most resolute spirit. Men might be led through it, but
never driven. It is ever the mind which suffers through the monotonies
of bodily discomfort, and none knew this better than Clark himself.
Every morning as we set out with the wet hide chafing our skin, the
Colonel would run the length of the regiment, crying:--

"Who gives the feast to-night, boys?"

Now it was Bowman's company, now McCarty's, now Bayley's. How the
hunters vied with each other to supply the best, and spent the days
stalking the deer cowering in the wet thickets. We crossed the Saline,
and on the plains beyond was a great black patch, a herd of buffalo. A
party of chosen men headed by Tom McChesney was sent after them, and
never shall I forget the sight of the mad beasts charging through the
water.

That night, when our chilled feet could bear no more, we sought out a
patch of raised ground a little firmer than a quagmire, and heaped up the
beginnings of a fire with such brush as could be made to burn, robbing
the naked thickets. Saddle and steak sizzled, leather steamed and
stiffened, hearts and bodies thawed; grievances that men had nursed over
miles of water melted. Courage sits best on a full stomach, and as they
ate they cared not whether the Atlantic had opened between them and
Vincennes. An hour agone, and there were twenty cursing laggards,
counting the leagues back to Kaskaskia. Now:--

"C'etait un vieux sauvage
Tout noir, tour barbouilla,
Ouich' ka!
Avec sa vieill' couverte
Et son sac a tabac.
Ouich' ka!
Ah! ah! tenaouich' tenaga,
Tenaouich' tenaga,
Ouich' ka!"

So sang Antoine, dit le Gris, in the pulsing red light. And when,
between the verses, he went through the agonies of a Huron war-dance, the
assembled regiment howled with delight. Some men know cities and those
who dwell in the quarters of cities. But grizzled Antoine knew the half
of a continent, and the manners of trading and killing of the tribes
thereof.

And after Antoine came Gabriel, a marked contrast--Gabriel, five feet
six, and the glare showing but a faint dark line on his quivering lip.
Gabriel was a patriot,--a tribute we must pay to all of those brave
Frenchmen who went with us. Nay, Gabriel had left at home on his little
farm near the village a young wife of a fortnight. And so his lip
quivered as he sang:--

"Petit Rocher de la Haute Montagne,