The clouds hovered near, almost touching the height. Jules gathered stones and built a grave of smooth slabs; when it was finished he reverently placed the body in it, straightening out the arms and legs and crossing the toil-scarred hands.
“Adieu, mon ami,” he whispered, and laid stone on stone on and round the grave. He made it thick and heavy, so that the winds of heaven should not tear it apart, and on top of all he roughly fashioned a big cross. When it was done he prayed for a moment, then waved his hand. “Somme taime, Le Grand, mabbe Ah see toi h’aga’n,” he said gravely, and went away.
XXIV
“JE SUIS CONTENT!”
At the little lean-to he gathered up his food and the canoe and travelled on down the mountain through the dense green forests. In three hours he came to the bottom, and a long lake stretched away, mirror-like and reflecting, at his feet. He pushed in the canoe and paddled out. From its centre he looked back.
High above him, and seemingly far away, was the top of Mont d’Ours; he waved his hand toward it again, and as he watched with sorrow-laden eyes, a great white cloud rolled down on the peak, hiding it from his sight; in a moment it lifted again.
“Le Grand he gone au bon Dieu!” Jules said solemnly and sadly, turned his back, and paddled on round a bend that shut out the mountain entirely.
He saw nothing of the forest scenes, and worked on automatically.
“Mon vieux, mon pauvre Le Grand!” was the only thought that faded the lustre of his hopes to see Marie so soon.
When he reached the foot of the lake and the last of his water trails he dragged the canoe into the underbrush, then went back to the lake edge and let his eyes wander over the green distances and focus themselves on Mont d’Ours, that lifted its heights proudly above its timbered base. He imagined that he could see a black dot which marked the grave of his friend, and strained his eyes in vain, trying to distinguish the cross.