It is 1892. Close at hand he sees the streamlet, now a mighty channel--a fine, broad, deep water-way, running straight between long piers out to the lake, and stretching inland indefinitely; bordered by elephantine elevators, spanned by magnificent draw-bridges, each built of steel and moved by steam; carrying on its floods great propellers of 100,000 bushels of grain capacity. Looking north, west and south, he sees serried ranks of enormous buildings towering for miles on miles, each one so tall as to dwarf the fort and the block-house to nothingness. He sees hundreds of miles of paved streets, thronged with innumerable passengers and vehicles moving hither and thither, meeting and impeding each other, so that sometimes so many try to pass that none can pass; all must wait until the uniformed guardians of the peace bring order out of chaos. Every acre of ground in sight is worth millions of dollars. His dreaming ears must be stunned by the thunder of commerce, his nostrils shocked by the smell of the vast food-factories, his skin smutched with the smoke of the burning fuel all about him, to keep these wheels in motion. Bewildered and dumbfounded, even more wearied than he had been by his waking view, he would fain turn his eyes to the east and rest them on the shining calm of the great lake, the dancing blue water and the sky that covers it. * * * * * And so we bid him good-bye. Whatever dream visited his tired soul that Friday night was his last. The next day was the one whereon his heroic death was to crown his brave, loving, faithful, fruitless effort to shield the innocent and helpless from a relentless doom. As the fatal Saturday has been fully treated in Part First of this book, I now pass on to the dark days which followed it, and gather up the details, meager and scanty, of the later life of the survivors, and their death, so far known to the living world. CHAPTER V. FATE OF THE FUGITIVES. EVERY word bearing upon the adventures of the handful of Chicagoans left alive on Sunday, August 16th, 1812, has been carefully looked up and faithfully transcribed. Those words are few enough; the silence and darkness that enshroud their fate are more pathetically eloquent than speech could well be. To begin with the Healds, who, as we have seen, were brought again together on the morning of August 16th, by the half-breed, Chandonnais. Darius Heald continues his report of his mother's narrative, as follows: