A few ragged-looking dusky men with rusty firelocks, and still more rusty bayonets, stood lounging about.  We drove through without stopping, and drew up at the door of my companion’s house, which was situated at the rear of the buildings I have spoken of.  From the two flag-staffs flew two flags, one-the Union Jack in shreds and tatters, the other a well-kept bit of bunting having the fleur-de-lis and a shamrock on a white field.  Once in the house, my companion asked me if I would see Mr. Riel.

“To call on him, certainly not,” was my reply.

“But if he calls on you?”

“Then I will see him,” replied I.

The gentleman who had spoken thus soon left the room.  There stood in the centre of the apartment a small billiard table, I took up a cue and commenced a game with the only other occupant of the room-the same individual who had on the previous evening acted as messenger to the Indian Settlement.  We had played some half a dozen strokes when the door opened, and my friend returned.  Following him closely came a short stout man with a large head, a sallow, puffy face, a sharp, restless, intelligent eye, a square-cut massive forehead overhung by a mass of long and thickly clustering hair, and marked with well-cut eyebrows—­altogether, a remarkable-looking face, all the more so, perhaps, because it was to be seen in a land where such things are rare sights.

This was M. Louis Riel, the head and front of the Red River Rebellion-the President, the little Napoleon, the Ogre, or whatever else he may be called.  He was dressed in a curious mixture of clothing—­a black frock-coat, vest, and trousers; but the effect of this somewhat clerical costume was not a little marred by a pair of Indian mocassins, which nowhere look more out of place than on a carpeted floor.

M. Riel advanced to me, and we shook hands with all that empressement so characteristic of hand-shaking on the American Continent.  Then there came a pause.  My companion had laid his cue down.  I still retained mine in my hands, and, more as a means of bridging the awkward gulf of silence which followed the introduction, I asked him to continue the game—­another stroke or two, and the mocassined President began to move nervously about the window recess.  To relieve his burthened feelings, I inquired if he ever indulged in billiards; a rather laconic “Never,” was his reply.

“Quite a loss,” I answered, making an absurd stroke across the table; “a capital game.”

I had scarcely uttered this profound sentiment when I beheld the President moving hastily towards the door, muttering as he went, “I see I am intruding here.”  There was hardly time to say, “Not at all,” when he vanished.

But my companion was too quick for him; going out into the hall, he brought him back once more into the room, called away my billiard opponent, and left me alone with the chosen of the people of the new nation.