“Well, boys, you must not reckon distance by the time you have been absent,” said the old “Now I know the distance through the woods, for I have passed through them on the Indian trail, and by my reckoning as the bee flies, it cannot be more than seven or eight miles—no, nor that either.”
The boys opened their eyes. “Jacob, is this possible? So near, and yet to us the distance has been as great as though it were a hundred miles or more.”
“I tell you what, boys, that is the provoking part of it. I remember when I was out on the St. John’s, lumbering, missing my comrades, and I was well-nigh starving, when I chanced to come back to the spot where we parted; and I verily believe I had not been two miles distant the whole eight days that I was moving round and round, and backward and forward, just in a circle, because, d’ye see, I followed the sun, and that led me astray the whole time.”
“Was that when you well-nigh roasted the bear?” asked Louis, with a sly glance at Hector.
“Well, no; that was another time; your father was out with me then.” And old Jacob, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, settled himself to recount the adventure of the bear. Hector, who had heard Louis’s edition of the roast bear, was almost impatient at being forced to listen to old Jacob’s long-winded history, which included about a dozen other stories, all tagged on to this, like links of a lengthened chain; and was not sorry when the old lumberer, taking his red nightcap out of his pocket, at last stretched himself out on a buffalo skin that he had brought up from the canoe, and soon was soundly sleeping.
The morning was yet grey when the old man shook himself from his slumber, which, if not deep, had been loud; and after having roused up a good fire, which, though the latter end of July, at that dewy hour was not unwelcome, he lighted his pipe, and began broiling a fish on the coals for his breakfast; and was thus engaged when Hector and Louis wakened.
“Mes enfans,” said Jacob, “I have been turning over in my mind about your sister, and have come to the resolution of going up the river alone without any one to accompany me. I know the Indians; they are a suspicious people, they deal much in stratagems, and they are apt to expect treachery in others. Perhaps they have had some reason; for the white men have not always kept good faith with them, which I take to be the greater shame, as they have God’s laws to guide and teach them to be true and just in their dealing, which the poor benighted heathen have not, the more’s the pity. Now, d’ye see, if the Indians see two stout lads with me, they will say to themselves, there may be more left behind, skulking in ambush. So, boys, I go to the camp alone; and, God willing, I will bring back your sister, or die in the attempt. I shall not go single-handed; see, I have here scarlet-cloth, beads, and powder and shot. I carry no firewater; it is a sin and a shame to tempt these poor wretches to their own destruction; it makes fiends of them at once.”
It was to no purpose that Hector and Louis passionately besought old Jacob to let them share the dangers of the expedition; the old man was firm, and would not be moved from his purpose.
“Look you, boys,” he said, “if I do not return by the beginning of the rice harvest, you may suppose that evil has befallen me and the girl; then I would advise you to take care for your own safety, for if they do not respect my grey head, neither will they spare your young ones. In such case, make yourselves a good canoe—a dug-out [FN: Log canoe.] will do—and go down the lake till you are stopped by the rapids; [FN: Crook’s Rapids.] make a portage there; but as your craft is too weighty to carry far, e’en leave her and chop out another, and go down to the Falls; [FN: Heeley’s Falls, on the Trent.] then, if you do not like to be at any further trouble, you may make out your journey to the Bay [FN: Bay Quinte.] on foot, coasting along the river; there you will fall in with settlers who know old Jacob Morelle—aye, and your two fathers—and they will put you in the way of returning home. If I were to try ever so to put you on the old Indian trail in the woods, though I know it myself right well, you might be lost, and maybe never return home again. I leave my traps and my rifle with you; I shall not need them: if I come back I may claim the things; if not, they are yours. So now I have said my say, had my talk, as the Indians say. Farewell. But first let us pray to Him who alone can bring this matter to a safe issue.” And the old man devoutly kneeled down, and prayed for a blessing on his voyage and on those he was leaving; and then hastened down to the beach, and the boys, with full hearts, watched the canoe till it was lost to their sight on the wide waters of the lake.