against such a sea.  We were close to the rocks, so close that one began to make preparations for doing something—­one didn’t well know what—­when we should strike.  Two more oars were out, and for an instant we hung in suspense as to the result.  How they did pull! it was the old paddle-work forcing the rapid again; and it told; in spite of wave and wind, we were round the point, but it was only by a shade.  An hour later we were running through a vast expanse of marsh and reeds into the mouth of Rainy River; the Lake of the Woods was passed, and now before me Lay eighty miles of the Riviere-de-la-Pluie.

A friend of mine once, describing the scenery of the Falls of the Cauvery in India, wrote that “below the falls there was an island round which there was water on every side:”  this mode of description, so very true and yet so very simple in its character, may fairly-be applied to Rainy River; one may safely say that it is a river, and that it has banks on Either side of it; if one adds that the banks are rich, fertile, and well wooded, the description will be complete—­such was the river up which I now steered to meet the Expedition.  The Expedition, where was it?  An Indian whom we met on the lake knew nothing about it; perhaps on the river we should hear some tidings.  About five miles from the mouth of Rainy River there was a small out-station of the Hudson Bay Company kept by a man named Morrisseau, a brother of my boatman.  As we approached this little post it was announced to us by an Indian that Morrisseau had that morning lost a child.  It was a place so wretched looking that its name of Hungery Hall seemed well adapted to it.

When the boat touched the shore the father of the dead child came out of the hut, and shook hands with every one in solemn silence; when he came to his brother he kissed him, and the brother in his turn went up the bank and kissed a number of Indian women who were standing round; there was not a word spoken by any one; after awhile they all went into the hut in which the little body lay, and remained some time inside.  In its way, I don’t ever recollect seeing a more solemn exhibition of grief than this complete silence in the presence of death; there was no question asked, no sign given, and the silence of the dead seemed to have descended upon the living.  In a little time several Indians appeared, and I questioned them as to the Expedition; had they seen or heard of it?

“Yes, there was one young man who had seen with his own eyes the great army of the white braves.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Where the road slants down into the lake, was the interpreted reply.

“What were they like?” I asked again, half incredulous after so many disappointments.

He thought for awhile:  “They were like the locusts,” he answered, “they came on one after the other.”  There could be no mistake about it, he had seen British soldiers.