I didn’t think that necessary.”

“Didn’t I,” continued the little lady, pursing her little mouth, “didn’t I advise you to do so at the time?”

“You certainly did, my dear.”

“And did I not,” continued Mrs Gambart, severely, “advise you, further, not to keep Mr Redding in ignorance as to who was the late owner of Loch Dhu, for fear of mischief coming of it?”

“Yes, my love,” answered Gambart, with ever-increasing humility, “but no mischief has come of it apparently, and I thought—”

“Oh yes,” interrupted his lady, “I know you thought. You always think when you shouldn’t, and you never think when you should.”

In his heart the little man repelled this accusation, but thought it best in the circumstances to hold his tongue. After a moment or two the lady went on:—

“Besides, you don’t know that no mischief has come of it. Take my advice now. Write immediately to Mr McLeod, telling him that you only ventured to buy the mill for him because you were very anxious to secure it for yourself in the event of his not wanting it, and add that in the selling of Loch Dhu you concealed from Mr Redding the name of the former owner because of an absurd fancy in your own mind which it is not worth while to mention.”

“Won’t that be a sort of humiliating confession?” urged the little man timidly.

To this the little woman replied that it was better to make a sort of humiliating confession than to admit the full extent of his unreasoning stupidity; and the surveyor, half agreeing with her in his own mind, immediately went to his study, wrote the epistle as directed, and sent it off express by an Indian.

Meanwhile the party at the wreck found themselves in the unpleasant condition of having nothing fresh to eat. As we have said, the trapper had left them, knowing that the fur-traders and the Indians were quite capable of looking after their wants. But soon afterwards the Indians went away down the gulf to hunt seals, and none of the McLeods being able to speak their language, they could not, or would not, be got to understand that one of them was wanted to remain and hunt for the sick man. As McLeod had still some provisions on hand, with a gun and ammunition besides his boat, he did not much mind the departure of the red men at the time. As time wore on, however, and their fresh provisions failed, he became anxious, and wished that he had not so angrily declined the aid offered by the fur-traders. Neither father nor son had the slightest taste for field sports, so that when they saw the track of an animal they found it almost impossible to follow it up with success, and when, by good fortune, they chanced to discover a “partridge” or a squirrel they invariably missed it! This incapacity and a scarcity of game had at last reduced them to extremities.

“Kenneth,” said his father one morning, as they walked up and down beside the hut in which Flora sat talking to Roderick, “we must give up our vain attempts at hunting, for it is quite plain that you and I are incapable of improvement. After that splendid shot of yours, in which you only blew a bunch of feathers out of a bird that was not more than four yards from the end of your gun—”

“That,” interrupted Kenneth, “was the very cause of my missing. Had it been a little further off I should certainly have killed it. But, father, you seem to forget the squirrel’s tail, which is the only trophy you have to show of your prowess after blazing away right and left for two weeks!”

“No, I don’t forget it, lad,” returned his father, “it is because of these sad truths that I have now determined to give it up and send you with the boat for supplies to Jenkins Creek. Of course Ian cannot send to us, having no boat, and Rooney or the Indian would take too long a time to scramble through the tangled woods of this rugged part of the coast, besides which, all they could carry on their backs would not last more than a few days, and as long as Ian does not hear from us he will naturally think that all is going on well. It will take you six days to go and come, but, what with the little that remains of our fresh meat and a chance partridge or two, we shall be able to keep Roderick going till you return. He’s getting stronger now, and as for Flo and me, we can get along famously with salt pork and biscuit for so short a time.”

“But why should I not go rather to the Cliff Fort?” asked Kenneth. “The store there is a public one, and our buying food from the fur-traders will lay us under no obligation to Mr Redding, whom, excuse me, I think you have judged too hastily.”

“It matters not how I have judged him,” retorted McLeod sternly. “There is no occasion to go near him at all. As I have said—”

He stopped abruptly, for at that moment an Indian was seen approaching.

