A mocking feminine voice floated 

 up to me, and, as I discreetly lowered 

 the sash, the man was vowing by 

 all the saints in the calendar that 

 he would be at the dance, that he 

 knew a way, trust him, and that 

 the plus belle flower in Trois Lacs 

 should dance with no one but him- 

 self, or his hunting knife would kiss 

 the flesh of Francois. 



I only understood a word here and 

 there but enough to occasion a 

 remark to Nimrod concerning the 

 picturesqueness of the Latin love- 

 making. The Saxon type of man 

 who earns his living out-of-doors, 

 would probably have said simply, 



"I am coming and I mean bus- 

 iness," but the results would have 

 been the same, or even more 'un- 

 healthy' for Francois. 



There was no delay in the start. 

 By six o'clock our guides were wait- 

 ing and in another hour we and our 

 belongings had been ferried over the 

 Ottawa in a huge batteau that looked 

 none too strong to navigate the 

 rapids and the log-choked surface of 

 this mighty river. 



While the wagons that were to 



