urse of the river that he did not understand. The quiet
little channels by which one could drop down behind the islands while
the main stream made an impassable fall; the precise height of the water
at which it was safe to run the Rapide Gervais; the point of rock on the
brink of the Grande Chute where the canoe must whirl swiftly in to the
shore if you did not wish to go over the cataract; the exact force of
the tourniquet that sucked downward at one edge of the rapid, and of the
bouillon that boiled upward at the other edge, as if the bottom of the
river were heaving, and the narrow line of the FILET D'EAU along which
the birch-bark might shoot in safety; the treachery of the smooth, oily
curves where the brown water swept past the edge of the cliff, silent,
gloomy, menacing; the hidden pathway through the foam where the canoe
could run out securely and reach a favourite haunt of the ouananiche,
the fish that loves the wildest water,--all these secrets were known to
Jean. He read the river like a book. He loved it. He also respected it.
He knew it too well to take liberties with it.

The camp, that June, was beside the Rapide des Cedres. A great ledge
stretched across the river; the water came down in three leaps, brown
above, golden at the edge, white where it fell. Below, on the left bank,
there was a little cove behind a high point of rocks, a curving beach
of white sand, a gentle slope of ground, a tent half hidden among the
birches and balsams. Down the river, the main channel narrowed and
deepened. High banks hemmed it in on the left, iron-coasted islands on
the right. It was a sullen, powerful, dangerous stream. Beyond that, in
mid-river, the Ile Maligne reared its wicked head, scarred, bristling
with skeletons of dead trees. On either side of it, the river broke away
into a long fury of rapids and falls in which no boat could live.

It was there, on the point of the island, that the most famous fishing
in the river was found; and there Alden was determined to cast his fly
before he went home. Ten days they had waited at the Cedars for the
water to fall enough to make the passage to the island safe. At last
Alden grew impatient. It was a superb morning,--sky like an immense blue
gentian, air full of fragrance from a million bells of pink Linnaea,
sunshine flattering the great river,--a morning when danger and death
seemed incredible.

"To-day we are going to the island, Jean; the water must be low enough
now.