He was a powerfully-built fellow, with a handsome figure and face, though the latter was very dark, and he walked with a stoop and an awkward slouching gait. He wore his long black hair in straight elfin locks; those in front having been cut across the forehead just above the eyebrows, as being the simplest method of clearing the way for vision. He was clad in a very dirty soiled hunting-shirt and leggings of leather, with moccasins of the same, and carried a long gun on his shoulder. McLeod also observed, with much satisfaction, that several partridges hung by their necks from the belt which encircled his waist.

Of course the meeting that ensued was conducted in pantomime, with a few useless remarks in English from Kenneth, who appeared to entertain an idea which is not uncommon among sailors, namely, that a man who knows nothing whatever of the language is more likely to understand bad than good English! “Where you come from?” he asked, after shaking hands with the Indian and giving him the salutation, “watchee?” (what cheer), which he understood, and returned.

A shake of the head was the reply.

“Where you go—go?” said Kenneth, in the hope apparently that emphasis might awaken intelligence.

Again the Indian shook his head.

“What’s the use of asking him?” said McLeod senior. “See, here is a language that is understood by all men.”

He pulled a powder flask from his pocket, and, shaking it at the ear of the savage, offered it to him, at the same time pointing to the partridges and to his own open mouth.

This pantomime was evidently comprehensible, for the man at once threw the birds at McLeod’s feet, and, taking the flask, emptied its contents into his own powder-horn.

“Good,” said McLeod, picking up the birds. “Now, Kenneth, if we can prevail on this redskin to remain by us it won’t be necessary to send you to Jenkins Creek.”

As he spoke, Flora issued from the opening of the tarpaulin tent, exclaiming— “Father, I’ve just—”

On seeing the red man she stopped and gazed at him with much interest. The native returned the gaze, and for one moment a gleam of admiration lighted up his swarthy countenance, but it passed like a flash of light and left that stoical look of impassibility so common to the men of the American wilderness.

“What were you about to say, Flo?” asked her father.

“That I’ve just learned a piece of good news from Roderick. He seemed inclined to talk about the wreck this morning. Seeing him so much better, I gave him encouragement, and he has just told me that before leaving England he had taken the advice of a friend and insured the whole of our goods that were shipped in the Betsy.”

“That’s good news indeed, Flo; better than I deserve after my unbelieving remarks about the efficacy of prayer. And here is good news for you of another kind,” he added, holding up one of the partridges, “fresh meat for Roderick, and a hunter who looks as if he could keep us well supplied if we can only prevail on him to stay with us. Try what you can do, Flo; if he has a spark of gallantry in him he will be sure to understand what you say to him; but it must be in the language of signs, Flo, for he evidently understands no English.”

Thus appealed to, Flora advanced to the Indian, and, taking him somewhat timidly by the sleeve, led him to the opening of the tent and pointed to the sick man; then to the clean-scraped bones of the last rabbit he had eaten, after which she pointed to the game just purchased, touched the Indian’s gun, and, making a sweep with her hand towards the forest looked him full in the face.

The Indian allowed the faintest possible smile to curl his lips for a moment and then with a slight inclination of his head, but without uttering a word, turned abruptly and went off at a long swinging pace into the woods.

“’Pon my word, Flo,” said McLeod, “your pantomime has been most effective, but I have doubts as to whether he understands you to have invited him to be our hunter, or commanded him to go about his business.”

“I think we’ve seen the last of him,” said Kenneth, somewhat gloomily.

“He will return,” said Flora, with decision.

“Well, time will show,” rejoined McLeod, “meanwhile we will delay the trip to Jenkins Creek for a day, and I’ll go have a talk with Roderick about that lucky insurance business.”

Time did settle the matter of the Indian’s intentions almost sooner than had been expected, for that same evening he returned with a further supply of fresh meat and laid it down at Flora’s feet. Nothing, however, would prevail on him to remain and sup with the party. Having received a small supply of powder and shot in payment, he at once turned away and re-entered his native wilderness.

