ges where Indians conveyed our cargo on their backs.

A man on a less venturesome quest than mine could hardly have set out
with the brigades of canoemen for the north country and not have been
thrilled like a lad on first escape from school's leading strings. There
we were, twenty craft strong, with clerks, traders, one steersman and
eight willowy, copper-skin paddlers in each long birch canoe. No
oriental prince could be more gorgeously appareled than these gay
_voyageurs_. Flaunting red handkerchiefs banded their foreheads and held
back the lank, black hair. Buckskin smocks, fringed with leather down
the sleeves and beaded lavishly in bright colors, were drawn tight at
the waist by sashes of flaming crimson, green and blue. In addition to
the fringe of leather down the trouser seams, some in our company had
little bells fastened from knee to ankle. It was a strange sight to see
each of these reckless denizens of forest and plain pause reverently
before the chapel of _La Bonne Sainte Anne_, cross himself, invoke her
protection on the voyage and drop some offering in the treasury box
before hurrying to his place in the canoe. One Indian left the miniature
of a carved boat in the hands of the priest at the porch. It was his
votive gift to the saint and may be seen there to this day.

As we were embarking I noticed Eric had not come down and the canoes
were already gliding about the wharf awaiting the head steersman's
signal. I had last seen him on the church steps and ran back from the
river to learn the cause of his delay. Now Hamilton is not a Catholic;
neither is he a Protestant; but I would not have good people ascribe his
misfortunes to this lack of creed, for a trader in the far north loses
denominational distinctions and a better man I have never known. What,
then, was my surprise to meet him face to face coming out of the chapel
with tears coursing down his cheeks and floor-dust thick upon his knees?
Women know what to do and say in such a case. A man must be dumb, or
blunder; so I could but link my arm through his and lead him silently
down to my own canoe.

A single wave of the chief steersman's hand, and out swept the paddles
in a perfect harmony of motion. Then someone struck up a _voyageurs'_
ballad and the canoemen unconsciously kept time with the beat of the
song. The valley seemed filled with the voices of those deep-chested,
strong singers, and the chimes of Ste. Anne clashed out a last sweet
farewell