eyes and disappear. On
these occasions I made terrible efforts to grasp the text, and have an
indistinct sensation of increased strength resulting from the mere
efforts, but most of the texts faded as quickly as they came, with the
exception of one--"God is our Hope." Somehow I seemed to lay firm hold
of that, and to feel conscious of holding it, even when sense was
slipping away, but of the blanks between those conditions I know
nothing. They may have been long or they may have been short--I cannot
tell. All remains on my memory now like the unsubstantial fragments of
a hideous dream.

The first thing after that which impressed itself on me with anything
like the distinctness of reality was the sound of a crackling fire,
accompanied with the sensation of warmth in my throat. Slowly opening
my eyes I became aware of the fact that I was lying in front of a
blazing fire, surrounded by Big Otter, Blondin, and Dougall, who stood
gazing at me with anxious looks, while Henri Coppet knelt at my side,
attempting to pour some warm tea down my throat.

"Dere now, monsieur," said Coppet, who was rather fond of airing his
English, especially when excited, "Yoos kom too ver queek. Ony drink.
Ha! dere be noting like tea."

"Wow! man, mind what yer aboot. Ye'll scald him," said Dougall,
anxiously.

"You hole yoos tongue," replied the carpenter contemptuously, "me knows
w'at mees do. Don' wants no Scoshmans for tell me. _Voila_! Monsieur
have swaller _un peu_!"

This was true. I had not only swallowed, but nearly choked with a
tendency to laugh at the lugubrious expression of my friends' faces.

"Where am I?" said I, on recovering a little, "What has happened?"

"Oo ay, Muster Maxby," answered Dougall, with his wonted nasal drawl;
"somethin' _hess_ happened, but it's no sae pad as what _might_ hev
happened, whatever."

As this did not tend to clear my mind much, and as I knew from
experience that the worthy Celt refused to be hurried in his
communications, I turned an inquiring look on Blondin, who at once said
in French--

"Monsieur has been lost and nearly frozen, and Monsieur would surely
have been quite frozen if James Dougall had not discovered that Monsieur
had left his fire-bag at home, by mistake no doubt; we at once set out
to search for Monsieur, and we found him with his head in the snow and
his feet in the air. At first we thought that Monsieur was dead, but
happily he was not, so we kindled a fire