Thus day by day for about a week the silent man made his appearance every evening with fresh supplies, and, we might almost say, disappeared after delivering them. One day Kenneth determined to offer to accompany him on his next appearance. Accordingly he prepared his gun, rolled up his blanket and strapped it on his shoulders, and when the Indian arrived in the evening as usual, he presented himself equipped for the chase.

The Indian expressed some surprise in his looks, and at first seemed to object to Kenneth’s companionship, but at length gave in and they entered the forest together.

It seemed at first as if the red man wished to test the physical powers of his white brother, for he led him over hill and dale, through swamp and brake, during the greater part of that night. Fortunately there was bright moonlight. But Kenneth was stout of frame and enduring in spirit; he proved to be quite a match for the redskin.

At last they encamped under a tall pine, and, after a hearty supper, sat staring at each other and smoking in silence until sleep induced them to lie down. Next morning by daybreak Kenneth was roused by his companion, who, after a hasty meal, led him another long march through a wild but beautiful country, where several partridges and rabbits were shot by the Indian, and a great many more were missed by Kenneth, much to the amusement of his companion.

Towards evening the red man turned his steps in the direction of the tarpaulin tent.

Chapter Eleven.

An Adventure and a Surprise.

That evening the elder McLeod and Flora had adventure which nearly cost them their lives.

As the sun began to descend, Roderick, who was recovering fast under the influence of good-cheer and good nursing, begged Flora to go out and walk with her father, as she had not left his side all day.

She consented, and sauntered with her father in the direction of the seashore.

Now it so happened that a brown bear, of a species which is still to be found on the uninhabited parts of the Labrador coast, had selected that hour and that locality for his own evening promenade! At a certain part of the slight track which had been formed by the McLeods in their visits to the shore, the bushes were very thick, and here, on rounding a bend in the track, they met the bear face to face. Had there been some little space between them, the animal would probably have turned and fled; but, being taken by surprise, he stood fast.

McLeod and his daughter stood aghast on seeing the monster. The former was unarmed, with the exception of a small hunting-knife and a stout walking-stick. In the first rush of his feelings he suddenly flung his stick at the bear, and with so true an aim, that the heavy head struck it exactly on the point of its nose. Nothing could have been more unfortunate, for the creature’s rage was at once excited. With a savage growl he rose on his hind legs in the attitude of attack.

“Quick! run back, Flo, I’ll check him here,” cried McLeod, drawing the little hunting-knife.

But poor Flora was incapable of running. White with terror she stood gazing at the bear as if fascinated. Her father, seeing this, stepped in front of her with that overwhelming rush of determination which is sometimes felt by courageous men when under the influence of despair, for he felt that with such a weapon he might as well have assailed an elephant.

At that moment the well-known voice of Kenneth was heard to utter a tremendous shout close at hand. Almost at the same instant a sharp crack was heard, and the bear fell at McLeod’s feet, shot through the heart.

We need scarcely say that it was a ball from the gun of the Indian which had thus opportunely put an end to the bear’s career, and still less need we remark that profuse and earnest were the thanks bestowed on him by the whole party.

“We must christen you Sharpeye after this lucky shot,” said Kenneth, when the excitement had subsided. “Now, Sharpeye,” he added, taking his red friend by the arm, “you must stay and sup with us to-night. Come along, whether you understand me or not, I’ll take no denial.”

If the Indian did not understand the language of his friends he evidently understood their pantomime, for he made no further objection to remain, but accompanied them to the camp, and sat silently smoking at their fire, which was kindled in front of the tent door, so that the sick man might enjoy the blaze as well as the companionship.

While thus engaged they were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of another Indian, who advanced quietly into the circle of light, and sat down.

“A messenger, no doubt,” said McLeod, after the first salutation.

A messenger he indeed proved to be, for after casting a furtive look, not unmingled with surprise and suspicion, at his brother redskin, he opened a small bag which hung at his girdle, and delivered to McLeod senior a very dirty-looking letter.

“Ha! from Gambart,” he exclaimed, reading the inscription. “Let us see what— Hallo! Sharpeye, where are you off to?”

