"You see, Taniel," said the old man, when the subject was again broached, "it iss of no use hangin' off an' on in this fashion. Moreover, this nasty stiff leg o' mine is so long of getting well that it may walk me off the face o' the earth altogether, an' I would not like to leave Elspie till this matter iss settled. Tuncan also iss a little better just now, so what say you to have the weddin' the month after next? Mr Sutherland will be back from the Whitehorse Plains by then, an' he can tie the knot tight enough—whatever. Anyway, it iss clear that if we wait for a munister o' the Auld Kirk, we will hev to wait till doomsday. What say you, Taniel?"

It need hardly be said that Dan had nothing whatever to say in objection to this scheme. It was therefore settled—under the proviso, of course, that Elspie had no objection. Dan went off at once to see Elspie, and found that she had no objection, whereupon, after some conversation, etcetera, with which we will not weary the reader, he sought out his friend Fred Jenkins, to whom he communicated the good news, and treated him to a good many unanswerable reasons why young people should not delay marriage when there was any reasonable prospect of their getting on comfortably in life together.

The sailor agreed with effusive heartiness to all that he said, and Dan thought while he was speaking—orating—as one of the American settlers would have expressed it—that Jenkins wore a peculiar expression on his manly countenance. Attributing it to unusual interest in the event, he continued—

"Now, Fred, I want you to be my best-man—"

"Unpossible—quite unpossible," interrupted the seaman with a grave shake of the head.

"How—impossible!"

"Ab-so-lutely unpossible."

"But why? Explain yourself, Fred."

"'Cause it's only a bachelor as can be a best-man to a bachelor—ain't it?"

"I believe so, though I'm no authority in such matters; but surely that is a matter of no importance, for you are a bachelor, you know."

"True, that's what I am to-day, but I won't be that long, for I am goin' to be married next month, so I won't be available, d'ee see, the month after."

"You—married!—to whom?" exclaimed Dan in amazement.

"Well, that's a point blank shot right between wind an' water. Hows'ever, I suppose I can't go wrong in tellin' you, Dan, for it's all settled, though not a soul knows about it except Little Bill, an' yourself, an' her brother."

"But I don't know about it yet," returned Dan. "Who is it?"

"A angel—pure an' unmixed—come straight down from heaven a-purpus to marry poor, unedicated, sea-farin' Fred Jenkins, an' her terrestrial name is Elise Morel!"

Dan laughed while he congratulated the modest seaman, and admitted the strength of his difficulty.

"D'you know, Fred, I've had a suspicion for some time past that you had a leaning in that direction?"

"So have I, Dan, had an uncommon strong suspicion for a very long time past, not only that I had a leanin' that way, but a regular list to port, an' now I'm fairly over on my beam-ends!"

"But, surely, it must have come upon you very sudden at last," said Dan. "How was it?"

"Sudden! I should just think it did—like a white squall in the Mediterranean, or a hurricane in the China seas. This is how it was. I'd bin cruisin' about her—off an' on—for a considerable time, tryin' to make up my mind to go into action, an' screwin' my courage up to the stickin' pint by recallin' all the fine sentiments that has carried Jack-tars through fire an' smoke, shot and shell since the world began—'England expects every man to do his dooty,'—'Never say die,'—'Hookey Bunkum,' an' such like. But it warn't no manner o' use, for I'm an' outrageous coward wi' the gals, Dan. So, in a sort o' despair, I sailed away this very mornin' into the plantation at the futt o' your garden, intendin' to cool myself an' think over it, when, who should I see almost hull down on my lee bow but the enemy—Elise herself!

"Well, I changed my course at once; bore straight down on her, an' soon overhauled her, but the nearer I came the more did my courage run out, so I gradooally begun to take in sail an drop astarn. At last I got savage, 'You're a fool, Jenkins!' says I to myself. 'That's a fact!' says su'thin' inside o' me.

"Now, if that su'thin' had kep' quiet, I do believe that I'd have gone about-ship an' showed her my heels, but that su'thin', whatever it was, set up my dander. 'Now then,' says I, 'haul taut the main brace! Up wi' the t'gall'nt-s'ls an' sky-scrapers! "England expects," etceterer!'

"Afore you could say Jack Robinson, I was along side—grapplin'-irons hove into her riggin', and a broadside fired. The way I gave it her astonished even myself. Nelson himself could scarce ha' done it better! Well, she struck her colours at the first broadside, an' somehow—I never could make out exactly how—we was sittin' on the stump of a tree with her head on my rough unworthy buzzum. Think o' that! Dan, her head—the head of a Angel! Give us your flipper, mate."

"I congratulate you, Jenkins, with all my heart," said Dan, grasping the seaman's flipper, and giving it a hearty shake. "So now, I must look out for another best-man. Morel will do for me, I think, and you can have my brother Peter, no doubt. But could we not manage to have both weddings on the same day?"

"Impossible," answered the seaman, promptly. "Couldn't wait."

"But we might compromise the matter. I might have mine a little sooner and you could have yours a little later."

Still Jenkins shook his head. "Not fair-play," he said. "All the advantage on your side. However, we might consider it. Hold a sort o' drum-head court-martial over it, with Elise and Elspie as judges."

When the said court-marital—as Dan called it—was held, the compromise was agreed to, and it was finally fixed that six weeks thereafter the two couples should be united in Ben Nevis Hall.

But the current of these parallel streams of true love was not yet destined to run smooth—as the next chapter will show.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

A NEW DISASTER.

"I mean to go off to-morrow on a shooting trip to the lake," said Dan Davidson to Archie Sinclair. "I've had a long spell at farming operations of late, and am tired of it. The double wedding, you know, comes off in six weeks. So I want to have one more run in the wilderness in all the freedom of bachelorhood. Will you go with me?"

