As he sat in his canoe and gripped his paddle for the start, it gave him a curious sensation to reflect that the vigorous old man who was in the next one, ready to steer through the silver water out into the sunrise, was the Spaniard who had used his inherited fortune for the cause of exploration in the New World; was the colonist who had given the fortune he had earned to the cause of the Northwest conquest; was the true American now ready to risk his sole capital of eight bits toward securing financial liberty for an embarrassed government.
Silver and rose, the sky hung over the river. Silver and rose, the water reflected it. The forest, mysterious and vague, surrounded the town. The embarked voyageurs, now in working clothes, looked toward Francis Vigo. They rested on their paddles.
He rose in his prow. Baring his head, he threw out his arms in the form of a cross.
With the simplicity of little children, the voyageurs folded their hands and said their prayers; they crossed themselves; then lifted up their voices in such a hymn that the valley resounded with their praise.
"It is that we separate for the half-year," explained Doby's voyageur, as with every few miles of going up-stream some canoe turned in at a tributary and disappeared for its trading-grounds.
After that morning burst of song they all moved silently. The paddles made no sound. The dull colors of the boats themselves—some birch-bark canoes, some hollowed-out log pirogues—mingled like foliage with the shore line. The men in butternut brown or fur were mere shadows on the river. The woodland and its streams were swallowing up its wild men.
By and by the two canoes with Francis Vigo and Doby in them were alone upon the river.
"Look!" signaled Francis Vigo's eyes to Doby.
A red deer was drinking on the brink.