The Last.  
Eagerly, earnestly, doggedly, did Daniel Davidson and Fran?ois La Certe watch for a favourable opportunity to escape from their captors, but they waited and watched in vain, for their captors were cruel, suspected them of the intention to escape, and were consequently careful to prevent even an attempt being made. They never freed their wrists from strong cords; kept knives and axes out of their way; tethered them to a tree each night, and watched them continually.
 
Can it be wondered at that, in the circumstances, our unfortunate hero became almost insane? The wedding-day had been fixed before he left Red River; preparations were being made for the great event, and it was pretty well understood that Dan had gone off hunting with the view, chiefly, to be out of people’s way till the day should arrive. They would scarcely begin to notice his prolonged absence till the day approached. Then, no doubt, when too late, and he should be far on the way to Canada, they would in some alarm send out parties to search for him.
 
Dan became desperate, but he was gifted with an unusual power of self-control, so that, beyond a very stern expression, his countenance betrayed no sign of the terrible conflict that was raging within—a conflict in which mortal hatred of mankind in general and an overwhelming desire to kill or be killed formed elements. Ah! reader, poor human beings have many and many a time in the past been brought to this terrible condition. God grant that we and ours may never know what it is to tremble on the brink of madness because of the combined influence of gross injustice and horrible cruelty. To do the Nor’-westers justice, they were unaware of the intensity of the pain they were inflicting. They had only captured a powerful enemy, and meant, by keeping a tight hold of him, to render him powerless in the future—that was all!
 
As for La Certe, they had no intention of taking him to Canada. They only meant to carry him so far on the road, that, when set free, it would be impossible for him to get back to the colony in time to give effective warning to Dan’s friends.
 
One afternoon the voyagers put ashore at one of the numerous portages which obstruct the navigation of that route to Canada, and, after unloading the canoe and lifting her out of the water, they proceeded to carry the lading across to the still water above the rapids which rendered this portage necessary.
 
Although bound, the prisoners were by no means freed from labour. The cords had been so arranged that they could use the paddle while in the canoe; while, on the portages, although unable to load themselves, they were quite able to carry a load which others placed on their shoulders. On this occasion Dan was first sent off with a load, and then La Certe and some of the others followed. When he reached the upper end of the portage, Dan flung down his load, and, from his elevated position, gazed wistfully down the valley through which the waters of the Winnipeg River roared and seethed among jagged rocks as far as the eye could reach. It was a wild majestic scene, but no thought of its grandeur touched the mind of the poor prisoner. He thought only of escape. His intimate knowledge, however, of the terrific power of rushing water told him that there could be no escape in that direction.
 
“Oh! if my arms were only free, I would risk it!” he murmured, as he raised his hands and looked at the powerful thongs of hide with which they were bound—thongs which were always drawn tighter when he landed, to render an attempt at escape more hopeless. Then he glanced at the rushing river beside him. A sheer precipice of full thirty feet descended from the spot on which he stood to the edge of the flood. Just below there was a whirlpool, and beyond that began the first of the series of falls and rapids which were avoided by means of the portage. Half-mad though he was, he did not dream of attempting such a leap with bound hands. He would wait, and continue to hope for a more favourable opportunity, but the possibility of such an opportunity was now growing very faint indeed, for even if he did escape, and had a canoe to use, it was by that time barely possible to accomplish the journey in time for the wedding-day. But although his hope of being in time had pretty well died out, his whole heart was still concentrated on the simple desire to escape.
 
A rush of despair came upon the poor youth just then, and the idea of ending his misery by taking his own life occurred to him for a fleeting moment, as he gazed wistfully around on water, wood, and sky, and observed the laden and toiling men who were slowly clambering up the steep towards him—La Certe being in front.
 
Just then an object among the grass at his feet attracted his attention. Stooping, he picked it up and found it to be a scalping-knife!—dropped, probably, long before by some passing Indians or voyageurs, for it was very rusty.
 
With a bounding heart and a wild rush of blood to his temples, he sprang towards a tree: stuck the point of the knife into it; held the handle with his teeth; sawed the thongs across its edge once or twice—and was free!
 
His first impulse was to bound into the woods, but the thought of his comrade arrested him. La Certe was already close at hand. Running towards him he said, quickly, “drop your load! Now or never!” and cut his bonds at once. Then, turning, he sprang towards the woods. But from the very opening through which he meant to plunge into the tangled thicket, there issued the leader of the Nor’-westers and two of his men. The chief was armed with a gun, which he immediately presented. With the instinct of bush-warriors the two prisoners dodged behind rocks, and made for the higher ground which Dan had recently quitted. Here a sheer precipice barred further progress. There was no way of escape but the river. They ran to the edge and looked down. La Certe shrank back, appalled. Dan glanced quickly round to see if there was any other opening. Then there came over his spirit that old, old resolve which has, in the moment of their extremity, nerved so many men to face danger and death, from the days of Adam downward.
 
“Now, La Certe,” he said, grasping his comrade’s hand: “Farewell! Death or Freedom! Tell Elspie my last thoughts were of her!”
 
