What memory he had left, went back to the days when he had been a pupil of the Jesuit priests, and the traces of that time remained with him, and were evident to all.

But all was blank from those days to these, when he lay in the wintry sunshine dying, and scarcely conscious that he was dying in a prison.

When a voice out of that forgotten past spoke to him, his recollection seemed to revive for a moment, and he answered in English or in Ojibway, as he was addressed.

At other times, if he began to speak at all, it was in French, the most familiar language of his boyhood, and sometimes scraps of the old priestly Latin would come to his lips as he lay half dozing, and dreaming perhaps of his life in the mission-school, and the time when he was to have been a teacher of his own people.

Chiefly, however, he lay quite silent, and seemed neither to see nor to hear what took place around him.