on with no better pilots than the two young Indians kidnapped
the year before, was a venture of no light risk. But skill or fortune
prevailed; and, on the first of September, the voyagers reached in
safety the gorge of the gloomy Saguenay, with its towering cliffs and
sullen depth of waters. Passing the Isle aux Coudres, and the lofty
promontory of Cape Tourmente, they came to anchor in a quiet channel
between the northern shore and the margin of a richly wooded island,
where the trees were so thickly hung with grapes that Cartier named it
the Island of Bacchus.

Indians came swarming from the shores, paddled their canoes about the
ships, and clambered to the decks to gaze in bewilderment at the novel
scene, and listen to the story of their travelled countrymen, marvellous
in their ears as a visit to another planet. Cartier received them
kindly, listened to the long harangue of the great chief Donnacona,
regaled him with bread and wine; and, when relieved at length of his
guests, set forth in a boat to explore the river above.

As he drew near the opening of the channel, the Hochelaga again spread
before him the broad expanse of its waters. A mighty promontory, rugged
and bare, thrust its scarped front into the surging current. Here,
clothed in the majesty of solitude, breathing the stern poetry of the
wilderness, rose the cliffs now rich with heroic memories, where the
fiery Count Frontenac cast defiance at his foes, where Wolfe, Montcalm,
and Montgomery fell. As yet, all was a nameless barbarism, and a cluster
of wigwams held the site of the rock-built city of Quebec. Its name was
Stadacone, and it owned the sway of the royal Donnacona.

Cartier set out to visit this greasy potentate; ascended the river
St. Charles, by him called the St. Croix, landed, crossed the meadows,
climbed the rocks, threaded the forest, and emerged upon a squalid
hamlet of bark cabins. When, having satisfied their curiosity, he and
his party were rowing for the ships, a friendly interruption met them at
the mouth of the St. Charles. An old chief harangued them from the bank,
men, boys, and children screeched welcome from the meadow, and a troop
of hilarious squaws danced knee-deep in the water. The gift of a few
strings of beads completed their delight and redoubled their agility;
and, from the distance of a mile, their shrill songs of jubilation still
reached the ears of the receding Frenchmen.

The hamlet of Stadacone, with its king, Don