Rosenlaube, still alive, was brought in just before daybreak by a volunteer rescue-party under the guidance of Phipps-Herrick. All three were cited in the despatches. Phipps-Herrick in due time received the Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry on the field. But Mitchell had the surplus satisfaction of the hearing ear. “Look here, old man,” Rosenlaube said to him as they lay side by side in the hospital, “'member our talk in the dugout just before our big night? Well, I allow there was something in what you said. There are times when it is a good thing to know a bit of that barbarous German language. And you never can tell when one of those times may hit you.” SKETCHES OF QUEBEC If you love a certain country, for its natural beauty, or for the friends you have made there, or for the happy days you have passed within its borders, you are troubled and distressed when that country comes under criticism, suspicion, and reproach. It is just as it would be if a woman who had been very kind to you and had done you a great deal of good were accused of some unworthiness. You would refuse to believe it. You would insist on understanding before you pronounced judgment. Memories would ask to be heard. That is what I feel in regard to French Canada, the province of Quebec, where I have had so many joyful times, and found so many true comrades among the _voyageurs_, the _habitants_, and the _coureurs de bois._ People are saying now that Quebec is not loyal, not brave, not patriotic in this war for freedom and humanity. Even if the accusation were true, of course it would not spoil the big woods, the rushing rivers, the sparkling lakes, the friendly mountains of French Canada. But all the same, it hurts me to hear such a charge against my friends of the forest. Do you mean to tell me that Francois and Ferdinand and Louis and Jean and Eugene and Iside are not true men? Do you mean to tell me that these lumbermen who steer big logs down steep places, these trappers who brave the death-cold grip of Winter, these canoe-men who shout for joy as they run the foaming rapids,--do you mean to tell me that they have no courage? I am not ready to credit that. I want to hear what they have to say for themselves. And in listening for that testimony certain little remembrances come to me--not an argument--only a few sketches on the wall. Here they are. Take them for what they are worth. I LA GRANDE DECHARGE September, 1894 In one of the long stillwaters of the mighty stream that rushes from _Lac Saint Jean_ to make the Saguenay--below the _Ile Maligne_ and above the cataract of Chicoutimi--two birch-bark canoes are floating quietly, descending with rhythmic strokes of the paddle, through the luminous northern twilight. The chief guide, Jean Morel, is a _coureur de bois_ of the old type--broad-shouldered, red-bearded, a fearless canoeman, a good hunter and fisherman--simple of speech and deep of heart: a good man to trust in the rapids.