wild minds. No use in tears and prayers
when a drunken Mohawk sniffs blood and
liquor!"

I made no reply for some minutes, for I was
pondering over a plan that had occurred to
me. Haworth waited awhile, and then peevishly
asked why I did not answer?

"Look here, old fellow," said I, at last, "if
we can't help them, the next best is to warn
them. A good runner in snow-shoes might get
to Hamilton in time, and perhaps they may have
some communication open with the interior. If
Major Lee thinks fit to hold out, he can at
least send his daughter to a place of safety,
and—-"

"Do you imagine I haven't thought of
that? But it's hopeless. There is not a
scout at Port Hope now, there is not an Indian
worth his salt; none but a parcel of worthless
drunken redskins, who have been so corrupted
by fire-water and lazy dependence on the whites
that they couldn't get through such a march to
save their lives. O Heaven, if they were all
like Kesnakupak there—-"

"Kesnakupak!" exclaimed I, casting a look
at the sleeping Indian in his scarlet blanket
before the fire; "do you mean that our
fleet-footed messenger of evil is Elk-that-runs
himself?"

I had never before seen that renowned personage,
equally famous for his speed of foot and
his extraordinary skill in the chase. In time of
peace, this man, who was one of the petty chiefs
of the Huron tribe, had been a favourite with
the British officers, on account of the ability
with which he guided them on hunting excursions;
and since the war began, he had approved
himself one of the most faithful and daring of
our scouts.

The sound of his own name aroused the
slumbering savage; he raised himself on his elbow,
opened his black eyes, and growled out the deep
guttural "Wagh!" of Indian surprise.

"Captain want Elk-that-runs?" he inquired.

"No, my poor fellow," said Haworth, kindly,
"you have done enough for one while, and had
better rest. I was but wishing I had as good
a runner as you to send to Hamilton."

A long conversation ensued, in which the
Indian bore his part; and as his intelligence
and fidelity were well proved, Haworth spoke
freely before him. Elk-that-runs understood
English pretty well, though occasionally he
begged that some puzzling expression might
be translated into French, which tongue was
generally familiar to the Hurons. Haworth
frankly owned that he was afraid to ask counsel
or help from the colonists around, many of
whom were at that time disaffected, as being
the sons or grandsons of the original French
settlers, smarting under British rule. Then, as
now, the bulk of the Canadians were loyal to
our government; but there was a wide-spread
leaven of discontent among those of French
stock; and we had reason to suspect that all we
did, was notified to the enemy.

"I dare not send down to the village to ask
for a messenger," said Haworth; "those two
traitorous habitants, Duval and Fournier, are
sure to hear of it, and to worm out the motive.
North and west the people are staunch enough,
but we have enemies here at our own doors.
Except Kendal at the Big Lick—-"

"I've got it," cried I, jumping up and clapping
my hands—which drew from Elk-that-runs
another "Wagh!" of grave astonishment.
"Give me leave of absence for eight-and-forty
hours at furthest, and, unless I much mistake
the Kendal family, we'll pull through this
awkward business yet."

After a few more words on both sides, my leave
was granted me, and I wrapped myself in a
buffalo robe, such as frontiersmen wore, to elude
the recognition which might have proved
untimely had I worn my military cloak, and set
off through the piercing cold, to Big Lick farm.
This farm was so called from the wide creek on
whose banks it stood, and which was a favourite
haunt of deer. It belonged to a most loyal
emigrant family, whose children were growing
up, healthy and prosperous, in the New World,
but whose hearts were true to England and
King George. The reason of my singling them
out as recipients of my confidence was this:—
Willy Kendal, a lad of seventeen, was the owner
of the best and largest ice-boat on the whole
Canada shore.

A special class of craft are those ice-boats,
peculiar to Upper Canada, and their navigation
requires an amount of skill and courage
not every day to be found combined. They are
barges or pinnaces, cutter-rigged for the most
part, and built of the toughest timber the
colony produces. Below the keel, is a raised
runner of polished iron, sharp as a skate at the
edges, and designed—not to plough the waters,
but to skim across the ice of the great lakes.
These craft are propelled by sails, and steered
by helm, exactly like sea-going vessels; it is
hardly necessary to add that with a favouring
breeze they can attain a speed never equalled
by a ship that has to cleave through water, and
not much inferior to that of an express train.
But they have the drawback of danger. So
many accidents have occurred from the breaking
in of the ice, from sudden squalls, collisions,
and so forth, that these winter yachts have
never attained the popularity of the safe and
convenient sleigh.

It was a rough walk to Big Lick. More than
once, in spite of all my caution, I plumped
nearly waist deep into a bank of snow, and the
loose drift was always up to my knees. But I
pushed on, and presently found myself in the
stove-heated "keeping room" of the Kendals,
briefly telling my tale, and entreating assistance.
A fine family group they made; the hale
grey-haired father; Mrs. Kendal, a comely matron
who had preserved her bright English complexion
through many a Canadian summer; her
daughters, of various ages, from infancy to nigh
womanhood; and the frank bold Willy, with his
blue eyes sparkling, and his sun-browned cheeks
glowing with excitement, as he listened.