fely from such a
quest. Little those knew who stood enviously watching the departure of
the expedition what bitter tribute its leader must pay to the
relentless gods of the Great Plains for his hardihood in invading their
savage domain.

{22}

The way lay up the broad and picturesque Ottawa, rich even then with
the romantic history of a century of heroic exploits. This was the
great highway between the St Lawrence and the Upper Lakes for
explorers, missionaries, war parties, and traders. Up this stream, one
hundred and eighteen years before, Champlain had pushed his way,
persuaded by the ingenious impostor Nicolas Vignau that here was the
direct road to Cathay. At St Anne's the expedition made a brief halt
to ask a blessing on the enterprise. Here the men, according to
custom, each received a dram of liquor. When they had again taken
their places, paddles dipped at the word of command, and, like a covey
of birds, the canoes skimmed over the dark waters of the Ottawa,
springing under the sinewy strokes of a double row of paddlers against
the swift current of the river. Following the shore closely, they made
rapid progress up-stream. At noon they landed on a convenient island,
where they quickly kindled a fire. A pot of tea was swung above it
from a tripod. With jest and story the meal went on, and as soon as it
was finished they were again afloat, paddling vigorously and making
quick time. Sunset approached--the brief but indescribably beautiful
sunset {23} of a Canadian summer. The sun sank behind the maples and
cedars, and a riot of colour flooded the western horizon. Rainbow hues
swept up half-way to the zenith, waving, mingling, changing from tint
to tint, as through the clouds flamed up the last brightness of the
sinking sun. A rollicking chorus sank away on the still air, and the
men gazed for a moment upon a scene which, however familiar, could
never lose its charm. The song of the birds was hushed. All nature
seemed to pause. Then as the outermost rim of the sun dropped from
sight, and the brilliant colouring of a moment ago toned to rose and
saffron, pink and mauve, the world moved on again, but with a seemingly
subdued motion. The voyageurs resumed their song, but the gay chorus
that had wakened echoes from the overhanging cliffs,

En roulant ma boule,
Rouli, roulant, ma boule roulant,
En roulant ma boule roulant,
En roulant ma boule,

was changed to the pathetic refrain of a so