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216 crags, till he overlooked an abyss of fallen rocks, into which the stream poured and foamed, and was lost in the mist. He returned to his camp, satisfied he had found a hitherto undiscovered valley stored with beaver and trout and grass for his horses, where he could trap fish, and dream awhile in safety. Every morning for three delightful weeks he drew the beaver from the deep pools, where they had plunged when the trap had seized them, and stringing them two and two together over his pack-horse, bore them to his camp, and with his long side-knife stripped off the skins for fur, pinned them to the ground to dry, and in his camp-kettle cooked the much-prized tails for mid-day repast. "Was it not a fine hunt that?" asked he, "beaver as thick as mosquitoes; trout as plenty as water; but the terribly Blackfeet Indians."

The sun had thrown a few rays upon the rim of the eastern firmament, when the Blackfeet war-whoop rang around his tent, a direful "whoopah," ending with a yell, piercing sharp and shrill through the clenched teeth. He had but one means of escape—the lake—into which he plunged beneath a shower of poisoned arrows—plunged deeply, and swam under while he could endure the absence of air. He rose, he was in the midst of his foes, swimming and shouting round him; down again, and up to breathe, and on he swam with long and powerful sweeps. The pursuit was long; but at last he entered the chasm which he had explored, plunged along the cascade as near as he dared, clung to a shrub that grew from the crevice in the rock, and lay under water for the approach of his pursuers. On they came; they passed, they shrieked,