But Mr. Johnston did not return till long after sunset.  I was growing uneasy and full of anxieties when he hove in sight in the same small Indian hunting-canoe, with Dr. Houghton and one voyageur, bringing the tent, beds, and mess-basket.  They reported that the men had not yet arrived with the large canoe, and it was doubted whether they would come in in season to cross the lake.  But they came up and joined us during the night.

The next morning (Aug. 5th) we crossed the portage at Lac du Gres before sunrise.  This is the origin of the north-west fork of Chippewa River.  The atmosphere was foggy, but, from what we could see, we thought the lake pretty.  Pine on its shores, bottom sandy, shells in its bed, no rock seen in place, but loose pieces of coarse gray sandstone around its shores.

The outlet of this lake proved to be the entrance into Ottawa Lake—­the Lac Courtorielle of the French—­a fine body of water some ten miles long.  It was still too foggy on reaching this point to tell which way to steer.  A gun was fired; it was soon answered by Lieut.  Clary and Mr. Woolsey from the opposite side of the lake.  The sound was sufficient to indicate the course, and we crossed in safety, rejoining our party at the hour of early breakfast.  We found all well.

OTTAWA LAKE.—­We were received with a salute from the Indians.  I counted twenty-eight canoes turned up on the beach.  Mozojeed and Waubezhais, the son of Miscomoneto (or The Red Devil), were present.  Also Odabossa and his band.  The Indians crowded down to the beach to shake hands.  I informed them, while tobacco was being distributed, that I would meet them in council that day at the firing of three guns by the military.

COUNCIL.—­At eleven o’clock I met the Indians in council.  The military were drawn up to the best advantage, their arms glittering in the sun.  My auxiliaries of the Michico-Canadian stock and the gentlemen of my party were in their best trim.  We occupied the beautiful eminence at the outlet of the lake.  The assemblage of Indians was large, but I was struck by the great disproportion, or excess, of women and children.

Mozojeed, the principal man, was a tall, not portly, red-mouthed, and pucker-mouthed man,[61] with an unusual amount of cunning and sagacity, and exercising an unlimited popularity by his skill and reputation as a jossakeed, or seer.  He had three wives, and, so far as observation went, I should judge that most of the men present had imitated his voluptuous tastes and apparently lax morals.  He had an elaborately-built jaunglery, or seer’s lodge, sheathed with rolls of bark carefully and skillfully united, and stained black inside.  Its construction, which was intricate, resembled the whorls of a sea-shell.  The white prints of a man’s hand, as if smeared with white clay, was impressed on the black surface.  I have never witnessed so complete a piece of Indian architectural structure, nor one more worthy of the name of a temple of darkness.