m so many perils during
more than twenty years of travel in America. Suddenly, I saw him
overwhelmed with a profound sadness, for which he himself could not
account. He was so much moved that I scarcely knew him." He soon
recovered his usual calmness; and they walked on till they approached
the camp of Duhaut, which was on the farther side of a small river.
Looking about him with the eye of a woodsman, La Salle saw two eagles
circling in the air nearly over him, as if attracted by carcasses of
beasts or men. He fired his gun and his pistol, as a summons to any of
his followers who might be within hearing. The shots reached the ears
of the conspirators.

Rightly conjecturing by whom they were fired, several of them, led by
Duhaut, crossed the river at a little distance above, where trees or
other intervening objects hid them from sight. Duhaut and the surgeon
crouched like Indians in the long, dry, reed-like grass of the last
summer's growth, while L'Archeveque stood in sight near the bank. La
Salle, continuing to advance, soon saw him, and calling to him,
demanded where was Moranget. The man, without lifting his hat, or any
show of respect, replied in an agitated and broken voice, but with a
tone of studied insolence, that Moranget was strolling about
somewhere. La Salle rebuked and menaced him. He rejoined with
increased insolence, drawing back, as he spoke, toward the ambuscade,
while the incensed commander advanced to chastise him. At that moment,
a shot was fired from the grass, instantly followed by another; and,
pierced through the brain, La Salle dropt dead.

The friar at his side stood terror-stricken, unable to advance or to
fly; when Duhaut, rising from the ambuscade, called out to him to take
courage, for he had nothing to fear. The murderers now came forward,
and with wild looks gathered about their victim. "There thou liest,
great Bashaw! There thou liest!" exclaimed the surgeon Liotot, in base
exultation over the unconscious corpse. With mockery and insult, they
stript it naked, dragged it into the bushes, and left it there, a prey
to buzzards and wolves.

Thus, in the vigor of his manhood, at the age of forty-three, died
Robert Cavelier de La Salle, "one of the greatest men," writes Tonty,
"of this age"; without question one of the most remarkable explorers
whose names live in history. His faithful officer Joutel thus sketches
his portrait: "His firmness, his courage, his great knowledge of the
arts a