"'Unpossible,' as Jenkins would say," answered Archie. "Nothing would please me better, but, duty before pleasure! I've promised to spend a week along wi' Little Bill at the Whitehorse Plains. Billie has taken a great fancy to that chief o' the half-breeds, Cuthbert Grant, and we are goin' to visit him. I've no doubt that Little Bill would let me off, but I won't be let off."

"Then I must ask Okematan to go with me," said Dan.

"You needn't trouble yourself, for I heard him say that he was goin' off to see some o' his relations on important business—a great palaver o' some sort—and Elise told me this morning that she saw him start yesterday."

"Morel is too busy with his new farm to go," rejoined Dan, "and Jenkins is too busy helping Morel. Perhaps Dechamp or Bourassin may be more at leisure. I will go see."

But on search being made, neither Dechamp nor Bourassin was to be found, and our hero was returning home with the intention of taking a small hunting canoe and going off by himself, when he chanced to meet with La Certe.

That worthy seemed unusually depressed, and returned Dan's greeting with very little of his habitual cheerfulness.

"What's wrong with you, Francois?" asked Dan, anxiously.

"Domestic infelicity," answered La Certe, with a sorrowful shake of the head.

"What! surely Slowfoot has not taken to being unkind to you?"

"O no! Slowfoot could not be unkind, but she is unhappy; she has lost her cheerful looks; she does not take everything as she once did; she does not now let everything go anyhow with that cheerful resignation which was once her delightful characteristic. She no longer hands the pipe of peace to our little one—indeed she refuses to let it have the pipe at all, though the poor child cries for it, and comes to me secretly, when Slowfoot is out of the way, to beg for a draw. Then, she scolds me—no, she does not scold. Slowfoot cannot scold. She is too amiable—but she remonstrates, and that is worse than scolding, for it enlists myself against myself. O! I am now miserable. My days of peace are gone!"

"This is all very sad, La Certe," said Dan, in a tone of sympathy. "What does she remonstrate about?"

"About my laziness! She does it very kindly, very gently—so like her old self!—but she does it. She says, 'Husband; we have gone on this way too long. We must change. You must change. You are lazy!'"

"Well, La Certe," said Dan, "I'm afraid that Slowfoot is right."

"I know she is right!" retorted the half-breed, with more of exasperation in his manner than his friend had ever before seen in him. "When that which is said of one is false, one can afford to smile, but when it is true what can one say? Yet it is hard—very hard. You are full of energy; you love to expend it, and you search for work. It is natural—and what is natural must be right. So, I am full of laziness. I love to indulge it, and I search for repose. That is also natural, and what is natural must be right. Voila!"

"Then I suppose your love for repose," returned Dan, "will oblige you to decline an offer which I thought of making to you."

"What is that?"

"To go with me on a shooting expedition to Lake Winnipeg for a week or two."

"O no! I will not decline that," returned La Certe, brightening up. "Shooting is not labour. It is amusement, with labour sufficient to make after-repose delightful. And I will be glad to leave my home for a time, for it is no longer the abode of felicity."

This having been satisfactorily arranged, preparations made, and Slowfoot advised of her husband's intention, Dan went to Ben Nevis Hall next morning to bid farewell to Elspie for a brief period. He found only old McKay in the Hall, Elspie having gone up the Settlement, or down the Settlement—the man did not know which—to call on a friend.

"See that ye will not be long o' comin' back, Tan," he said. "There will be a good many arranchments to make, you see."

"I hope to be back in three weeks at latest," said Dan, "if all goes well."

"Ay, if all goes well," repeated the old man, thoughtfully. "As Elspie says sometimes, 'We never know what a day may bring furth.' Well, well, see that you will not be upsetting your canoe, for canoes are cranky things—whatever."

In a short time our hero and La Certe found themselves floating once more on the calm breast of the mighty inland sea.

It was afternoon. The circumstances were eminently conducive to the felicity which is derivable from repose, and thus admirably suited to the tastes of La Certe. An unruffled sheet of glassy water lay spread out to the north-western horizon, which not only doubled the canoe and its occupants, but reflected the golden glory of the sun, and mirrored every fleecy cloudlet in the bright blue sky. A mere dip of the paddles now and then served to give impulse to the light, and literal, bark. Genial warmth pervaded the atmosphere, and little white gulls floated almost motionless on outspread wings, or sloped hither and thither with lazy flap, while ever and anon the whistling wings of passing wild-fowl gave promise of occupation to their guns, to say nothing of their kettles.

On their third day out, towards evening, they went ashore on the lee-side of a rocky point where some bushes and trees seemed to offer firewood and shelter.

"This will do," said Dan, as he stepped lightly out on a shelving rock and held the canoe while his companion took out the lading. "Plenty dry sticks and lots of moss for bedding."

"Truly, that is so," returned La Certe. "It is a place in which Slowfoot would rejoice to repose, and the little one to smoke its pipe."

"You forget," said Dan. "The little one is no longer allowed that luxury."

"No, I forgot not. But I reflect that it is possible to give her many a draw on the sly."

The fire was soon kindled, ducks were roasting in front of it, and the kettle boiling above it. The tea had been infused, and La Certe, while filling his pipe, was blinking good-will at all around, when the notes of a voyageur-song were heard like an echo in the far distance.

Gradually the song grew louder, and soon a canoe rounded the point, and came in sight of the camp-fire. It was what used to be called a north-canoe, of the largest size, made of birch-bark, and contained a crew of ten men.

