tomahawk from the Iroquois, and the 
     
     silence of death soon invades the narrow 
     
     abode. 
     
    

    
     Now for the trophies; the scalping, 
     
     it seems, took some time to be done 
     
     effectually. 
     
    

    
     History mentions but five, out of 
     
     the two hundred victims, who escaped 
     
     ' with their lives. 
     
    

    
     The blanched bones of the Micmac braves strewed the cavern, 
     
     and could be seen until some years back. 
     
    

    
     Those who escaped travelled day and night to reach a large 
     
     Huron camp some distance away. A rapid march was then made 
     
     by the whole Huron force to the track by which the Iroquois would 
     
     return. Not expecting an attack the Iroquois were in turn taken 
     
     by surprise, and tradition has it that they were slaughtered to a 
     
     man. 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     The pleasures of Bic are not exhausted by the recounting of 
     
     its water—joys, air, scenery and social life. The walks and drives 
     
     are a grand feature of summer existence, and moreover they are 
     
     full of variety. How delightful to take a river drive in either 
     
     direction. Possibly a walk is preferred, and, with a swinging step 
     
     adapted to a six or seven mile excursion, a start is made in the direc- 
     
     tion of the bridge over the South—VVest River. Passing up the long 
     
     main street, the varied character of the buildings is noticeable; and 
     
     the quaint and foreign appearance causes the walk to be arrested 
     
     at many a spot. Towering woodland heights on the left, beautiful 
     
     islands on the right and haze—capped sugar-loaf mountains before, 
     
     it is not long before street merges into country lane. 50011 are 
     
     passed the clustering cottages and gardens, and neat-appearing 
     
     farms are at hand. Here where the Intercolonial Railway is high 
     
     up on an observation terrace cut in the side of the mountain, the 
     
     country road leads down hill, and, with many a pleasurable incident 
     
     on the further way, and an occasional English-French Chat with 
     
     the habitants, the bridge is reached. 
     
    

    
     But dark clouds begin to build up moisture-laden pyramids, 
     
     and low rumblings of distant thunder are beginning to be heard. A 
     
     St. Lawrence thunderstorm in this mountainous locality is a thunder- 
     
     storm, and when it rains, it rains. Right-about—face—Quick, March! 
     
     and off we go. A few miles are covered, but the storm is imminent. 
     
     Several (artiers pass uttering their monotonous and plaintive cry, 
     
    
   
   
    
     98