Come with me for a few moments on a lovely June day in 1822, to what were then far-off northern wilds, to the Island of Michilimacinac, where the waters of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron unite and where stands Fort Mackinac, rich in the memories of Indian and voyageur, one of the four important posts on the upper lakes in the days when the rose and the fleur-de-lys strove for the mastery of the western world. Here the noble Marquette labored for his Lord, and here beneath the chapel of St. Ignace they laid his bones to rest. Here the intrepid LaSalle, the brave Tonty and the resolute Du Luht had halted in their wild wanderings. Its palisades and block-houses had echoed the war-whoops of Ojibwas and Ottawas, of Hurons and Iroquois, and the old fort had been the scene of bloody massacres and hard-fought fights, but at the conclusion