Among the soldiers walked, with a solemn dignity befitting the occasion, the dog which was inscribed on the regimental list as M. de Niagara, and to whom regular rations were granted. The progeny of a dog named Vingt Sols, who had done good service at the fort of Niagara, where he was held in high esteem, this animal had been brought from that place by M. de Bergères and taken to Chambly, where his master served as commandant. As the roads leading to this post were often blocked by Iroquois war parties, it was found extremely difficult to send or receive news from Montreal. At this critical juncture M. de Niagara solved the problem of how despatches might be conveyed. It was noticed by the garrison at Chambly that the dog found his way of his own accord to La Prairie de la Madeleine. Fearing that some of the French with whom he had started had been captured by their enemies, a letter was written and fastened to the animal’s collar, and he was driven out of the fort. He at once took the road whence he had come. Reaching Chambly, the despatch was read, and, with an answer tied to his collar, the dog was sent off again. Thus communication was established between the two posts, and many a life saved. M. de Niagara always took part in reviews, was profoundly conscious of his own importance, and was regarded by the soldiers with the greatest affection as a true and staunch comrade. A corporal drummer, escorted by two armed soldiers, marched through the streets beating a rhythmic movement, which, joined with the shrill notes of a fife, thrilled the nerves, while the air resounded with the deep clamor of bells mingling with the fantastic cries of the Indians and bushrangers. The condition of things was so precarious that a courage born of desperation inspired the colonists. “In order to breathe,” they assured one another, “one must hope.” It was hard to realize grim possibilities of death and disaster amidst sunshine and music and movement. After all, if the worst were to come, it was better to enjoy the present moment. The spirit of adventure had already made itself felt in the French blood, a rapid current wonderfully susceptible to elation. A wild gaiety began to exhibit itself. Not to be subdued by an emergency, certain lively youths could be heard shouting hilariously to one another. “I lost my tobacco pouch,” cried Bras de Fer, to whom the prospect of action had restored a comfortable spirit of self-assertion; “one quite new, too, made out of the skin of a little seal that I killed on the Island of M. de St. Helène last year. Ah! if one of those English wizards falls into my claws, and I don’t succeed in making a better pouch out of his skin, may I be scalped before All Saints. The fox counts on eating the goose, but there are occasions when things turn the other way; then it is the goose who gets a chance at the fox. Our hearts are in this affair, and that is something.”