This question was called forth in consequence of the red man rising quietly and throwing his gun on his shoulder. Instead of replying, however, he turned abruptly and walked off into the woods.

“The most unaccountable man I ever knew,” exclaimed Kenneth. “I shouldn’t wonder if this messenger and he are implacable foes, and can’t bear to sit at the same fire together.”

The remark which Kenneth began half in jest, was finished in earnest, for he had not done speaking when the messenger also arose and glided into the woods.

“Get the gun ready,” said McLeod, unfolding the letter, “there’s no saying what these fellows may do when their blood’s up.”

Kenneth obeyed, while his father read the letter, which, as the reader has no doubt guessed was that written by Gambart at his imperious little wife’s command.

“I was sure there must be some satisfactory explanation of the matter,” said Flora, when her father had finished reading.

“So was I,” said Kenneth, examining the priming of his gun.

The elder McLeod felt and looked uncomfortable. “What is it all about?” asked Roderick, from the tent.

“Oh, nothing particular,” answered his father, “except that there have been some mistakes and foolish concealments in connection with a certain Reginald Redding, whom I fear I have been rather hasty in judging.”

“Well, that needn’t trouble you,” returned Roderick, “for you’ve only to explain the mistakes and confess your haste.”

“Hm! I suppose I must,” said McLeod, “and I rather think that Flora will—”

A deep blush and an imploring look from Flora stopped him.

Just then a rustle was heard among the leaves outside the circle of the camp-fire’s light, and Kenneth cocked his gun as Sharpeye stalked forward and sat solemnly down by the fire.

“I hope you haven’t killed him, Sharpeye,” said Kenneth, looking with some anxiety at the Indian’s girdle, as though he expected to see a fresh and bloody scalp hanging there.

Of course the Indian gave no answer, but the minds of all were immediately relieved by seeing the messenger return and sit down as he had done before, after which he opened his bag, and, drawing out another letter, handed it to McLeod.

“What! another letter? Why did you not deliver it with the first? Forgot, I suppose—eh! What have we here? It’s from—I do believe, it’s from Reginald Redding. The Indian must have called at the Cliff Fort in passing, but however he got it, here it is, so I’ll read it:—

“‘DEAR SIR,’ (Hm, rather friendly, considering),—‘After leaving you on the occasion of our last unsatisfactory meeting,’ (I should think it was), ‘it occurred to me that such indignation on your part,’ (not to mention his own!) ‘must have been the result of some mistake or misapprehension. After some reflection I recalled to mind that on the night I first met you, and learned that the name of your property in Partridge Bay was Loch Dhu, the sudden entrance of the messenger with the sad and startling news of the wreck prevented my telling you that I had become the purchaser of that property, and that, strange though it may seem to you, I did not up to that moment know the name of the person from whom I had bought it. This ignorance was owing to a fancy of my friend, Mr Gambart, to conceal the name from me—a fancy which I am still unable to account for, but which doubtless can be explained by himself. If this “silence” on my part is, as I think probable, the cause of your supposing that I intentionally “deceived” you, I trust that you will find this explanation sufficient to show that you have been labouring under a mistake.’ (No doubt I was.) ‘If, on the other hand, I am wrong in this conjecture, I trust that you will do me the justice to point out the so-called deception of which I am supposed to be guilty, in order that I may clear myself from a false imputation.’”

“Well, father, that clears up the matter sufficiently, doesn’t it?” said Kenneth.

“It does, unquestionably,” replied McLeod, “especially when coupled with the letter from Gambart, which has so strangely reached us at the same time with that of Redding. Well well, after all, things looked bad to me at first. I’m sorry, however, that I gave way to temper when we met, for the explanation might have come at that time; but the hot-headed young fellow gave way to temper too!”

McLeod said this in the tone of a man who, while admitting his fault, looks about for palliating circumstances.

