After the meal the men set about the task of mending the canoe. A long rent grinned in the right side of the bow, a bad gash that would require patience in the gumming. Basil measured it tentatively and went off into the forest to cut a strip of bark large enough to cover the opening generously. Dunvegan melted the pitch over the fire, getting it ready to cement the patch.
Basil returned. Skilfully the two accomplished the delicate work. The patch was gummed tight. Over all they spread an extra coat of pitch for surety. Then the canoe was set aside in the shade for a space that the gum might cool and harden sufficiently against the water's friction.
The bark Dreaulond cut had fitted neatly, the gum stuck well. The finish of the thing pleased Basil. He gave vent to his satisfaction in a contented grunt as he lay back with lighted pipe among the greening shrubs and ferns.
"Bien!" he exclaimed. "She be carry us lak wan new batteau. Lak batteaux sur de old Saguenay—dat's long way from here, ba gosh! I see heem some nights in ma dreams, me. An' dat's w'en de trails be ver' hard an' I'm ver' tired. Onlee las' night, mes amis, I see dat cher old Saguenay an' Lac Saint Jean."
"Was St. John anything like Du Longe?" asked Dunvegan whimsically.
Basil shivered at the comparison. "Non," he protested. "Du Longe wan diable. Saint Jean wan angel. Par Dieu, I be tell you, mes camarades, dose lacs an' rivières on ma home ain' lak dese in dis beeg Nord. Non, M'sieu' Brochet! Back dere I be go out for some leetl' pleasure; nevaire be t'ink of dangaire—she so peaceful an' sweet. Mais oop here I always t'ink dis Nord lak wan sharp enemy watchin' for take you off de guard, for catch you in some feex. Onlee de strong mans leeve in dis countree—you see dat. An' w'en I journey on dese lacs an' rivières an' dese beeg woods, I kip de open eye, de tight hand."
"Feeling that if you ever relax your vigilance, the North will hurl you down," suggested Father Brochet.
"Oui, dat's way I feel. Mais not dat way on ma home in de old days! Las' night I be dream I dreeft lak I used to dreeft from Lac Saint Jean down de Saguenay. From Isle D'Almâ to de Shipshaw—oui, an' all the way to Chicoutimi! All in ma new batteau!"
"And was there anyone in the bow?" ventured Dunvegan softly. He was strangely moved, recalling an ancient confidence of Dreaulond's.
"Oui," murmured Basil tenderly, "de petite Therese, ma fille!"