The song and the paddling stopped simultaneously when the camp was observed, and the men appeared to hold a consultation. Their hesitation, however, was very brief. Suddenly, breaking again into song, they ran the canoe to shore, and landed.

"We are bound for Red River," said their chief to Dan. "Just come from Canada. We suppose you don't object to our camping beside you. It is a convenient spot."

Of course the two hunters had no objection whatever to fraternise with the strangers from Canada, and in a short time another large fire was sending its myriad sparks up into the darkening sky like a gigantic roman-candle.

During supper the strangers made themselves very agreeable. After supper, two of the stoutest of them arose, as if to go into the bush for more firewood. Suddenly these threw themselves upon and seized Dan and his comrade, who were reclining quietly on the ground. Before either could make even an attempt at self-defence they were overpowered by the Canadians, and held forcibly down, while their arms were securely bound to their sides with strips of deerskin.

"It is useless to struggle, Dan Davidson," said the chief, when this was being accomplished. "We know you as a bitter opponent of the Nor'-westers, and we intend to carry you where your power to do mischief will be ended."

"Who are you? and under whose authority do you act?" demanded Dan, angrily.

"Who I am is a matter of no interest to you, Dan. I act under my own authority, and I may just as well tell you, at the beginning, that if you and your comrade choose to submit peaceably, we will treat you reasonably well;—if not, we will find means to quiet you, even though we should be driven to do it wi' that."

The man pointed significantly to a gun which leant against a neighbouring tree. His meaning could not be misunderstood.

That night, Dan and La Certe were fastened to a tree by cords which allowed of their moving about freely within a small space, but their arms were not unbound. Here they were allowed to make themselves as comfortable as possible in the circumstances. Their bed, being mossy, was well enough, but the distracted state of their minds—especially Dan's—may be imagined.

"La Certe," said Dan, when the camp-fire had burned low, and the stars were shining on them through the leaves, and all was still, save an occasional snore from the Nor'-westers.

La Certe groaned in reply.

Poor Dan was not in a mood to comfort him or anybody else at that moment, and did not follow up his remark.

"La Certe," he said again, after a quarter of an hour.

"Well?"

"Do you remember John Bourke?"

"Yes, yes. I remember him, but I care not for him. My own sorrows are too great."

"Do you recollect," continued Dan, regardless of this despairing remark, "that a good while ago the Nor'-westers took him prisoner, when he was wounded after a skirmish with them, and carried him to Canada—treating him with great barbarity on the way. There he was put in jail, but, as nothing could be proved against him, he was liberated, and then tried to return to his family in Red River, but the Nor'-westers caught him again, imprisoned him, sent him a second time to Canada, and had him tried at the Court of the King's Bench, although his only crime was that of resisting the North-West Company. He was acquitted, and, after terrible sufferings from which he never quite recovered and a three years' absence, he rejoined his family in Red River."

"Yes, O yes! I know it all," groaned La Certe.

"Well," continued Dan, bitterly, "his fate is not unlikely to be ours."

The poor half-breed made no reply to this. For some time he lay quite still, and his comrade had almost fallen into an uneasy slumber, when he was awakened by La Certe breaking out into a soliloquy in which he apostrophised his absent wife.

"O my Slowfoot!" he murmured. "Shall we never meet again on earth? Yes, you are right. I have been lazy! I am lazy. I suppose that this is punishment for my sin. But it is hard to bear, and very heavy— is it not?—for only following one's nature in longing for repose. O! why was I born? Why was our little one born, to enjoy for so brief a time the delights of smoke, and then have it denied her—except on the sly, when with her miserable father, who will never see her more— perhaps."

He paused for a few minutes, and then broke out again.

"Yes, my Slowfoot—you are right. I must reform. I will cast off my sloth as a garment—even—even though I should go naked all the rest of my days! I will work—energise! I will—"

"Hold your tongue, La Certe, and listen," said Dan in a low, stern voice.

"I am all attention," returned the poor man in a similarly low tone.

"Are you game to fight, if you get the chance?"

"Game to fight!" echoed the other—"to fight for my Slowfoot, my little one, my smoke, and my repo—I mean my—my—new—"

"Speak lower, man, and listen to a plan I have in my head."

Here Dan spoke so low that he could not be heard at all, save only by his companion; but that is of little consequence, for the plan, whatever it might have been, was never carried out.

Next day the Nor'-west party with their two prisoners paddled away towards the mouth of the grand turbulent Winnipeg River, and began to traverse the weary wilderness-route of rivers and lakes, which at that time formed the only direct means of communication between the frontiers of Canada and "Rupert's Land."



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

THE LAST.

Eagerly, earnestly, doggedly, did Daniel Davidson and Francois La Certe watch for a favourable opportunity to escape from their captors, but they waited and watched in vain, for their captors were cruel, suspected them of the intention to escape, and were consequently careful to prevent even an attempt being made. They never freed their wrists from strong cords; kept knives and axes out of their way; tethered them to a tree each night, and watched them continually.

Can it be wondered at that, in the circumstances, our unfortunate hero became almost insane? The wedding-day had been fixed before he left Red River; preparations were being made for the great event, and it was pretty well understood that Dan had gone off hunting with the view, chiefly, to be out of people's way till the day should arrive. They would scarcely begin to notice his prolonged absence till the day approached. Then, no doubt, when too late, and he should be far on the way to Canada, they would in some alarm send out parties to search for him.

Dan became desperate, but he was gifted with an unusual power of self-control, so that, beyond a very stern expression, his countenance betrayed no sign of the terrible conflict that was raging within—a conflict in which mortal hatred of mankind in general and an overwhelming desire to kill or be killed formed elements. Ah! reader, poor human beings have many and many a time in the past been brought to this terrible condition. God grant that we and ours may never know what it is to tremble on the brink of madness because of the combined influence of gross injustice and horrible cruelty. To do the Nor'-westers justice, they were unaware of the intensity of the pain they were inflicting. They had only captured a powerful enemy, and meant, by keeping a tight hold of him, to render him powerless in the future—that was all!