“However,” he continued, rising and folding the letter, “I must write at once to let him know that his explanation is satisfactory, and that—that—”

“That you apologise for your haste,” said Flora, with a laugh.

“Certainly not,” replied McLeod stoutly. “I forgive him for getting angry with me, but I am not called on to ask forgiveness for being indignant with a man whom I supposed I had good reason to believe was a deceiver.”

“It is not necessary to ask forgiveness when no offence was meant,” said Sharpeye, in good English, as he suddenly rose, and, advancing to the elder McLeod, held out his hand.

McLeod gazed at the Indian for a moment in silent amazement.

“I fear,” continued Sharpeye, with a smile, “that I have to ask your forgiveness for having ventured really to practise deception on you.”

He removed a dark wig as he spoke, and revealed to the astonished gaze of the McLeods the light curly hair of Reginald Redding!

“Miraculous apparition!” exclaimed McLeod, grasping the proffered hand, “can I venture to believe my eyes?”

He glanced, as if for sympathy, to the spot where Flora had been seated; but Flora, for reasons best known to herself, had quietly retired to the interior of the tarpaulin tent and was just then absorbed in her duties as nurse to the invalid.

Chapter Twelve.

The Last.

Several months after the events narrated in the last chapter a very merry party was assembled in Mr William Gambart’s drawing-room at Partridge Bay.

The party was small, by reason of the drawing-room not being large, but it was very select and remarkably hearty. Plump little Gambart was there, beaming with good-will. His plump little partner was also there, radiant with matronly smiles, his plump little daughters too, bewitching with youthful beauty, set off by indescribable flounces, combined with flutterings of white lace. Their aspect was also rendered more captivating and charmingly confused by ribbons, rings, and ringlets, for the reader must remember that we write of those good old times before the introduction of that severely classic style of hair-dressing which converts now nine-tenths of the fair sex into human cockatoos.

Among the guests assembled were McLeod and his three sons, clad, not in the half trapper halt Indian style in which they were introduced to the reader, but in superfine broadcloth garments, the admirable fit of which suggested the idea that they must have been sewed on in Regent Street, London, and sent out to Canada with their owners in them, in separate boxes, labelled “this side up, with care.” There was also present Mr Bob Smart, smarter in personal appearance than he had ever been before, in virtue of a blue surtout with brass buttons which had lain for many years on sale in the store at the Cliff Fort, but never had been bought because the Indians who coveted were too poor to purchase it, and no other human being in his senses would have worn it, its form being antique, collar exceedingly high, sleeves very tight, and the two brass buttons behind being very close together and unreasonably high up. But Bob was not particular. Nothing, he said, would prevent him being at that party. He saw as well as felt that he looked like a maniac in the blue coat, but not possessing a dress-coat, and being possessed of moral heroism, he shut his mental eyes, ignored taste and feeling, put on the coat, and went.

Jonas Bellew was also there, in a new blue cloth capote, scarlet belt, and moccasins, in which he looked every inch a man, if not a gentleman. Sometimes in the kitchen, often in the pantry, occasionally in the passages, and always in the way, for he was excitedly abrupt in his motions, might have been seen the face and figure of François Le Rue. François was obviously performing the part of a waiter, for he wore a badly-fitting suit of black, white cotton gloves three sizes too large, and pumps, with white socks, besides which he flourished a white napkin as if it were a war-banner, and held on tenaciously to a cork-screw.

The pretty face of Elise was also there, assisting to spread moral sunshine on the party and fair cloths on all the tables. A close observer might have noted that wherever Elise shone there Le Rue took occasion to sun himself!

Deep in the mysterious regions of the back-kitchen—which bore as much resemblance to civilised back-kitchens as an English forest does to the “back-woods”—Mister Rooney might have been seen, much dirtier than other people owing to the nature of his culinary occupations and his disregard of appearances. A huge favour, once white, but now dirty, decorated the Irishman’s broad chest. Similar favours (not dirty) were pinned to the breasts of all the guests, giving unmistakable evidence that the occasion was a wedding.

