“The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh, Nor deep eneugh the sea, Nor braid eneugh this weary warld, To part my Love frae me,” ...
I sang in my heart, for was it not all so wonderful, so beyond all planning, this way of Love? It might be long, it might be wearying, but it would lead aright in the end.
When the head of the lake was reached, the canoes were lifted from the water; that of the strange Indians was left behind, but ours they raised on their shoulders, and, André carrying the scanty baggage of the priest, we set off on a long carry, or portage, as they call it. This occupied two days, as the path was difficult, and we found a sad encumbrance in our skirts, which suffered much in the traverse. We took the water again at a tiny stream, and finally gained another, called the Metis, leading to the St. Lawrence, our highway for Quebec. At the Metis the strange Indians left us and returned to join their fellows.
Late one afternoon le père Jean ran the canoe inshore, and, nothing loath, we left her in charge of André, to follow the priest up the high bank and take our way on foot under the great pines.
A low breeze was moving almost silently among the trees, bringing an unwonted freshness we could verily taste. Soon we marked the screen of undergrowth, which hid the sun, grow thinner and thinner, until his rays came shining low through a halo of golden leaves, with gleams like to glancing water. Breathless, we hurried on until we swept aside the last veil and found ourselves on the open cliff, overlooking mile beyond mile of dancing water, which the setting sun covered with a trail of glory breaking in ripples on a beach of golden sand, that stretched below the cliff on which we stood.
“Oh, the sea! the sea!” I cried, sinking to the ground, overwhelmed by the flood of feeling which broke upon me. It was the promise of a new world of light and safety, after the black, swift river and the sombre forest from which we had escaped.
“No, my daughter, not the sea; la Grande Rivière, the St. Lawrence!” said le père Jean, almost reverently. “Do you wonder these poor Indians worship it?”
“Oh, it is blessed! blessed! It means home! It is like to heaven!” I whispered, and then I fell a-crying with very happiness.
Presently Lucy touched me on the shoulder. “See! there is André!” And below we saw the Indian paddling out into the open. He went cutting through the golden water until he was some distance from the shore, when he stood upright, gently rocking as he balanced, gazing up the river. Suddenly he crouched down, again and made all haste towards us, crying, as he came within call: “Mon père! Dufour! Dufour! Gabriel Dufour!”
“This is fortunate, most fortunate,” exclaimed the priest. “It will save us many a weary mile, and perhaps weeks of waiting. Gabriel is a pilot, with one of the best boats on the river, and your way to Quebec is now easy. It could not have fallen out better.”