As for La Certe, they had no intention of taking him to Canada. They only meant to carry him so far on the road, that, when set free, it would be impossible for him to get back to the colony in time to give effective warning to Dan's friends.

One afternoon the voyagers put ashore at one of the numerous portages which obstruct the navigation of that route to Canada, and, after unloading the canoe and lifting her out of the water, they proceeded to carry the lading across to the still water above the rapids which rendered this portage necessary.

Although bound, the prisoners were by no means freed from labour. The cords had been so arranged that they could use the paddle while in the canoe; while, on the portages, although unable to load themselves, they were quite able to carry a load which others placed on their shoulders. On this occasion Dan was first sent off with a load, and then La Certe and some of the others followed. When he reached the upper end of the portage, Dan flung down his load, and, from his elevated position, gazed wistfully down the valley through which the waters of the Winnipeg River roared and seethed among jagged rocks as far as the eye could reach. It was a wild majestic scene, but no thought of its grandeur touched the mind of the poor prisoner. He thought only of escape. His intimate knowledge, however, of the terrific power of rushing water told him that there could be no escape in that direction.

"Oh! if my arms were only free, I would risk it!" he murmured, as he raised his hands and looked at the powerful thongs of hide with which they were bound—thongs which were always drawn tighter when he landed, to render an attempt at escape more hopeless. Then he glanced at the rushing river beside him. A sheer precipice of full thirty feet descended from the spot on which he stood to the edge of the flood. Just below there was a whirlpool, and beyond that began the first of the series of falls and rapids which were avoided by means of the portage. Half-mad though he was, he did not dream of attempting such a leap with bound hands. He would wait, and continue to hope for a more favourable opportunity, but the possibility of such an opportunity was now growing very faint indeed, for even if he did escape, and had a canoe to use, it was by that time barely possible to accomplish the journey in time for the wedding-day. But although his hope of being in time had pretty well died out, his whole heart was still concentrated on the simple desire to escape.

A rush of despair came upon the poor youth just then, and the idea of ending his misery by taking his own life occurred to him for a fleeting moment, as he gazed wistfully around on water, wood, and sky, and observed the laden and toiling men who were slowly clambering up the steep towards him—La Certe being in front.

Just then an object among the grass at his feet attracted his attention. Stooping, he picked it up and found it to be a scalping-knife!— dropped, probably, long before by some passing Indians or voyageurs, for it was very rusty.

With a bounding heart and a wild rush of blood to his temples, he sprang towards a tree: stuck the point of the knife into it; held the handle with his teeth; sawed the thongs across its edge once or twice—and was free!

His first impulse was to bound into the woods, but the thought of his comrade arrested him. La Certe was already close at hand. Running towards him he said, quickly, "Drop your load! Now or never!" and cut his bonds at once. Then, turning, he sprang towards the woods. But from the very opening through which he meant to plunge into the tangled thicket, there issued the leader of the Nor'-westers and two of his men. The chief was armed with a gun, which he immediately presented. With the instinct of bush-warriors the two prisoners dodged behind rocks, and made for the higher ground which Dan had recently quitted. Here a sheer precipice barred further progress. There was no way of escape but the river. They ran to the edge and looked down. La Certe shrank back, appalled. Dan glanced quickly round to see if there was any other opening. Then there came over his spirit that old, old resolve which has, in the moment of their extremity, nerved so many men to face danger and death, from the days of Adam downward.

"Now, La Certe," he said, grasping his comrade's hand: "Farewell! Death or Freedom! Tell Elspie my last thoughts were of her!"

Almost before the half-breed could realise what was said, Dan had leaped over the cliff and disappeared in the raging torrent. A few seconds later he was seen to rise in the whirlpool below the first cataract, and to buffet the stream vigorously, then he disappeared a second time. Before La Certe could make out whether his friend rose again, he was seized from behind, and dragged from the brink of the precipice.

Swift as the hunted stag springs from his covert, and bounds over every obstacle with speed and apparent ease, so sprang the chief of the Nor'-westers down the rugged path which led to the foot of the series of rapids, and the lower end of the portage. There was good grit in the man, morally and physically, for he was bent on a rescue which involved considerable danger.

Throwing off his capote, and tightening his belt, he stood on a ledge just below the last fall, intently watching the water.

The fall was not high, but it was deep, and rushed into a large dark basin with terrible velocity, causing the tormented foam-speckled water to circulate round its edges. In a few moments the form of Dan was seen to shoot down the fall and disappear in the basin. The chief stooped, but did not spring until, not far from him, the apparently inanimate form reappeared on the surface and began to circle slowly round among the flecks of foam. Then he plunged, swam out with powerful strokes, and quickly returned to the shore with Dan in his grasp.

Soon they were surrounded by the other voyageurs, who had left La Certe to look after himself,—not caring much, in the excitement of the moment, whether he escaped or not.

"He is dead," said one; "he breathes not; and see how his face is bruised and cut."

"And his chest, too," said another. "I think his ribs have been broken. Poor fellow! It was a wild, a reckless jump!"

"Keep back, and let him have air," said the chief, who was doing his best, according to his knowledge, to resuscitate Dan.

Presently La Certe arrived, panting.

"O! he is gone! My comrade, my friend, is dead!" he exclaimed, clenching his hands, and gazing at the pale, bruised face.

"You are wrong," exclaimed the chief, testily. "Out of the way, man! See! his eyelids quiver."

And so they did; and so also quivered his lips, and then a sigh came— faint and feeble—then stronger, and at last Dan opened his eyes and thanked God that his life had been spared. But when he recovered sufficiently to realise his true position as being again a captive, the feeling of despair returned.

That night they encamped a mile above the upper end of the portage. At supper the two prisoners were allowed to sit by the camp-fire and eat with their hands free.

"Monsieur," said the guide to Dan, respectfully, "you see it is impossible to escape. Why compel us to bind you? Give me your word of honour that you will not try, and your limbs may then remain as free as mine."

"I give you my word of honour," answered Dan, with a sardonic smile, "that till after breakfast to-morrow I will not try, for I need rest and food; but after that, I give you my word that I will never cease to try."

With this promise the guide was fain to rest content, and that night Dan and his friend were allowed to sleep untethered, which they did soundly.

Next morning they were roused in gentler tones than usual, and not required to work—as had been the case hitherto—before breakfast. In short, there was an evident change in the feelings of their captors towards them, founded largely, no doubt, on admiration of Dan's reckless courage; but that did not induce them in the least degree to relax their vigilance, for the moment the hour of truce had passed, the chief advanced towards Dan with the thongs to bind him.

For one moment Dan felt an impulse to knock the man down, and then fight the whole party until death should end the matter; but the good-humoured look on his jailer's face, the fact that the man had saved his life the day before, and the certainty of defeat with such odds against him, induced him to quell the evil spirit and to hold out his hands.

"Pardon, Monsieur," said the chief, with the politeness of a French half-breed. "I am sorry you refuse to give me your parole. I would rather see you like the rest of us; but my orders are strict, and I must obey."

Before Dan could reply, a sound struck on their ears, which caused the whole party to listen, immovable and in perfect silence.

It was the wild, plaintive, beautiful song of the voyageur which had floated to them on the morning air, softened by distance to a mere echo of sweet sound. After listening intently for a few moments, the guide said gently: "Voyageurs."

Again they listened to the familiar sound, which increased in volume and strength as it approached, proving that the voyageurs were descending the river towards them. As yet nothing could be seen, for a thickly-wooded point intervened. Presently the song burst on them in full resonant chorus; at the same moment two large north-canoes—in all the brilliancy of orange-coloured bark, painted bows and sterns, red-bladed paddles, with crews of scarlet-capped or bare-headed men swept round the point with quick stroke, in time to the rapid measure.

A cheer was the irrepressible impulse of the men on shore, causing the newcomers to stop and listen.

"Perhaps," said Dan, "they may be your foes of the Hudson's Bay Company."

"That may be so," returned the Nor'-west Chief, gravely.

The unfurling of an "H.B.C." (Hudson's Bay Company) flag proved that it was so, to a certainty, and the depressed Nor'-westers did not cheer again; but the H B C men came on, paddling with wild vigour and cheering hilariously.

"They seem in great spirits," growled the Nor'-west leader. "We are almost as strong as they, boys, and have the advantage of woods and cliffs. Shall we fight and keep our prisoners?"

"What is that white thing in the bow of the first canoe?" said one of the men.

"It looks like a flag," said another.

"If so, it is a flag of truce," observed Dan. "They have something to say, and do not want to fight."

"That may be trite, but we won't let you be at the conference," returned the leader, sternly. "Come, four of you, lead them out of earshot. Take your guns, and use them if need be."

Four powerful fellows at once obeyed the order, and led the prisoners, who had been once more bound, into the woods. Once again Dan was tempted to offer fierce resistance, but he knew that the Hudson's Bay men were yet too far off to be able to hear shouts—at least to understand the meaning of them—and that it would be useless to resist such a guard. He therefore submitted to be led a mile or so into the woods, and finally was permitted to sit down with La Certe under a tree to await the result of the conference.

They had not to wait long. In less than half-an-hour one of the younger among the Nor'-westers came bounding towards them, waving his cap and shouting.

"You are free, Messieurs—free!" he cried, seizing both prisoners by the hands. "We are no longer enemies!"

"Free! What do you mean?" demanded Dan, who fancied that the young man must have gone mad.

"The companies have joined!" he cried, excitedly. "They are one! We are all friends now; but come and see and hear for yourself."

Filled with wonder, and some small degree of hope, Dan and La Certe followed the young man, accompanied by their guards, who were not less mystified than themselves. Arrived at their camping-place, they found that the canoes had brought a Chief Trader—or officer of the Hudson's Bay Company—who was conveying to Red River, and the interior of Rupert's Land generally, the good news of a momentous historical event, namely, the union of the two companies.

The important event here referred to, namely, the coalition between the two great rival companies, which took place in 1821, was the death-blow to party strife over the whole of Rupert's Land, and also inaugurated the dawn of lasting prosperity in the Red River Colony.

"Cut their bonds," said the Chief Trader, as the prisoners approached.

No touch of the surgeon's knife ever effected a cure more speedily.

"I congratulate you, young sir," said the Trader, grasping Dan's hand: "you are now free, for I understand that your loss of liberty had nothing to do with crime, and the rival companies are no longer opponents; they are friends. Indeed, we have been married, so to speak, and are now one. I am on my way to Red River with the good news."

"When do you start?" asked Dan, abruptly.

"Well, if you mean from this spot," answered the Trader, somewhat surprised as well as amused at the eagerness of the question, "I start at once. Indeed, I would not have landed here had I not seen your party. You appear to be anxious. Why do you ask?"

"Because it is of the utmost importance to me that I should be in Red River on a certain date, and I fear that that is all but impossible now."