Almost before the half-breed could realise what was said, Dan had leaped over the cliff and disappeared in the raging torrent. A few seconds later he was seen to rise in the whirlpool below the first cataract, and to buffet the stream vigorously, then he disappeared a second time. Before La Certe could make out whether his friend rose again, he was seized from behind, and dragged from the brink of the precipice.
 
Swift as the hunted stag springs from his covert, and bounds over every obstacle with speed and apparent ease, so sprang the chief of the Nor’-westers down the rugged path which led to the foot of the series of rapids, and the lower end of the portage. There was good grit in the man, morally and physically, for he was bent on a rescue which involved considerable danger.
 
Throwing off his capote, and tightening his belt, he stood on a ledge just below the last fall, intently watching the water.
 
The fall was not high, but it was deep, and rushed into a large dark basin with terrible velocity, causing the tormented foam-speckled water to circulate round its edges. In a few moments the form of Dan was seen to shoot down the fall and disappear in the basin. The chief stooped, but did not spring until, not far from him, the apparently inanimate form reappeared on the surface and began to circle slowly round among the flecks of foam. Then he plunged, swam out with powerful strokes, and quickly returned to the shore with Dan in his grasp.
 
Soon they were surrounded by the other voyageurs, who had left La Certe to look after himself,—not caring much, in the excitement of the moment, whether he escaped or not.
 
“He is dead,” said one; “he breathes not; and see how his face is bruised and cut.”
 
“And his chest, too,” said another. “I think his ribs have been broken. Poor fellow! It was a wild, a reckless jump!”
 
“Keep back, and let him have air,” said the chief, who was doing his best, according to his knowledge, to resuscitate Dan.
 
Presently La Certe arrived, panting.
 
“O! he is gone! My comrade, my friend, is dead!” he exclaimed, clenching his hands, and gazing at the pale, bruised face.
 
“You are wrong,” exclaimed the chief, testily. “Out of the way, man! See! his eyelids quiver.”
 
And so they did; and so also quivered his lips, and then a sigh came—faint and feeble—then stronger, and at last Dan opened his eyes and thanked God that his life had been spared. But when he recovered sufficiently to realise his true position as being again a captive, the feeling of despair returned.
 
That night they encamped a mile above the upper end of the portage. At supper the two prisoners were allowed to sit by the camp-fire and eat with their hands free.
 
“Monsieur,” said the guide to Dan, respectfully, “you see it is impossible to escape. Why compel us to bind you? Give me your word of honour that you will not try, and your limbs may then remain as free as mine.”
 
“I give you my word of honour,” answered Dan, with a sardonic smile, “that till after breakfast to-morrow I will not try, for I need rest and food; but after that, I give you my word that I will never cease to try.”
 
With this promise the guide was fain to rest content, and that night Dan and his friend were allowed to sleep untethered, which they did soundly.
 
Next morning they were roused in gentler tones than usual, and not required to work—as had been the case hitherto—before breakfast. In short, there was an evident change in the feelings of their captors towards them, founded largely, no doubt, on admiration of Dan’s reckless courage; but that did not induce them in the least degree to relax their vigilance, for the moment the hour of truce had passed, the chief advanced towards Dan with the thongs to bind him.
 
For one moment Dan felt an impulse to knock the man down, and then fight the whole party until death should end the matter; but the good-humoured look on his jailer’s face, the fact that the man had saved his life the day before, and the certainty of defeat with such odds against him, induced him to quell the evil spirit and to hold out his hands.
 
“Pardon, Monsieur,” said the chief, with the politeness of a French half-breed. “I am sorry you refuse to give me your parole. I would rather see you like the rest of us; but my orders are strict, and I must obey.”
 
Before Dan could reply, a sound struck on their ears, which caused the whole party to listen, immovable and in perfect silence.
 
It was the wild, plaintive, beautiful song of the voyageur which had floated to them on the morning air, softened by distance to a mere echo of sweet sound. After listening intently for a few moments, the guide said gently: “Voyageurs.”
 
Again they listened to the familiar sound, which increased in volume and strength as it approached, proving that the voyageurs were descending the river towards them. As yet nothing could be seen, for a thickly-wooded point intervened. Presently the song burst on them in full resonant chorus; at the same moment two large north-canoes—in all the brilliancy of orange-coloured bark, painted bows and sterns, red-bladed paddles, with crews of scarlet-capped or bare-headed men swept round the point with quick stroke, in time to the rapid measure.
 
A cheer was the irrepressible impulse of the men on shore, causing the newcomers to stop and listen.
 
“Perhaps,” said Dan, “they may be your foes of the Hudson’s Bay Company.”
 
“That may be so,” returned the Nor’-west Chief, gravely.
 
The unfurling of an “H.B.C.” (Hudson’s Bay Company) flag proved that it was so, to a certainty, and the depressed Nor’-westers did not cheer again; but the H B C men came on, paddling with wild vigour and cheering hilariously.
 
“They seem in great spirits,” growled the Nor’-west leader. “We are almost as strong as they, boys, and have the advantage of woods and cliffs. Shall we fight and keep our prisoners?”
 
“What is that white thing in the bow of the first canoe?” said one of the men.
 
