Come to the first things,
Finding the best of all, last of all, God?"

Like the cry of his "Aphrodite," written that last afternoon of the old
life, this plaint ended with the same restless, unceasing question. But
there was a difference. There was no longer the material, distant
note of a pagan mind; there was the intimate, spiritual note of a mind
finding a foothold on the submerged causeway of life and time.

As he folded up the paper to put it into his pocket, Jo Portugais
entered the room. He threw in a corner the wet bag which had protected
his shoulders from the rain, hung his hat on a peg of the chimney-piece,
nodded to Charley, and put a kettle on the little fire.

"A big storm, M'sieu'," Jo said presently as he put some tea into a pot.

"I have never seen a great storm in a forest before," answered Charley,
and came nearer to the window through which the bright sun streamed.

"It always does me good," said Jo. "Every bird and beast is awake and
afraid and trying to hide, and the trees fall, and the roar of it like
the roar of the chasse-galerie on the Kimash River."

"The Kimash River--where is it?"

Jo shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows!"

"Is it a legend, then?"

"It is a river."

"And the chasse-galerie?"

"That is true, M'sieu', no matter what any one thinks. I know; I have
seen--I have seen with my own eyes." Jo was excited now.

"I am listening." He took a cup of tea from Portugais and drank eagerly.

"The Kimash River, M'sieu', that is the river in the air. On it is the
chasse-galerie. You sell your soul to the devil; you ask him to help
you; you deny God. You get into a canoe and call on the devil. You are
lifted up, canoe and all, and you rush on down rapids, over falls, on
the Kimash River in the air. The devil stands behind you and shouts, and
you sing, 'V'la! l'bon vent! V'la l'joli vent!' On and on you go, faster
and faster, and you forget the world, and you forget yourself, and
the devil is with you in the air--in the chasse-galerie on the Kimash
River."

"Jo," said Charley Steele, "do you honestly think there's a river like
that?"

'M'sieu', I know it. I saw Ignace Latoile, who robbed a priest and got
drunk on the communion wine--I saw him with the devil in the Black Canoe
at the Saguenay. I could see Ignace; I could see the devil; I could see
the Kimash River. I shall ride myself some day.

"Ride where?"

"What does it matter where?"

"Why should you ride