N.

The spot where they were thus suddenly arrested in their progress was a
small bay, formed by a low point which jutted from the mainland, and
shut out the prospect in advance. There was little or no wood on the
point, except a few stunted willows, which being green and small would
not, as La Roche the cook remarked, "make a fire big enough to roast the
wing of a mosquito." There was no help for it, however. The spot on
which Massan had resolved to encamp for the night was three miles on the
other side of the point, and as the way was now solid ice instead of
water, there was no possibility of getting there until a change of wind
should drive the ice off the shore. Moreover, it was now getting dark,
and it behoved them to make their preparations with as much speed as
possible. Accordingly, Massan and Prince shouldered one canoe, Francois
and Gaspard carried the other, and the light one was placed on the
shoulders of Bryan the blacksmith; La Roche took the provision-basket
and cooking utensils under his special charge; while the three Esquimau
interpreters and the two Indian guides busied themselves in carrying the
miscellaneous goods and baggage into camp. As for Chimo, he seated
himself quietly on a lump of ice, and appeared to superintend the entire
proceedings; while his young mistress and her mother, accompanied by
Frank and Stanley, crossed the ice to the shore, to select a place for
their encampment.

But it was some time ere a suitable place could be found, as the point
happened to be low and swampy, and poor Eda's first experience of a life
in the woods was stepping into a hole which took her up to the knees in
mud and water. She was not alone, however, in misfortune, for just at
the same moment Bryan passed through the bushes with his canoe, and
staggered into the same swamp, exclaiming as he did so, in a rich brogue
which many years' residence among the French half-breeds of Rupert's
Land had failed to soften, "Thunder an' turf! such a blackguard counthry
I niver did see. Och, Bryan dear, why did ye iver lave yer native
land?"

"Pourquoi, why, mon boy? for ver' goot raison," cried La Roche, in a
horrible compound of French and broken English, as he skipped lightly
past, with a loud laugh, "for ver' goot raison--dey was tired of you to
home, vraiment. You was too grande raskale; dey could not keep you no
longer."

"Thrue for ye, La Roche," replied the blacksmith, "thrue for ye, boy;
they sartinl