Capital jokes were passed round that night while we were discussing the
qualities of the mountain-goat flesh, but yet I felt annoyed at our
feat; the thing, to be sure, had been gallantly done, still it was
nothing better than highway robbery. Hunger, however, is a good
palliative for conscience, and, having well rubbed our horses, who
seemed to enjoy their grazing amazingly, we turned to repose, watching
alternately for every three hours.

The next day at noon we met with unexpected sport and company. As we
were going along, we perceived two men at a distance, sitting close
together upon the ground, and apparently in a vehement conversation. As
they were white men, we dismounted and secured our horses, and then
crept silently along until we were near the strangers. They were two
very queer-looking beings; one long and lean, the other short and stout.

"Bless me," the fat one said, "bless me, Pat Swiney, but I think the
Frenchers will never return, and so we must die here like starved dogs."

"Och," answered the thin one, "they have gone to kill game. By St.
Patrick, I wish it would come, raw or cooked, for my bowels are twisting
like worms on a hook."

"Oh, Pat, be a good man; can't you go and pick some berries? my stomach
is like an empty bag."

"Faith, my legs ain't better than yours," answered the Irishman, patting
his knee with a kind of angry gesture. And for the first time we
perceived that the legs of both of them were shockingly swollen.

"If we could only meet with the Welsh Indians or a gold mine," resumed