d partition, and
relate to Mr. Sutherland all the incidents of their day's search for me.

"So many pounds sterling for the man who captures the rascal," declares
D'Orsonnens.

"Aye, 'tis a goodly price for one poor rattle-pate," says Mr.
Sutherland.

Whereupon, D'Orsonnens swears the price is more than my poor empty head
is worth, and proceeds to describe me in terms which Mr. Sutherland will
only tolerate when thundered from an orthodox pulpit.

"I'd have ye understand, Sir," he would declare with great dignity,
"I'll have no papistical profanity under my roof."

Forthwith, he would show D'Orsonnens the door, lecturing the astonished
soldier on the errors of Romanism; for whatever Mr. Sutherland deemed
evil, from oaths to theological errors, he attributed directly to the
pope.

"The ne'er-do-weel can hawk naething frae me," said he when relating the
incident.

Once I heard a Fort Douglas man observe that, as the search had proved
futile, I must have fallen into one of the air-holes of the ice.

"Nae doot the headstrong young mon is' gettin' what he deserves. I
warrant he's warm in his present abode," answered Mr. Sutherland.

On another occasion D'Orsonnens asked who the man was that Mr.
Sutherland's daughter had been nursing all winter.

"A puir body driven from Fort Douglas by those bloodthirsty villains,"
answered Mr. Sutherland, giving his visitor a strong toddy; and he at
once improved the occasion by taking down a volume and reading the
French officer a series of selections against Romanism. After that
D'Orsonnens came no more.

"I hope I did not tell Nor'-West secrets in a Hudson's Bay house when I
was delirious, Mr. Sutherland," I remarked.

The Scotchman had lugged me from bed in a gentle, lumbering, well-meant
fashion, and I was sitting up for the first time.

"Ye're no the mon wi' a leak t' y'r mouth. I dinna say, though, ye're
aye as discreet wi' the thoughts o' y'r heart as y'r head! Ye need na
fash y'r noodle wi' remorse aboot company secrets. I canna say ye'll no
fret aboot some other things ye hae told. A' the winter lang, 'twas
Frances and stars and spooks and speerits and bogies and statues and
graven images--wha' are forbidden by the Holy Scriptures--till the
lassie thought ye gane clean daft! 'Twas a bonnie e'e, like silver
stars; or a bit blush, like the pippin; or laughter, like a wimplin'
brook; or lips, like posies; or hair, like links o' gold; and mair o'
the like till the las