Dan then explained, as briefly as possible, his circumstances. Fortunately, the Trader was a sympathetic man. He ordered his crews to embark at once and bade the two captives take a brief, if not an affectionate, farewell of their late captors.

"I cannot promise you to push on," he said, "at a rate which will satisfy you—or even accomplish the end you have in view—but I will do the best I can, without overworking my men. I fear, however, that you will have to make up your mind to a delayed wedding!"

"If you will only do your best for a day or two," said Dan, "until we reach the mouth of this river, that will do, for there my own hunting canoe was left; and, once in that, La Certe and I can go ahead and tell them you are coming."

"Nay, that would be requiting me ill—returning evil for good—to take the wind out of my sails and make my news stale," returned the Trader, with a good-natured laugh.

"True, I did not think of that," said Dan. "Then we will say not a word about it until you arrive."

"Yes, we will be dumb," added La Certe. "Even Slowfoot shall fail to drag it out of me!"

And thus it was arranged. The (late) Nor'-westers continued their voyage to Canada, and the Hudson's Bay men resumed their descent of the Winnipeg River.

Arrived at the great lake, the anxious pair did not wait even to rest, but at once embarked in their little hunting canoe.

"I'm sorry you are such an unpresentable bridegroom," said the Trader, when they were about to separate. He referred to the cuts and bruises with which poor Dan's countenance was temporarily disfigured.

"Never mind," returned our hero, with a laugh, "wait till you see the bride; she will more than make up for the shortcomings of the groom. Adieu!—au revoir!" They pushed off, and now began a race against time, which, in the matters at least of perseverance, persistency, hard labour, and determination, beat all the records of bicyclists and horsemen from the beginning of time. Cyclists have frequent down-hills to help and rest them; Dan and his friend had no such aids. It was all either dead level or upstream. Dick Turpin and the rider to Ghent, (we forget his name), only killed their horses. Dan and Francois nearly killed themselves—not only with hard work and no rest, but with profound anxiety, for the wedding hour was rapidly approaching and they were still far from home!

While these events were transpiring in the wilderness, things were going smoothly enough in the Colony.

"I will be thinkin'," said old Duncan McKay, one fine evening as he sat in his invalid chair, beside Duncan junior, who was woefully reduced and careworn, despite the attentions of the sympathetic Jessie Davidson, who was seated near him on a rustic seat beside Elspie—

"I will be thinkin' that Tan an' La Certe are stoppin' longer away than iss altogither seemly. Tan should have been here two or three days before the weddin'."

"He will likely be time enough for his own weddin'—whatever," remarked Duncan junior. "Don't you think so, Miss Jessie?"

"I think it likely," answered the girl with a smile.

"He is sure to be in time," said Elspie, with emphasis.

"We niver can be sure of anything in this world, my tear," remarked old Duncan, becoming oracular in tone. "How do you know he iss so sure?"

"Because Dan never breaks his word," returned Elspie, with an air of decision that would have gratified Dan immensely had he been there to see it.

"Fery true, my tear," rejoined the Highlander, "but there are many other things that interfere with one's word besides the will. He might tie, you know, or be trowned, or his gun might burst and render him helpless for life, if it did not kill him altogither. It iss an uncertain world at the best—whatever."

Archie Sinclair, who joined them—with his brother, Little Bill, by his side, not on his back—was of the same opinion as Elspie, but Billie shook his head, looked anxious, and said nothing—for he felt that his friend was running things much too close.

At a later hour that same evening, the other members of the two families—who dropped in to make inquiries—began to express anxiety, and Okematan, who called just to see how things were getting on, shook his head and looked owlish. Old Peg said nothing, but she evidently thought much, to judge from the deepening wrinkles on her forehead.

As for Fred Jenkins, he was too much taken up with Elise Morel to think much about anything, but even he at last grew anxious, and when the wedding morning finally dawned, and no Dan made his appearance, something like consternation filled the hearts of all within the walls of Ben Nevis Hall and Prairie Cottage. Elspie appeared to feel less than the others, but the truth was that she only controlled herself better.

"He only wants to take us by surprise," she said, and, under the strength of that opinion, she robed herself for the wedding. Only her gravity and the pallor of her cheeks told of uneasiness in her mind.

"Muster Sutherland said he would come soon after breakfast," observed old Duncan, uneasily. "He should hev been here now,—for we need his advice sorely."

"Here he iss," exclaimed Fergus, starting up and hurrying forward to welcome the good old Elder.

Mr Sutherland's advice was decided, and promptly given. Both weddings should be deferred and all the young men must turn out in an organised search without a moment's delay!

It was amazing to find that every one had been of exactly the same opinion for some time past, but no one had dared to suggest a course of action which implied a belief that Dan might be in imminent danger, if not worse.

Now that the ice had been broken, however, all the youth of the neighbourhood volunteered for service, and a plan of search was being hastily formed under the direction of the Elder, when two men in a canoe were seen to paddle very slowly to the landing-place at the foot of the garden. After hauling the end of their canoe on shore, they walked, or rather staggered, up towards the house.

One of them tripped and fell, and seemed from his motions as if he thought it was not worth while to rise again. The other, paying no attention to his companion, came on.

"Pless my soul!" exclaimed old McKay, "it iss Tan—or his ghost— whatever!"

And so it was! Dirty, bruised, scratched, battered, and soaking wet, Daniel Davidson appeared to claim his beautiful bride. And he did not come in vain, for, regardless of propriety and everything else, Elspie ran forward with a little shriek and flung herself into his arms.

"I have kept my promise, Elspie."

"I knew you would, Dan! I said you would."

"Tan, you rascal! come here."

The youth obeyed, languidly, for it was evident that he was thoroughly exhausted.

