All those that came expressed great sorrow for the quiet little Chipewayan widow, who was far away from her home and people.  On the day of the burial there was a great gathering of the tribes.  The body was borne to its final resting place by ten stalwart Indians, five on each side of the canoe, which was placed on five paddles.  The procession was a most solemn one.  The forest, the rugged scenery, the quiet retreat, all these appeared to add to the solemnity of the occasion.  The grave was alongside that of his mother, and neatly lined with spruce.  At five o’clock in the afternoon all that was mortal of Paul Guidon was lowered into its last abode.

    “They laid them fondly side by side,
      And near their icy hearts
    They placed their arrows and their bows,
      Their clubs, and spears, and darts;
    For use when they with life are crowned
      In heaven’s happy hunting ground.”

Margaret Godfrey read the burial service from the old service book, while rivers of tears flowed down a score of swarthy faces, and an occasional low wail uttered by the Indians standing round the open grave, told of their sorrow and superstitious fear.  The British ensign was then placed over the dead Iroquois.  It was the flag under which he had lived and died, and a fit emblem to cover the remains of so true and brave a man. (The characters of American sympathizers, of traitors and rebels, as black as they appear in Colonial History, will appear deeper-dyed as they stand in contrast to the loyalty of this true Indian.) Margaret Godfrey spoke to them as follows:  “I believe it to be my solemn duty, yea, my special duty on this most sorrowful occasion, that I should express my feelings.  If there ascends from my heart a prayer to the throne of the Great Chief, in behalf of this youthful widow and in behalf of you people, let it be a prayer that the Great Chief may turn the hearts of all from the thoughts of war to sentiments of mercy and peace, such as our dear brother, whose remains we have just committed to the grave, possessed in his life.  When I think of that true, and noble man, whose remains lie before us, I thank Him who rules the winds and guides the stars in their courses, that such a man was ever born.  And if, at some distant period, it may be many years remote, one of my own or my husband’s countrymen (some of whom are now peopling this country) should visit this spot or this neighbourhood, I trust that tradition or history may inform such a one that here sleeps one of the bravest, truest, and most noble sons of the forest that ever lived and roamed over the hunting grounds of time.  He was true to his adopted country, true to its king, and true to its loyal people.  An Indian, but too honest and noble-minded to be a rebel, he not only discountenanced the dark plottings of enemies within Acadia, but his sagacity sometimes was the means of frustrating them.  He was an Indian, high in character; a noble example to some pale faces,