“'One of those disarrangements we name Accident,' mon père?” I said.
“No, my daughter; when we are schooled sufficiently to read aright, we name it 'Providence,'” he returned, gravely.
We took our places in the canoe once more, and with deep, long strokes she was forced through the current across the mouth of the stream. We disembarked on the farther side, and all made our way out to the end of the low point, which stretched far into the wide river. My disappointment was great when I could make out nothing of the object to which André triumphantly pointed, but this the priest pronounced, without hesitation, to be the pilot's boat.
“André, dry wood,” he commanded; and to us he added, “You can help, if you will.”
We ran back to where a fringe of bleached drift-wood marked the line of the highest tides, and returned with our arms laden with the dry, tindery stuff. Carefully selecting the smallest pieces, the Indian skilfully built a little pile, but so small I wondered at his purpose. The priest, kneeling by it, soon had it alight, and kept adding to it constantly, while André ran off again to return with a supply of green brush; by this time a heap of glowing coals was ready, and on this the Indian carefully laid his green branches, one after another. In a few minutes a strong, thick smoke arose, and went curling out in a long thin line over the now quiet waters of the river.
Meantime le père Jean had a second pile of wood in readiness, and at his word André quickly smothered up the first with sand, and, after waiting for the smoke to drift completely away, soon had a second thread trailing out after the first. This was repeated again, and the fire extinguished as before.
“There, my daughter! that is the manner in which we sometimes send a message in this country, and the answer will be the appearance of Maître Gabriel himself by the morning.”
We then withdrew to the shelter of the wood, for the smoothest sand makes but a sorry bed, and made our camp for the night.
After our meal, le père Jean bade André pile more drift-wood on our fire, and, producing the little journal in which he kept the brief record of his labours, as required by his Order, he fell to writing.
“Here,” he said, when he had finished, handing me the folded paper, “is your letter to my good friend M. de Montcalm. It is not over-long, as paper is much too precious to waste in compliments; I have used so much, as it is, in fully explaining your position, so that you may not be exposed to embarrassing inquiries; in demanding his fullest assistance, so that you may be under the lightest personal obligation, that I have left no space to set forth your future movements; these you must yourself lay before him, and so spare me the sacrifice of another page of my precious journal.”