“Hooroo! ye descendant of an expatriated frog,” cried Rooney, staggering under the weight of an enormous pot, “come here, won’t ’ee, an’ lind a hand. Wan would think it was yer own weddin’ was goin’ on. Here, slew round the crane, ye excitable cratur.”

“Preehaps mes own veddin’ vill foller ver’ quick,” said Le Rue, with a sly glance at Elise, as he assisted Rooney to suspend the big pot on its appropriate hook.

“Troth then. I can’t compliment the taste o’ the poor girl as takes ’ee,” replied Rooney, with a still slyer glance at Elise.

The girl referred to remarked that no girl in her senses would accept either of them as a gift, and went off tossing her head.

Just then a cheer was heard in the lobby, and Elise, Le Rue, and Rooney rushed out in time to see Flora McLeod like an April day—all smiles and tears—handed into a gig; she was much dishevelled by reason of the various huggings she had undergone from sundry bridesmaids and sympathetic female friends, chief among whom was a certain Mrs Crowder, who in virtue of her affection for the McLeod family, her age, and her deafness, had constituted herself a compound of mother and grandmamma to Flora. The gig was fitted to hold only two. When Flora was seated, Reginald Redding—also somewhat dishevelled owing to the hearty, not to say violent, congratulations of his male friends—jumped in, seized the reins and cracked his whip. The horse being a young and spirited animal, performed a series of demivolts which caused all the ladies to scream, threw the gig into convulsions, and old Mrs Crowder almost into fits. Thereafter it shot away like an arrow, amid ringing cheers and a shower of old slippers.

This was the last of Redding and Flora for that day, but it was by no means the last of the party. In those regions at that time (whatever they may do in those regions nowadays) wedding parties were peculiarly festive scenes, in which dancing was one of the means by which not only the young but the middle-aged were wont to let off superabundant steam, and a violin more or less cracked and vigorously played was the instrument which created inspiration. It would take a volume to tell of all that was said and done on that great and memorable occasion—how the plump little Miss Gambarts fluttered about like erratic flowers, or like captivating comets drawing a long tail of the Partridge Bay young men after them; how, as the evening wore on, all social distinctions were swept away and the servants were invited to exchange duty in the kitchen for dancing in the hall; how Le Rue danced so often with Elise and made his admiration of her so obvious that she became quite ashamed of him and cast him off in favour of any one else who asked her; how Jonas Bellew was prevailed on to ask Mrs Crowder to dance a Scotch reel with him, which she not only agreed to do but did to the delight of Jonas and the admiration of all the company; how Mister Rooney volunteered to dance the sailor’s hornpipe, and acquitted himself so well, despite the inability of the violinist to play the proper tune, that his performance was greeted with rapturous applause; how the floor at last began to show symptoms of giving way, and how their only musician did finally give way, from sheer exhaustion, and thus brought matters to an abrupt close.

But all this, and a great deal more that we have not told, was as nothing compared to the “feast of reason and the flow of soul,” that occurred at the supper, a meal which had been expressly reserved as a last resource when the violinist should break down. Another volume, at least, would be required to record it all.

There was food of course in profusion, and there was also, which is not always so common, splendid sauce in the form of appetite. There were also songs and toasts; and speeches which would have done credit to the halls of more civilised lands, in all of which the performers exhibited every phase of human nature, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

At this stage of the proceedings McLeod senior conducted himself with that manly straightforward vigour which had characterised him during the earlier part of the festivities, though he faltered a little and almost broke down when, in a speech, he referred to Flora as a bright sunbeam whom God in His love had permitted to shine upon his path for many years, who in prosperity had doubled his joys, and who in adversity had taught him that the Hearer and Answerer of prayer not only can, but does bring good out of evil, of which fact he was a living instance that day, for it was the loss of his goods by shipwreck which had enabled him, at a critical moment in his affairs, to make a fresh start in life, that had now placed him on the road to prosperity, so that “Wrecked but not Ruined” he thought, might be appropriately adopted as his family motto. It was this wreck also which had, in a great measure, brought him into intimate acquaintance with the man who had saved his daughter’s life, as well as his own (cheers), and who had that day carried off a prize (renewed cheers), a jewel (enthusiastic cheers, in which the ladies attempted to transcend the gentlemen), he repeated, a prize, the true value of which was fully known only to himself.

