e was already falling back upon the lower
rapids, and, as it turned out, this redoubtable partisan gave no
trouble at all.

They reached and passed Coteau du Lac on the 3rd.

Dominique and Bateese steered the two leading whaleboats, setting the
course for the rest as they had set it all the way down from Fort
Amitie. By M. Etienne's request, he and his niece and the few
disabled prisoners from the fort travelled in these two boats under a
small guard. It appeared that the poor gentleman's wits were shaken;
he took an innocent pride now in the skill of the two brothers, his
family's _censitaires_, and throughout the long days he discoursed on
it wearisomely. The siege--his brother's death--Fort Amitie itself
and his two years and more of residence there--seemed to have faded
from his mind. He spoke of Boisveyrac as though he had left it but a
few hours since.

"And the General," said he to Diane, "will be interested in seeing
the Seigniory."

"A sad sight, monsieur!" put in Bateese, overhearing him.
(Just before embarking, M. Etienne, Diane and Felicite had been
assigned to Bateese's boat, while Father Launoy, Father Joly and two
wounded prisoners travelled in Dominique's.) "A sight to break the
heart! We passed it, Dominique and I, on our way to and from
Montreal. Figure to yourself that the corn was standing already
over-ripe, and it will be standing yet, though we are in September!"

"The General will make allowances," answered M. Etienne with grave
simplicity. "He will understand that we have had no time for
harvesting of late. Another year--"

Diane shivered. And yet--was it not better to dote thus, needing no
pity, happy as a child, than to live sane and feel the torture?
Better perhaps, but best and blessedest to escape the choice as her
father had escaped it! As the river bore her nearer to Boisveyrac
she saw his tall figure pacing the familiar shores, pausing to con
the acres that were his and had been his father's and his father's
father's. She saw and understood that smile of his which had so
often puzzled her as a child when she had peered up into his face
under its broad-brimmed hat and noted his eyes as they rested on the
fields, the clearings, the forest; noted his cheeks reddened with
open-air living; his firm lips touched with pride--the pride of a
king treading his undisputed ground. In those days she and Armand
had been something of an enigma to their father, and he to them;
their