he edges of their tomahawks, the points
of their javelins, the barbs of their arrows; and were soon, with
hideous yells, rushing upon their foes the Miamis, burning, killing,
scalping--performing deeds of cruelty which ought to cause even demons
to blush.

Father Marquette was too weak to wield the paddle. He reclined in the
bottom of the canoe, with his head slightly elevated, so that he could
see all the beauties of the scenery through which they were passing.
His prayer-book was in his hand; his talk was of heaven; he was
cheerful and happy. His companions have testified to the wonderful
amiability, gentleness, and joy he maintained. He told them plainly
that he should die upon the voyage, but encouraged them to bear
courageously all the hardships they were to encounter on the way,
assuring that the Lord would not forsake them.

As his attendants plied their paddles he read prayers to them, sang
sweet hymns of devotion, and in many fervent utterances commended them
and himself to God. He was in no pain. His eye sparkled with animation.
His soul was triumphant. It may be doubted whether, on the broad
continent of North America, there were, in these hours, an individual
to be found more happy than he.

It was one of the mornings of lovely May, when this frail birch canoe,
with its three inmates, emerging from a small stream, entered upon the
ocean-like expanse of Lake Michigan. On the north and the east the
majestic inland sea spread out to the horizon, with no bounds but the
sky. For some unexplained reason they decided to take the eastern shore
of the lake, on their return voyage, though their outward voyage had
been by the western shore. They had still a journey of three hundred
miles before them.

Father Marquette was so weak that he could no longer help himself. He
could neither move nor stand, and had to be carried from the canoe to
the shore like an infant. At each encampment the attendants would draw
the canoe, with Father Marquette in it, gently upon the beach. They
would then hastily rear a shelter, spread for him a couch of the long
and withered herbage, and lay him tenderly upon it. The only food they
could prepare for the fainting invalid, was corn pounded into coarse
meal, mixed with water, and baked in the ashes, with perhaps a slice of
game broiled upon the coals.

Thus they moved along, day after day, expecting almost every hour that
the death summons would come. On Friday evening, the 27th of Ma