“It looks like a flag,” said another.
 
“If so, it is a flag of truce,” observed Dan. “They have something to say, and do not want to fight.”
 
“That may be trite, but we won’t let you be at the conference,” returned the leader, sternly. “Come, four of you, lead them out of earshot. Take your guns, and use them if need be.”
 
Four powerful fellows at once obeyed the order, and led the prisoners, who had been once more bound, into the woods. Once again Dan was tempted to offer fierce resistance, but he knew that the Hudson’s Bay men were yet too far off to be able to hear shouts—at least to understand the meaning of them—and that it would be useless to resist such a guard. He therefore submitted to be led a mile or so into the woods, and finally was permitted to sit down with La Certe under a tree to await the result of the conference.
 
They had not to wait long. In less than half-an-hour one of the younger among the Nor’-westers came bounding towards them, waving his cap and shouting.
 
“You are free, Messieurs—free!” he cried, seizing both prisoners by the hands. “We are no longer enemies!”
 
“Free! What do you mean?” demanded Dan, who fancied that the young man must have gone mad.
 
“The companies have joined!” he cried, excitedly. “They are one! We are all friends now; but come and see and hear for yourself.”
 
Filled with wonder, and some small degree of hope, Dan and La Certe followed the young man, accompanied by their guards, who were not less mystified than themselves. Arrived at their camping-place, they found that the canoes had brought a Chief Trader—or officer of the Hudson’s Bay Company—who was conveying to Red River, and the interior of Rupert’s Land generally, the good news of a momentous historical event, namely, the union of the two companies.
 
The important event here referred to, namely, the coalition between the two great rival companies, which took place in 1821, was the death-blow to party strife over the whole of Rupert’s Land, and also inaugurated the dawn of lasting prosperity in the Red River Colony.
 
“Cut their bonds,” said the Chief Trader, as the prisoners approached.
 
No touch of the surgeon’s knife ever effected a cure more speedily.
 
“I congratulate you, young sir,” said the Trader, grasping Dan’s hand: “you are now free, for I understand that your loss of liberty had nothing to do with crime, and the rival companies are no longer opponents; they are friends. Indeed, we have been married, so to speak, and are now one. I am on my way to Red River with the good news.”
 
“When do you start?” asked Dan, abruptly.
 
“Well, if you mean from this spot,” answered the Trader, somewhat surprised as well as amused at the eagerness of the question, “I start at once. Indeed, I would not have landed here had I not seen your party. You appear to be anxious. Why do you ask?”
 
“Because it is of the utmost importance to me that I should be in Red River on a certain date, and I fear that that is all but impossible now.”
 
Dan then explained, as briefly as possible, his circumstances. Fortunately, the Trader was a sympathetic man. He ordered his crews to embark at once and bade the two captives take a brief, if not an affectionate, farewell of their late captors.
 
“I cannot promise you to push on,” he said, “at a rate which will satisfy you—or even accomplish the end you have in view—but I will do the best I can, without overworking my men. I fear, however, that you will have to make up your mind to a delayed wedding!”
 
“If you will only do your best for a day or two,” said Dan, “until we reach the mouth of this river, that will do, for there my own hunting canoe was left; and, once in that, La Certe and I can go ahead and tell them you are coming.”
 
“Nay, that would be requiting me ill—returning evil for good—to take the wind out of my sails and make my news stale,” returned the Trader, with a good-natured laugh.
 
“True, I did not think of that,” said Dan. “Then we will say not a word about it until you arrive.”
 
“Yes, we will be dumb,” added La Certe. “Even Slowfoot shall fail to drag it out of me!”
 
And thus it was arranged. The (late) Nor’-westers continued their voyage to Canada, and the Hudson’s Bay men resumed their descent of the Winnipeg River.
 
Arrived at the great lake, the anxious pair did not wait even to rest, but at once embarked in their little hunting canoe.
 
“I’m sorry you are such an unpresentable bridegroom,” said the Trader, when they were about to separate. He referred to the cuts and bruises with which poor Dan’s countenance was temporarily disfigured.
 
“Never mind,” returned our hero, with a laugh, “wait till you see the bride; she will more than make up for the shortcomings of the groom. Adieu!—au revoir!” They pushed off, and now began a race against time, which, in the matters at least of perseverance, persistency, hard labour, and determination, beat all the records of bicyclists and horsemen from the beginning of time. Cyclists have frequent down-hills to help and rest them; Dan and his friend had no such aids. It was all either dead level or upstream. Dick Turpin and the rider to Ghent, (we forget his name), only killed their horses. Dan and Fran?ois nearly killed themselves—not only with hard work and no rest, but with profound anxiety, for the wedding hour was rapidly approaching and they were still far from home!
 
While these events were transpiring in the wilderness, things were going smoothly enough in the Colony.
 
“I will be thinkin’,” said old Duncan McKay, one fine evening as he sat in his invalid chair, beside Duncan junior, who was woefully reduced and careworn, despite the attentions of the sympathetic Jessie Davidson, who was seated near him on a rustic seat beside Elspie—
 
“I will be thinkin’ that Tan an’ La Certe are stop............