equally intent on each other's destruction,
escapes were sometimes rather narrow.
Several days elapsed in this manner, until at
last the Indian seemed to have grown tired,
and left the island in the canoe; for they
were no longer alarmed. The sugar bag was
getting nearly done, and the poor dog was
now so weak with hunger, that, even when
it did not absent itself searching for food
on the shore, it was scarcely able to give
an alarm. If Black survived hunger and
his wound, which was now getting very
painful, the Indian, he knew, would soon
return and accomplish his purpose. With such
thoughts his prospects were gloomy enough,
and so he dozed away the hours, half frozen
and faint. It was the tenth night (he had
long lost count of time, but found so afterwards)
since the murderous attack, when he
was awoke by a loud talking on the beach.

The moon, sailing over the leaden, snowy
sky, enabled him to recognise the figures of
several Indians hauling a canoe on to the
beach. He grasped his revolver, determined
to sell his life dearly, for he was now
fully persuaded that it must be his murderer
returned with assistance. It was
strange, however, it struck him, that they
had landed in such an exposed situation.
"Who are you?" he inquired, in the
Chinook jargon—the trading language of
the coast. A low, surprised cry came from
them. They were apparently unaware of
the presence of any one but themselves.
Again he shouted more cheerily, and they
approached him, when he was delighted
to recognise the familiar faces of several
Bella-Coola Indians—old acquaintances of
his. He told them his story; and as they
listened, he uncovered the body of his
murdered companion, they, every now and
again, bursting into a cry of horror. Food
was prepared, and every attention paid to
him. The dead body was buried, and
Black conveyed to the Indian village, where
he was carefully nursed until news reached
the nearest white man's abode. The solitary
colonist hurried down, and happening
to have been in earlier days an officer in
the army, he knew a little about surgery.
He dressed Black's wounds, and conveyed
him back to the settlements, where, under
proper medical treatment, he slowly
recovered. But it was many months before he
could walk without crutches, and to the
end of his life he will bear the marks of that
fearful experience of "putting through the
winter" in the dark days of 186—. As
we have a good deal (in novels) of the
generous savage, I may as well say that
my poor friend had to pay well for all the
hospitality he received. The water he drank,
the ground he lay on, the wood that warmed
him, the food he ate, everything was charged
for, but most cheerfully paid. It is, however,
a greater pleasure to relate that, after the
bill was paid, the Indians threw in the
execution of the murderer into the bargain. The
avengers of blood found him in his lodge,
comfortably awaiting the death of Black
by starvation or cold, either of which he,
no doubt, thought would save him all
trouble. He seemed rather to exult when
charged with shooting the white men; but
the Bella-Coola warriors took a different
view of matters, and with a summary
justice, which would have done credit to a
Californian vigilance committee, they shot
him where he sat.

As for poor Black, I saw him dancing at
a Christmas party not very long ago; but
a terrible limp, which caused his partner to
afterwards style him an "awkward sort of
colonial fellow," told me another tale.

    LIBERTY, FRATERNITY, AND EQUALITY.

      To Thought's metropolis sublime,
             Where never sets the morning star,
       Across the desert wastes of Time,
             Two travellers journey'd from afar.

      The one a royal mantle wore,
            A golden buckler girt his breast,
      A banner in his hand he bore,
            A plume upon his stately crest:

      The other, clad in rags, and bare
            Of head and foot, with weary haste
      To reach that city shining fair,
            Plodded the wide and pathless waste:

      But ere the day was down, the two
            Together reach'd the gated wall;
      And both upon the bugle blew,
            High challenge to the watchmen all.

      "What pilgrim from the waste of years,
             Seeks entrance here?" the warden cried.
      "Go, greet from me my princely peers,"
             The mail'd and mantled guest replied.

      "And spread for me the banquet fair,
            And open wide the palace door,
       For me the lighted hall prepare,
            For me the kingly goblet pour.

      "For Shakespeare's royal son am I!
            But strew the straw, the fagot light,
       In any common hostelry
            Where this poor wretch may rest to-night.

      "My lordly lineage I proclaim;
            My sire is known o'er all the earth:
       But no man knows, or asks, the name
            Of him who gave this beggar birth.

      "High feast in banner'd hall be mine,
             And his some hole to hide his head,
       And pour for me the noble wine,
             And fling to him a crust of bread!"

      "That may not be!" the answer fell
             From tower to tower in merry scorn,
      "For all who enter here and dwell,
             Are brethren, free, and equal born.