This knowledge plunged Macleod in a black mood. He rushed the preparations for the departure of the brigade. He commanded. He rebuked. He disciplined. He rated and cursed till even the hardy voyageurs sweated under the yoke. But when the noon hour was come, he had them marshalled on the beach all ready for their journey.
Loaded to the water's edge with supplies, dunnage, and arms, the big fleet of canoes pointed over Oxford's waters. The crowd cheered madly, dinning farewells and firing continual feu-de-joies. They thrilled at the sight of the brawn going forth to build Kamattawa to shut out the Nor'westers from the Valley. These looked able to do it; brown-armed white men; swarthy post Indians; the hardy mètis; the dashing voyageurs. The watchers' pulses leaped with admiration for the indefatigable leader who had travelled thus at the head of countless brigades on some stern mission for the Company. For him they raised a stormy cry of appreciation which was heartily echoed back by the men of the fleet.
But Dunvegan heeded not the uproarious approbation. The last glance he cast back centered on one handsome, smiling face in the throng, the face of Edwin Glyndon. Two other faces he missed, and his eyes looked ahead, searching the island-dotted expanse of water.
Many miles of silver surface Oxford Lake unrolled before them; many long, peaceful, shining miles! An intense calm mirrored it. The fiery, autumn sun glazed the whole. The vivid shores floated double along its sides. The sky lay down in its depths with great fish swimming among the white clouds; while so still swooned the water that the very veining and shading of color in the reflected foliage could be definitely traced.
As over silvered glass was the passing of the brigade. Each blotch of canoe bottom, each bit of overhanging duffle, each quivering sinew straining on the paddle flashed up from below.
Lightening the labor of their stroke, the debonair voyageurs broke into their familiar boating song:
"En roulant ma boule roulante——"
And chanting more swiftly, they sang in voices which blended with the artistic charm nature alone can give:
"Ah fils du roi, tu es mèchant,
En roulant ma boule,
Toutes les plumes s'en vont au vent,
Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant."
By Windy Island they quickened their pace, chorusing loudly: