A renewed tempest of cheers and shouts of adieu broke from those ashore. The paddles dipped once, twice, thrice, and paused. With one accord those on shore and those in the canoe raised their caps and said, "Que Dieu vous benisse." A moment's silence followed, during which the current of the mighty river bore the light craft a few yards down stream. Then from the ten voyageurs arose a great shout.
"Abítibi! Abítibi!"
Their paddles struck in unison. The water swirled in white, circular eddies. Instantly the canoe caught its momentum and began to slip along against the sluggish current. Achille Picard raised a high tenor voice, fixing the air,
"En roulant ma boule roulante,
En roulant ma boule."
And the voyageurs swung into the quaint ballad of the fairy ducks and the naughty prince with his magic gun.
"Derrièr' chez-nous y-a-t-un 'ètang,
En roulant ma boule."
The girl sank back, dabbing uncertainly at her eyes. "I shall never see them again," she explained, wistfully.
The canoe had now caught its speed. Conjuror's House was dropping astern. The rhythm of the song quickened as the singers told of how the king's son had aimed at the black duck but killed the white.
"Ah fils du roi, tu es mèchant,
En roulant ma boule,
Toutes les plumes s'en vont au vent,
Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant."
"Way wik! way wik!" commanded Me-en-gan, sharply, from the bow.