The next morning, as the priest had foretold, we were awakened by André's announcement of the pilot's arrival, and before long, Gabriel Dufour was presented in due form. He was a stout, thick-set man, much reddened by exposure, with his dark hair gathered into a well-oiled pigtail, comfortably dressed in grey, home-spun jacket and breeches, with bright blue stockings, and a short canvas apron, like to the fishermen in France.
He at once expressed himself ready to take us to Quebec.
“What day have you chosen for your return, Gabriel?” asked le père Jean.
“Qui choisit, prend le pire, mon père. All days are alike for me. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, I find much the same as Thursday, Friday, Saturday. I can start to-day, to-morrow, or the day after that, as madame may say.”
“Then I shall speak for madame, and say to-day,” returned the priest; and added, in his quiet way: “I bid you beware of Master Gabriel's fair words, madame. To quote from his favourite proverb, 'il est né dimanche, il aime besogne faite,' he will promise you anything.”
“'Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut,' mon père,” he answered, laughing. “Well, I am ready at once, if madame can support the poverty of my poor cabin.”
“Ah, Maitre Gabriel, if you knew how much your care will mean to us, you would make no apologies.”
“Come, come, Gabriel! No more proverbs, no more delays,” exclaimed le père Jean, and, as the pilot hurried off to his shallop, he took both my hands in his.
“My child, remember God goes with you by land and water, by day and night, and He will surely bring you to the goal which He alone can see,” and then he raised his hand, and I knelt while he blessed us both.