"My poy," said the Highlander, touched by Dan's appearance, "you hev been in the watter!"

"Not exactly, father, but last night's thunderstorm caught us, and we had no time to seek shelter."

"An' it iss fightin' you hev been?"

"With water and rocks only," said Dan.

"Well, well, go into the house now, and change your clo'es. Dry yourself, an' get somethin' to eat, for you are used up altogither."

Elspie took his hand, and led him away. Meanwhile La Certe, having gathered himself up and staggered to the front, was seized upon and questioned unmercifully. Then he also was taken into the house and fed; after which both men were made to lie down and rest.

Having slept for six hours Dan awakened, and rose up to be married! Fred Jenkins and Elise were—as the jovial tar expressed it—turned off at the same time.

It was customary in Rupert's Land at that time, as it is customary in many remote lands, no doubt, at the present day, to celebrate every wedding with a feast and a dance. Feasts are very much alike in substance, if not in detail, everywhere. We refrain from describing that which took place in Ben Nevis Hall at that time, further than to say that it was superb. The dancing was simple: it consisted chiefly of the Highland Fling danced by the performer according to taste or imagination.

But that it was eminently satisfactory to all concerned was clearly evinced by the appearance of the whole party—the elegant ease with which Fergus McKay did it; the tremendous energy with which Jacques Bourassin tried it; the persistent vigour with which Andre Morel studied it; the facility with which Elise acquired it—under Elspie's tuition; the untiring perseverance with which Archie and Little Bill did something like it—for the latter had quite recovered, and was fit to hold his own, almost, with any one; the charming confusion of mind with which Fred Jenkins intermingled the sailor's hornpipe with it; the inimitable languor with which La Certe condescended to go through it; the new-born energy with which Slowfoot footed it; the side-splitting shrieks with which Old Peg regarded it; the uproarious guffaws with which the delighted old Duncan hailed it; the sad smile with which that weak and worn invalid Duncan junior beheld it; and, last, but not least, the earnest mental power and conspicuous physical ability with which Dan Davidson attempted something which Charity personified might have supposed to bear a distant resemblance to it.

The music was worthy of the dancing, for the appointed performer had, owing to some occult cause, failed to turn up, and a volunteer had taken his place with another fiddle, which was homemade, and which he did not quite understand. A small pig with feeble intellect and disordered nerves might have equalled—even surpassed—the tones of that violin, but it could not hope to have beaten the volunteer's time. That, performed on a board by the volunteer's foot, automatically, beat everything that we have ever heard of in the musical way from the days of Eden till now.

Only four members of the two households failed to take a violently active part in that festive gathering. Jessie Davidson had conveniently sprained her ankle for the occasion, and thus was set free to sit between the wheeled chairs of the two Duncans, and act as a sympathetic receptacle of their varied commentaries. Her mother, being too stout for active service, sat beside them and smiled universal benignity. Her little maid, Louise, chanced to be ill. Peter Davidson's case, however, was the worst. He had gone off in company with Okematan to visit a camp of Cree Indians, intending to be back in time, but his horse had gone lame while yet far from home, and as it was impossible to procure another at the time, he was fain to grin and bear it. Meanwhile Antoine Dechamp had been pressed into the service, and took his place as best-man to Fred Jenkins—a position which he filled to admiration, chiefly owing to the fact that he had never served in such a capacity before.

Late on the following evening La Certe sat by his own fireside, somewhat exhausted by the festivities of the day before, and glaring affectionately at Slowfoot, who was stirring something in a pot over the fire. The little one—rapidly becoming a big one, and unquestionably by that time a girl—crouched at her father's side, sound asleep, with her head resting on his leg. She no longer cried for a pull at her father's pipe.

"Have you heard that Kateegoose is dead?" asked Slowfoot.

"No—how did he die?"

"He was met on the plains by enemies, killed, and scalped."

"That is sad—very sad," said La Certe.

"The world is well rid of him," observed Slowfoot; "he was a bad man."

"Yes," responded her lord; "it is necessary to get rid of a bad man somehow—but—but it is sad—very sad—to kill and scalp him."

La Certe passed his fingers softly among the locks of his sleeping child as if the fate of Kateegoose were suggestive! Then, turning, as from a painful subject, he asked—

"Does our little one never smoke now?"

"No—never."

"Does she never wish for it?"

"Slowfoot cannot tell what our little one wishes," was the reply, "but she never gets it."

La Certe pondered for some time, and then asked—

"Does my Slowfoot still like work?"

"She likes it still—likes it better."

"And she does it—sometimes?"

"Yes, often—always."

"Why?"

"Because Mr Sutherland advises me—and I like Mr Sutherland."

"Does my Slowfoot expect me to like work too, and to do it?" asked La Certe with a peculiar glance.

"We cannot like what we don't like, though we may do it," answered the wife, drawing perilously near to the metaphysical, "but Slowfoot expects nothing. She waits. My Francois is not a child. He can judge of all things for himself."

"That is true, my Slowfoot; and, do you know," he added, earnestly, "I have had hard work—awfully hard work—killing work—since I have been away, yet it has not killed me. Perhaps you will doubt me when I tell you that I, too, rather like it!"

"That is strange," said Slowfoot, with more of interest in her air than she had shown for many a day. "Why do you like it?"

"I think," returned the husband, slowly, "it is because I like Dan Davidson. I like him very much, and it was to please him that I began to work hard, for, you know, he was very anxious to get home in time to be at his own wedding. So that made me work hard, and now I find that hard work is not hard when we like people. Is it not strange, my Slowfoot?"

"Yes. Your words are very like the words of Mr Sutherland to-day. It is very strange!"

