caves and pits for many nights and days
ere he could grasp the hand or see the face
of a friend. The prisoners taken on that fatal
field were conveyed to Edinburgh, and shut
up in the Greyfriars churchyard, to sleep
among graves, with no covering but the
sky, either in shine or in rain, by night
or by day. Here for four months they lay
like cattle condemned to the shambles.
Two of these, Mr. Kid and Mr. King,
ministers of God's Word, were taken thence
and hanged, and all who would not sign a
bond never again to take up arms against
the king, and confess at the same time that
the killing of Archbishop Sharpe was foul
murder, were sentenced to be shipped off
as slaves to the American plantations.
Such fate was mine, though not at that
time. But let me not march before the
years in my narrative.

       SAVING A CITY.

ALL the way from Sooke, on the southern
coast of Vancouver's Island, all along the
Straits of De Fuca, up the dreary western
coast, and down the eastern shores of the
colony until you come to the solitary Fort
Rupert of the Hudson's Bay Company,
there is not one civilised abode, with the
single exception of a little block-house in
Port San Juan. Here resides, all alone
among his savage neighbours, an old Indian
trader, who has long ago forgot civilisation
and all its amenities, though once
upon a time no smarter lieutenant ever
shook his epaulets at the balls at Government
House in the halcyon days of Captain
Sir John Franklin's rule. The shores
of every quiet bay are thickly dotted with
savage- looking Indian villages; every creek
swarms with their war-canoes. Never are
they all at peace. No more cruel and vindictive
enemies than these people ever
prowled out on a night attack.

The Nittinahts are a noted tribe of
warriors and pirates; and their grim old
chief, Moquilla, looks upon war as the
legitimate game of such kings as he. This
warlike disposition is strengthened by the
condition of their chief village, Whyack,
which is built on a cliff, stockaded in front,
and at a part of the coast, at the mouth of
the Nittinaht inlet, where it is difficult, on
account of the heavily rolling surf, to land.
Thus defended, they carry it with a high
hand over their neighbours. Moquilla's
brother died, and he, not knowing what to
do to soothe his grief, happily bethought
himself one day that some months before,
his brother had quarrelled with a man in
the tribe, and had threatened to kill him.
So Moquilla went off to this man's lodge,
and killed him. At this there was a great
deal of talking in the village. Many said
he did right, but others thought he did
wrong; Moquilla himself determined to cut
the Gordian knot by following up the course
he had begun. The man was married to an
Elwha or Clallam wife, whose village lay
on the opposite shores of Juan De Fuca's
Strait. Casting about for some plausible
excuse to go to war with a tribe with
which he had been for years at peace, he
recollected that long ago a Nittinaht canoe
had landed on the Elwha shore, that the
crew had been killed, and the canoe
broken by members of that tribe. In an
Indian tribe there is rarely any doubting
on a matter of war, especially when heads,
slaves, and plunder are to be got. There
was not much in Whyack village that summer
afternoon when old Moquilla, his hands
wet with the blood of his tribe's man,
proposed to go to war against the Clallams.
They were, however, rather in want of
gunpowder. So they dropped along the
coast, a few miles, to Port San Juan, where
one Langston was then trading, solitary,
among their allies, the Pachenahts.
Langston stoutly refused to aid in the destruction
of the Clallams, who were also customers
of his; and such was the force of this one
man's character, that though they begged
earnestly for the favour of being permitted
to buy powder of him, yet, on being
refused, they did not attempt to take it by
force. They bade him a gruff good-bye,
and, under cover of darkness, sailed, with
their Pachenaht contingent, out of the little
cove, and over the strait to the opposite shore.
Arriving there, they drew their canoes
into the bush, and waited for dawn.
Daylight came with all the calm beauty of a
North-western summer morning, and the
Clallams, suspecting nothing, went out
unarmed on the halibut fishing-ground, a
mile or two off shore. The Nittinahts
drew their canoes out of the bush, and,
paddling out, shot the defenceless Clallams in
their canoes, and, plundering the village,
returned in triumph to Port St. Juan, with
slaves and heads. When Langston woke
up in the morning, he found seven human
heads, stuck on poles in front of his door.
The rejoicings were, however, of short
duration, for news came that the survivors
were gathering allies from far and near,
and would soon be over to attack the
Pachenahts' village. Collecting their