I bent over, my eyes seeking the points indicated. I had seen the map before, yet it told me little, for I was unaccustomed to such study, and the few points, and streams named had no real meaning to my mind. The only familiar term was Chicagou Portage, and I pointed to it with my fingers.
“Is it there we leave the lake, Monsieur?”
“Ay; the rest will be river work. You see this stream? ’Tis called the Des Plaines, and leads into the Illinois. De Artigny says it is two miles inland, across a flat country. ’Twas Père Marquette who passed this way first, but since then many have traversed it. ’Tis like to take us two days to make the portage.”
“And way up here is Port du Morts, where we crossed the opening into Green Bay, and we have come since all this distance. Surely ’tis not far along the shore now to the portage?”
“Mon Dieu, who knows! It looks but a step on the 205 map, yet ’tis not likely the distance has ever been measured.”
“What said the Sieur de Artigny?”
“Bah! the Sieur de Artigny; ever it is the Sieur de Artigny. ’Tis little he knows about it in my judgment. He would have it thirty leagues yet, but I make it we are ten leagues to the south of where he puts us. What, are you going already? Faith, I had hopes you might tarry here a while yet, and hold converse with me.”
I paused, in no way tempted, yet uncertain.
“You had some word you wished to say, Monsieur?”
“There are words enough if you would listen.”