ir guns, and these they had got ready for work--so that their journey
partook somewhat of the character of a hunting excursion. They did not
even follow a direct course, but occasionally turned to one side or the
other, wherever a clump of willows, or any other roughness on the
ground, looked like it might be the shelter of game. But during that
whole day--although they travelled from near sunrise to sunset--not a
living thing was seen; and for the second night they went supperless to
bed.

A man will bear hunger for many days--some more, some less--without
actually dying of it; but at no period will his sufferings be greater
than during the third or fourth day. He will grow more feeble
afterwards, but the pain which he endures will not be greater.

On the third day the sufferings of our party were extreme. They began
to chew pieces of their skin-tent and blankets; but although this took
the sharp edge off their appetites, it added nothing to their strength;
and they still craved for food, and grew feebler.

To use a poetical phrase, Marengo now became the "cynosure of every
eye." Marengo was not very fat. The sledge and short rations had
thinned him down, and his ribs could be easily traced. Although the
boys, and Basil in particular, would have suffered much before
sacrificing him, yet starvation will reconcile a man to part with his
best friend. In spite of their friendship for Marengo, his masters
could not help scanning him from time to time with hungry looks.
Marengo was an old dog, and, no doubt, as tough as a piece of
tan-leather; but their appetites were made up for anything.

It was near midday. They had started early, as on the day before. They
were trudging wearily along, and making but little progress. Marengo
was struggling with his sledge, feeble as any of the party. Basil saw
that the eyes of his companions were from time to time bent upon the
dog; and though none of them said anything, he understood the thoughts
that were passing within them. He knew that none of them wished to
propose it--as Basil was the real master of Marengo--but their glances
were sufficiently intelligible to him. He looked at the downcast
countenance of the once merry Francois,--at the serious air of Norman--
at the wan cheek and sunken eye of Lucien, whom Basil dearly loved. He
hesitated no longer. His duty to his companions at once overcame his
affection for his faithful dog.

"We must kill him!" said he, su