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two Canadians, Turcotte, and Lepine, who were left to shared his lot confinement, that both his health and his head became much worse afterwards, and that nothing solaced his mind or […] than excepting the vague hopes of effecting being able his escape from the ruthless hands into which he had fallen. More Fits of listlessness and sullen indifference would be succeeded by starts of passion and exclamations of despair. He would night and day pace his narrow apartment throwing his arms about, then clasping his hands and and would bewailing his hard fate, his deserted and hopeless condition. His men with the characteristic gaiety and carelessness of their nation and of their vocation, would beguile the time with a song, or by persuasion endeavour to dissipate his thoughts, begging him to do as they did, to have patience, and in that time would be a cure for all. To which he would reply; "Je le voudrais bien, mes enfans, mais je ne peux pas le suis pas capable. La tête me tourne. Je me mourrerai ici si je ne m'echappe." "I wish I could, my good fellows, but I can not am not able. My head turns round, I shall die here if I do not escape[,]" and these men enpressively emphatically say that, had he passed the winter at the Bay, "il auroit devenu tout à fait fou"; "he would have become quite mad lost his senses entirely". Both in his ravings and in his quiet moments he incessantly applied his hand to the side of his head where the fatal blow had fallen and complained of that, saying, that that would be his death; and he continued to be frequently to being seized with fits of dizziness from the same cause. Nothing could console or satisfy him

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