Yet, after all, it was not so very strange, for this worthy couple had only been led to the discovery of the old, well-known fact that—"Love is the fulfilling of the law."

There was yet another of those whose fortunes we have followed thus far who learned the same lesson.

About the same time that the events just described took place in Red River, there assembled a large band of feathered and painted warriors in a secluded coppice far out on the prairie. They had met for a grave palaver. The subject they had been discussing was not war, but peace. Several of the chiefs and braves had given their opinions, and now all eyes were turned towards the spot where the great chief of all was seated, with a white-man beside him. That great chief was Okematan. The Paleface was Peter Davidson.

Rising with the dignity that befitted his rank, Okematan, in a low but telling voice, delivered himself, as follows:

"When Okematan left his people and went to live for a time in the wigwams of the Palefaces, he wished to find out for himself what they wanted in our land, and why they were not content to remain in their own land. The answer that was at first given to my questions seemed to me good—a reply that might have even come from the wise heads of the Cree Nation; but, after much palaver, I found that there was contradiction in what the Palefaces said, so that I began to think they were fools and knew not how to talk wisely. A Cree never reasons foolishly—as you all know well—or, if he does, we regard him as nobody—fit only to fight and to die without any one caring much. But as I lived longer with the Palefaces I found that they were not all fools. Some things they knew and did well. Other things they did ill and foolishly. Then I was puzzled, for I found that they did not all think alike, as we do, and that some have good hearts as well as good heads. Others have the heads without the hearts, and some have the hearts without the heads—Waugh!"

"Waugh!" repeated the listening braves, to fill up the pause here, as it were, with a note of approval.

"The Palefaces told me," continued Okematan with great deliberation, as if about to make some astounding revelations, "that their land was too small to hold them, and so they came away. I told them that that was wise; that Cree Indians would have done the same. But then came the puzzle, for they told me that there were vast tracts of land where they lived with plenty of lakes, rivers, and mountains, in which there was nobody—only fish and birds and deer. Then I said, 'You told me that your land was too small to hold you; why did you not go and live on these mountains, and fish and shoot and be happy?' To this they answered that those fine lands were claimed by a few great chiefs, who kept them for their own shooting and fishing, and drove out all the braves with their wives and families and little ones to crowd upon the shores of the great salt-water lake, and live there on a few fish and shells—for even there the great chiefs would not allow them to have all the fishing, but kept the best of it for themselves! Or, if they did not like that, the poor braves were told to go and live in what they called cities—where there are thousands of wigwams crowded together, and even piled on the top of each other,—but I think the Palefaces were telling lies when they said that—Waugh!"

Again there were many "Waughie" responses, mingled with numerous "Ho's!" of astonishment, and a few other sounds that seemed to indicate disbelief in Okematan's veracity.

"What," continued Okematan, with considerable vehemence, "what would my braves do if Okematan and a few of the Cree chiefs were to take all the lands of Red River, and all the buffalo, and all the birds and beasts to themselves, and drive the braves with their families to the shores of Lake Winnipeg, to live there on fish, or die, or leave the country if they did not like it! What would they do?"

Okematan's voice increased in fervour, and he put the finishing question with an intensity that called forth a chorus of "Waughs!" and "Ho's!" with a glittering of eyes, and a significant grasping of scalping-knives and tomahawks that rendered further reply needless.

"Would you not scorn us," he continued, "scalp us, tear out our eyes, roast us alive?—but no—the Cree Nation loves not cruelty. You would merely pat us on the head, and tell us to go and make moccasins, and boil the kettle with the squaws!

"Then, when I began to know them better, I found that all the Paleface chiefs over the great salt lake are not greedy and foolish. Some are open-handed and wise. I also found that there is a tribe among them, who lived chiefly in the mountain lands. These are very kind, very brave, very wise, and very grave. They do not laugh so loud as the others, but when they are amused their eyes twinkle and their sides shake more. This tribe is called Scos-mins. I love the Scos-mins! I lived in the wigwam of one. He is old and fierce, but he is not bad, and his heart is large. In his house were some other Scos-mins—braves and squaws. They were very kind to me. This is one of them."

The flashing eyes of the entire party were turned upon Peter Davidson, who, however, had presence of mind enough to gaze at the cloudless heavens with immovable solemnity and abstraction.

"There are two others, whom I look upon as sons. One is named Arch-ee; the other Leetil Beel. Now," continued Okematan, after a pause, "my advice is that we should teach the Paleface chiefs over the great salt lake a lesson, by receiving the poor braves who have been driven away from their own lands and treating them as brothers. Our land is large. There is room for all—and our chiefs will never seize it. Our hearts are large; there is plenty of room there too.

"The Great Spirit who rules over all inclines my heart to go and dwell with the Palefaces until I understand them better, and teach them some of the wisdom of the Red-man. I shall return to Red River to-morrow, along with my Paleface brother whose name is Pee-ter, and while I am away I counsel my braves and brothers to dwell and hunt and fish together in love and peace."

How it fared with Okematan on his self-imposed mission we cannot tell, but we do know that from 1821—the date of the auspicious coalition before mentioned—the sorely tried colony began steadily to prosper, and, with the exception of the mishaps incident to all new colonies, and a disastrous flood or two, has continued to prosper ever since. Civilisation has made rapid and giant strides, especially during the later years of the century. The wave has rushed far and deep over the old boundaries, and now the flourishing city of Winnipeg, with its thousands of inhabitants, occupies the ground by the banks of the Red River, on which, not many years ago, the old Fort Garry stood, a sort of sentinel-outpost, guarding the solitudes of what was at that time considered a remote part of the great wilderness of Rupert's Land.

THE END.