Round the Camp-Fires.  
Had any one been watching the camp-fires of the banished colonists that night, the last idea that would have entered the observer’s mind would have been that of suffering or distress.
 
The night was brilliantly fine, and just cold enough to make the blazing fires agreeable without being necessary—except, indeed, as a means of cooking food. The light of these fires, shining through the green, yellow, and golden foliage, and illuminating the sunburnt faces of men, women, and children, gave to the scene a strain of the free, the wild, and the romantic, which harmonised well with the gypsy-like appearance of the people, and formed a ruddy contrast to the pure cold light of the innumerable stars overhead, which, with their blue-black setting, were reflected in the neighbouring lake.
 
Over every fire pots and kettles were suspended from tripods, or rested on the half-burned logs, while impaled wild-fowl roasted in front of it. Food being in great abundance, hearts were light in spite of other adverse circumstances, and men and women, forgetting to some extent the sufferings of the past and the dark prospects of the future, appeared to abandon themselves to the enjoyment of the present.
 
The children, of course, were full of glee, and not altogether empty of mischief; and there were fortunately no infants of age so tender as to induce a squalling protest against the discomforts of a situation which could be neither understood nor appreciated.
 
“It iss a pleesant night, whatever,” remarked old McKay, lighting his pipe with a brand plucked from the fire which his family and the Davidsons shared in common; “an’ if it wass always like this, it iss myself that would not object to be a rud savitch.”
 
“I don’t know that a rud savitch is much worse than a white wan,” growled Duncan junior, in an under-tone.
 
“What iss that you say?” demanded the old man with a look of suspicion, for his hearing was imperfect.
 
“Surely the water must be boiling now, daddy?” said Elspie, by way of checking the conversation.
 
“I don’t know whuther it iss boilin’ or not,” answered Duncan senior, applying another brand to his pipe.
 
“Archie, boy!” exclaimed Dan Davidson, “you’re letting that goose roast to a cinder.”
 
“No, Dan, I’m not—but Billie can’t a-bear meat underdone, so it’s better to blacken the outside than have the inside raw.”
 
“Who iss that singing? Wheesht, boys,” said Fergus McKay, turning his head a little on one side as if to listen.
 
There was profound silence for a few moments as a rich manly voice was heard to swell forth from the neighbourhood of one of the camp-fires.
 
“It comes from the camp of the Switzers, I think,” said Elspie McKay.
 
“I know it,” said Jessie Davidson, who was seated on a log beside her friend. “It is Fran?ois La Certe. He came to our meeting-place in Red River, you know, just after Cuthbert Grant and his men left us, and, hearing that we were starting off to Jack River again, he resolved to follow. I heard him tell Slowfoot to get ready to go along with us.”
 
“I wonder why he came?” said Mrs Davidson, coming out of her tent at the moment, and joining the party round the fire.
 
“He did not say,” answered Jessie.
 
“He did not require to say,” remarked Duncan McKay, with a sarcastic laugh. “Every wan knows that wherever there iss a chance of gettin’ ammunition and plenty of victuals for nothing, there La Certe iss certain to be found. He knew that we would be sure to hev plenty at this season o’ the year, an’ that we would not see him an’ his wife sterve when our kettles wass full. Iss not that so, Okématan? You know him best.”
 
Thus appealed to, the Indian, whose usual expression was one of intense gravity, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, displayed his superb teeth, and uttered a low chuckle, but made no further reply.
 
It was enough. Those who understood Okématan and his ways were well aware that he thought La Certe uncommonly sly.
 
The half-breed had indeed followed the expelled colonists in the belief that they would certainly possess plenty of powder and shot—which he had not the means of purchasing. He also knew that the whole of Rupert’s Land swarmed with game in autumn and spring, and that the Scotch were an open-handed race when approached in the right way. Putting these things together, he carefully gummed his canoe, put his wife and child into it—also some of the provision which had been supplied to him by Duncan McKay junior—and followed the settlers over Lake Winnipeg to Jack River.
 
Here, finding that a new party of immigrants had arrived, who were necessarily unacquainted with his little peculiarities, La Certe attached himself to them and made himself agreeable. This he could do very well, for the Switzers understood his bad French, as well as his good tuneful voice, and appreciated his capacity for telling a story.
 
“Did you never,” he said to André Morel, after his song was finished, “hear of how my old mother saved her whole tribe from death one time in the Rocky Mountains?”
 
“Never,” Morel replied with a somewhat sceptical but good-natured smile.
 
“No! I wonder much, for every one in this land heard about it, an’ I thought the news must have spread over Europe and—and, perhaps Africa. Well, I will tell you. Where is my baccy-bag?”
 
“Never mind, fill your pipe from mine,” said Morel, tossing him a little bag of the coveted weed.
 
“Thank you. Well, you must know that my mother had a beautiful voice—O! much more beautiful than mine. Indeed, I do not joke, so you need not laugh. It was so sweet that men were always forced to listen till she was done. They could not help it.”
 
“Did they ever want to help it?” asked Morel quietly.
 
“O yes—as you shall hear. Well, one day my mother was living with all our tribe—I say our tribe because my mother was an Indian—with all our tribe, in a great dark gorge of the Rocky Mountains. The braves had gone out to hunt that day, but my mother stayed behind with the women and children. I was a little foolish child at that time—too young to hunt or fight. My father—a French Canadian—he was dead.
 
“We knew—my mother and I—that the braves would be home soon. We expected them every minute. While we were waiting for them, my mother went into the bush to pick berries. There she discovered a war-party of our enemies. They were preparing to attack our village, for they knew the men were away, and they wanted the scalps of the women and children. But they did not know the exact spot where our wigwams were pitched, and were just going, after a feed, to look for it.
 
“My mother ran home with the news, and immediately roused the camp, and made them get ready to fly to meet the returning men.
 
“‘But, my daughter,’ said an old chief, who had stayed in camp, ‘our enemies are young and active; they will quickly overtake us before we meet our men.’
 
“‘No,’ said my mother, ‘I will stop them. Get ready, and set off quickly.’
 
“She then ran back on her trail—my mother was a tremendous runner—superb! She came to a narrow place where our enemies would have to pass. A very thick tree grew there. She climbed it, and hid among the branches. It projected beyond a precipice and overhung a stream. Soon after that she ............