and halloo in these great forests, but no one answers; the silence is profound, for even the trees do not rustle, as there is no wind. The cold was so severe that I was sure I would die during the night, if I had to pass it upon the snow, having neither axe nor tinder with which to make a fire. I go, I come, I turn on all sides; but I find nothing which does not confuse me still more. The last thing that a man abandons is hope; I continued to hold on to it by the little end, imagining every moment that I was going to find my way; but at last, after [268] many windings, seeing that human beings could give me no help, I stopped in order to offer my little prayers to the Creator, with whom I saw these great woods all filled as well as the rest of the world. The thought came into my mind that I was not lost, since God knew where I was; and, turning over this truth in my mind, I slowly approached the river I had crossed on leaving the cabin. I cried out, I called again, but everybody was already far away. I was beginning to loosen my hold upon the little thread of hope that I had held up to that time, when I perceived some snowshoe tracks behind the brushwood. I betook myself thither, _et vidi vestigia virorum, et mulierum et infantium_. In a word, I found what I had so long been seeking. At first I was not sure this was a good road, hence I reconnoitred it very carefully. When I had advanced some distance, I met the Apostate, who was coming in search of us. He asked me where the little child was; and I replied that I had left it [269] near my cloak. "I have found your cloak," he said, "and have carried it to the new cabin; but I have not found the child." This was a great shock to me; to go in search of it would be to lose myself a second time. I prayed the Apostate to go, but he turned a deaf ear to my entreaties. I started directly for the cabin, to advise them of the matter, and finally reached it, sore all over and bruised from the hardships and length of the journey, which I had made without finding other hostelry than the frozen brooks. As soon as the Savages saw me, they asked where the little boy was, crying out that I had lost him. I told them the story, assuring them that I had left my cloak with him purposely, that I might go back and find him; but, as he had left that place, I did not know where to look for him, especially as I had no more strength left, having eaten nothing since early morning, and then only two or three mouthfuls of smoked meat. They comforted me with a little frozen water, which I melted in a very dirty kettle, and this was all the supper I had; for our hunters had not taken anything, so we had to fast that day. [270] As to the child, two women having heard me describe the place where I had left it, guessing where it had wandered, went in