Here the remainder of the speech—of which a few emphasised words, such as blessings, health, prosperity, etcetera, were heard—was lost in a burst of continuous cheering, which suddenly terminated in an uproarious shout of laughter when Le Rue accidentally knocked the neck off a bottle of beer, whose contents spouted directly and violently into his face!

The touch of feeling displayed in McLeod’s speech filled little Mr Gambart with an irresistible desire to start to his legs and “claim his rights.” He regarded himself, in connection with Mrs Gambart, he said, with a winning smile at his fair partner, as the author and authoress (humanly speaking of course) of the whole affair, by which he meant the affair that had just come off so auspiciously. He had seen, and Mrs Gambart had seen, from the very first, that Mr Redding was deeply in love with Flora McLeod (as how could he be otherwise), that he, Mr Gambart, (including Mrs Gambart), foresaw that in selling Loch Dhu to Mr Redding he was virtually sending it back to the McLeod family; that unless he had concealed the name of the owners at first he could not have effected the sale, for Mr Redding at that time thought the McLeods were—were—. Here an awful frown from Mrs Gambart, intimating that he (Gambart) was touching on subjects which he had no right to make public, threw him into confusion, out of which condition he delivered himself, amidst some laughter and much applause, by a bold and irrelevant continuation of the subject, to the effect that, knowing all that and a great deal more besides, he (including Mrs Gambart) had not only effected a sale which, he might say, was the main-sail that had caught the breezes of prosperity by which the craft of the McLeods, so to speak, had been blown so happily that day into the Partridge Bay haven of felicity (tremendous cheering, during which Gambart wiped his bald head and flushed face, and collected himself). Moreover, he continued, it was he who, against McLeod’s will, had bought Barker’s Mill (hear hear! from Bob Smart, who thought he was quoting poetry), and although, of course, he had not known that the goods in the Betsy were insured (at this point another frown pulled him up and made him reckless), he nevertheless would stoutly hold against any man (cheers) or woman (cheers and laughter), that he, including Mrs Gambart, had had a finger in the pie, which, after simmering for a considerable time (the pie, not the finger) in the oven of—of (cheers) ah! had that night been done (brown, from Bob Smart) to a turn (severely), and been dished up in such splendid style that a more auspicious climax could—could—

The remainder was drowned in vociferous cheering, in which Mr Gambart himself joined, shook hands with the guests on each side of him, sat down, and blew his nose.

It was at this point that Bob Smart, overcome by a gush of feeling, burst into a song, the burden of which was that the light of former days being faded, their glories past and shaded, and the joys of other days being too bright to last, it was not worth while doing more than making a simple statement of these facts without expressing a decided opinion either one way or another in regard to them.

As he sang this rather pretty song in the voice of a cracked tea-kettle, a thrill of delight ran through the company when deaf Mrs Crowder, being ignorant of what was going on, suddenly said that as there seemed to be a pause in the flow of soul, she, although a woman, would venture to express a sentiment, if not to propose a toast. This was of course received with a shout of joy, which effectually quenched Mr Smart. In a sweet tremulous little voice the old lady said, “let us wish, with all our hearts, that health, happiness, charity, and truth may dwell as long as it shall stand, under the roof-tree of Loch Dhu!”

Of course this called McLeod to his legs again, after which there were more speeches and more songs—both grave and gay—until “nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep,” began gently to tickle the guests, reminding them that felicity is not less enhanced by occasions of exuberant mirth than by periods of tranquil repose.

What more can we say, good reader, than that old Mrs Crowder’s wish was fulfilled to the letter, for a large family, trained by Redding and Flora to respect the laws of God and love the name of Jesus, caused the roof-tree of Loch Dhu to ring full many a year thereafter with joyous tones, that were the direct result of “health, happiness, charity, and truth.”

McLeod senior dwelt hard by, and was made glad, as well as thoughtful, by the sight. Ian and Kenneth made a comfortable livelihood out of the saw-mill at Jenkins Creek, which ultimately became a populous settlement, whither the young Reddings went annually in summer to enjoy themselves, in which enjoyment they were greatly aided by Jonas Bellew the trapper. Roderick was equally prosperous with Barker’s Mill at Partridge Bay. Rooney continued to the end of his days in the service of his old master, while Le Rue and Elise, a happy couple, became respectively butler and cook at Loch Dhu, over the door of which establishment Redding had engraved his father-in-law’s favourite motto—“Wrecked but not Ruined.”

The End.

Table of Contents

Away in the Wilderness by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One. The Hunter.

Chapter Two. The Three Friends.

Chapter Three. The Encampment.

Chapter Four. MosquitoesCamp-Fire Talk.

Chapter Five. Journeying in the Wilderness.

Chapter Six. The Outpost.

Chapter Seven. A Savage Family, and a Fight with a Bear.

Chapter Eight. Running the FallsWild Scenes and Men.

Chapter Nine. The Fort, and an Unexpected Meeting.

Chapter Ten. Buffalo-Hunting on the Prairies.

Chapter Eleven. WinterSleeping in the SnowA Night Alarm.

Chapter Twelve. The Wedding, an Arrival, a Feast, and a Ball.

Chapter Thirteen. The Conclusion.

The Big Otter by R. M. Ballantyne

R.M. Ballantyne

"The Big Otter"

Chapter One.

Sleeping in Snow.

Chapter Two.

The Winter Packet.

Chapter Three.

Deeper Desolation.

Chapter Four.

The Winter Journey.

Chapter Five.

The Wounded Man.

The World of Ice and Snow.

Chapter Six.

An Express and its Results.

Chapter Seven.

A Tremendous Storm and Other Experiences.

Chapter Eight.

Deep in the Wilderness we find our Home which is Shared with the Wild Beast, the Wild Bird, and the Savage.

Chapter Nine.

A Bright Apparition—Followed by Rumours of War.

Chapter Ten.

Salamander Gives and Receives a Surprise, and War is Averted by Wise Diplomacy.

Chapter Eleven.

Lumley on Duty—Fort Wichikagan begins to Grow.

Chapter Twelve.

A Narrow Escape—A Strange Meeting, and a Half-Revealed Mystery.

Chapter Thirteen.

Fishing and its Results—Engineering and its Consequences.

Chapter Fourteen.

Arrival of Strange Indians.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Catastrophe, a Letter, and a Surprise.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Joys of Camping Out—Important Additions to the Establishment—Serious Matters and Winter Amusements.

Chapter Seventeen.

Describes a Tremendous Visitation—A Feast—A Surprise—And an Attempt at Murder.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Mysterious Packet—Friends depart, and Lumley is caught singing.

Chapter Nineteen.

Opening of the Mysterious Packet.

Chapter Twenty.

I come out in a New Light, and have a very Narrow Escape.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Buffalo Hunt Followed by a Palaver, an Arrival, and a Traitor-Chase.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Chase, the Capture, and the Revelation.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Attacked by Bandits—A Sad Death and a Sudden Rescue.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Power of Sleep—Plans discussed and a Far Journey resolved on.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Tells of a Wonderful Meeting and a Frustrated Foe.

Chapter Twenty Six.

One of the Difficulties of Correspondence enlarged on—Coming Events, etcetera.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

A Peculiar Wedding and a Wonderful Walk.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Wilderness again—New Plans mooted—Treacherous Ice, and a Brave Rescue.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Last.

The End.

Fort Desolation by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

The Pioneers by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Preface.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Ungava by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Introduction.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty One.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Chapter Thirty Five.

Chapter Thirty Six.

ENDNOTE

Wrecked but not Ruined by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.