“I would that I could see the little home, or that I could at least have the blessing of a priest. It is ill to die like a rat in a hole,” murmured le Canotier drowsily, as he sank down on the snow. “Rouse thee, my fine big fellow!” shouted du Chesne. “Rouse thee if thou wouldst again see Ville Marie and Baboche and the little ones. I look to thee to show the spirit of a man, and to uphold the spirits of thy comrades.” “And what is this, mon Capitaine?” suddenly exclaimed le Canotier, starting up keenly alert, his hand instinctively grasping his knife. Glancing over his shoulder du Chesne saw close beside him a plumed and painted Indian, standing motionless as a bronze statue. “Adarahta comes to his French brother as a friend,” muttered the Indian in guttural accents. “And what would Adarahta?” demanded the young Canadian, his keen eyes striving to read the savage’s expressionless features. “Adarahta has been sent by the white chief to seek his young brother, who he feared was lost in the storm, to lead him to the spot where the French war-party camps.” “But you are not of our allies. You are an Iroquois,” returned du Chesne, still distrustful. “No, Adarahta, is a son of the Great Mohawk. Taken captive by the Iroquois, treated as their slave, he would pay the debt he owes to his enemies. Is my French brother ready to follow?” Still du Chesne hesitated. This might be some snare planned by the wily Indian to entrap them. Their circumstances were desperate, and this offer presented the possibility of escape. Action held a relief from hopeless suffering. It might be better to risk something than to perish miserably in the snow. The Canadians, feeble and emaciated, found it almost impossible to arouse themselves, but their leader addressed them in terms so animating that they caught his spirit and declared their readiness to push on. “We follow,” du Chesne decided. “Adarahta shall walk before me. At the first sign of treachery I shall shoot him like a wolf.” The Indian made no response. He moved silently in front, closely followed by the young commander, while the weary bushrangers dragged themselves through the drifts. “Is the camp of our brothers far?” asked du Chesne. “Close at hand,” responded the guide, as his eyes darted furtive glances in every direction. “I would we were well out of this scrape. That painted fox means us ill,” whispered le Canotier. They had reached a narrow defile, the bed of a frozen stream, guarded on either side by high banks clothed with a labyrinth of bushes. Suddenly the air was filled with whoops and yells as scores of savages leaped from their hiding-places. As a rapid fire opened from the thickets, Adarahta fell beneath a death-blow from the leader of the expedition. “Treachery! we are betrayed. Courage, my brave fellows!” shouted du Chesne. “Better to die fighting than to freeze in inaction. We shall sell our lives dearly.”