“Still, there must be wives for all these bachelors,” the other woman argued. “And his Majesty bears the expense. The poor seasick girls, they looked so glad to come ashore!”
These chatting voices, blown by the east wind, dropped disjointed words on the passers’ ears, but the passers were themselves busy in talk.
Both were young men, but the younger was evidently his elder’s feudal master. He was muscular and tall, with hazel eyes, and dark hair which clustered. His high features were cut in clear, sharp lines. He had the enthusiast’s front, a face full of action, fire, and vision-seeing. He wore the dress of a French officer and carried his sword by his side.
“I think we have come in good time, Jacques,” he said to his man, who stumped stolidly along at his left hand.
Jacques was a faithful-looking fellow, short and strong, with stiff black hair and somber black eyes. His lower garments looked home-spun, the breeches clasping a huge coarse stocking at the knee, while remnants of military glory clothed his upper person. Jacques was plainly a soldier settler, and if his spear had not become a pruning-hook it was because he had Indians yet to fight. His hereditary lord in France, his late commander and his present seignior under whom he held his grant of land, was walking with him up the rock of Quebec.
This Jacques was not the roaring, noisy type of soldier who usually came in droves to be married when Louis’ ship-load of girls arrived. Besides, the painstaking creature had now a weight upon his soul. He answered:
“Yes, m’sieur. She will hardly be anchored twenty-four hours.”
“In four hours we must turn our backs on Quebec with your new wife aboard, and with the stream against us this time.”
“Yes, m’sieur. But if none of them will have me, or they all turn out unfit?”
His seignior laughed.