Other peril came to the fleet from icebergs, through the midst of which they were driven by a tempest, but they finally made their way into what is now known as Hudson Strait, up which, filled with hope that the continental limits would quickly be passed and the route to China open before them, they sailed some sixty miles.  But to their disappointment they found that they were being turned southward, and, instead of crossing the continent, were descending into its heart.

Reluctantly Frobisher turned back, and, after many buffetings from the storms, managed to bring part of his fleet into Frobisher Bay.  So much time had been lost that it was not safe to proceed.  Winter might surprise them in those icy wilds.  Therefore, shipping immense quantities of the “fools’ gold” which had led them so sadly astray, they turned their prows once more homeward, reaching England’s shores in early October.

Meanwhile the “ore” had been found to be absolutely worthless, the golden dreams which had roused England to exultation had faded away, and the new ship-loads they brought were esteemed to be hardly worth their weight as ballast.  For this disappointment the unlucky Frobisher, who had been appointed High Admiral of all lands and waters which he might discover, could not be held to blame.  It was not he that had pronounced the worthless pyrites gold, and he had but obeyed orders in bringing new cargoes of this useless rubbish to add to the weight of Albion’s rock-bound shores.  But he could not obtain aid for a new voyage to the icy north, England for the time had lost all interest in that unpromising region, and Frobisher was forced to employ in other directions his skill in seamanship.

With the after-career of this unsuccessful searcher for the Northwest Passage we have no concern.  It will suffice to say that fortune attended his later ventures upon the seas, and that he died in 1594, from a wound which he received in a naval battle off the coast of France.

CHAMPLAIN AND THE IROQUOIS.

On a bright May morning in the year 1609, at the point where the stream then known as the Rivi[`e]re des Iroquois—­and which has since borne the various names of the Richelieu, the Chambly, the St. Louis, the Sorel and the St. John—­poured the waters of an unknown interior lake into the channel of the broad St. Lawrence, there was presented a striking spectacle.  Everywhere on the liquid surface canoes, driven by the steady sweep of paddles wielded by naked and dusky arms, shot to and fro.  Near the shore a small shallop, on whose deck stood a group of armed whites, had just cast anchor, and was furling its sails.  Upon the strip of open land bordering the river, and in the woodland beyond, were visible great numbers of savage warriors, their faces hideously bedaubed with war-paint, their hands busy in erecting the frail habitations of a temporary camp.