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him any harm, men would come from North America in great numbers to avenge his death. This kind of pardonable fiction generally had its desired effect of saving him from extreme violence, until at length they appeared to approach their destination. One day, having crossed a frozen marsh, and forded a river, they rested at dusk under a clump of bushes. "Waking early in the morning," says Bourne in his narrative, "I found my head and shoulders covered in a fleecy mantle of snow. Would the fortune of my expedition fall as lightly on me? I shook it off, turned up my coat-collar, pulled my more than half-worn-out cap over my ears, and so, partially protected from the storm, rolled over, and again sunk into a slumber. The storm ceased at dawn of day. I rose and went in search of fuel while my dark companions still slept profoundly. In an hour or two they roused themselves, and kindled a fire. Meat, from a store brought along for our provision on the way, was cooked, and served for breakfast," The scanty meal being dispatched, their horses were driven in, lassoed, mounted, and they resumed their journey, in a southeasterly direction. At the end of about three miles another halt was called, a fire was built to warm by, and the horses were watered. The order of arrangements was discussed, and a fresh edition of the promises and the speech critically listened to. Changing their course a little to the right, they soon struck the Santa Cruz, and, to his great joy, the Indians pointed far down the stream, and said, "There is Holland." He strained his eyes in the direction pointed out, and thought he could discern an island with several small huts upon it, and a mile or two further on the north bank brought