dazed and silent opposite me. We, of course, followed the river
channel between the Island of Orleans and the north shore; and whenever
our boats drew near the mainland, came whiffs of crisp, frosty air from
the dank ravines, where snow patches yet lay in the shadow. Then the
fleet would sidle towards the island and there would be the fresh,
spring odor of damp, uncovered mold, with a vague suggestiveness of
violets and May-flowers and ferns bursting with a rush through the black
clods. The purple folds of the mountains, with their wavy outlines
fading in the haze of distance, lay on the north as they lie to-day; and
everywhere on the hills were the white cots of _habitant_ hamlets with
chapel spires pointing above tree-tops. At the western end of the
island, where boats sheer out into mid-current, came the dull, heavy
roar of the cataract and above the north shore rose great, billowy
clouds of foam. With a sweep of our paddles, we were opposite a cleft in
the vertical rock and saw the shimmering, fleecy waters of Montmorency
leap over the dizzy precipice churning up from their own whirling depths
and bound out to the river like a panther after prey.

Now the Isle of Orleans was vanishing on our rear and the bold heights
of Point Levis had loomed up to the fore; and now we had poked our prows
to the right and the sluggish, muddy tide of the St. Charles lapped our
canoes, while a forest of masts and yard-arms and flapping sails arose
from the harbor of Quebec City. The great walls of modern Quebec did not
then exist; but the rude fortifications, that sloped down from the lofty
Citadel on Cape Diamond and engirt the whole city on the hillside,
seemed imposing enough to us in those days.

It was late in the afternoon when we passed. The sunlight struck across
the St. Charles, brightening the dull, gray stone of walls and
cathedrals and convents, turning every window on the west to fire and
transforming a multitude of towers and turrets and minarets to
glittering gold. Small wonder, indeed, that all our rough tripmen
stopped paddling and with eyes on the spire of Notre Dame des Victoires
muttered prayers for a prosperous voyage. For some reason or other, I
found my own hat off. So was Mr. Jack MacKenzie's, so was Eric
Hamilton's. Then the _voyageurs_ fell to work again. The canoes spread
out. We rounded Cape Diamond and the lengthening shadow of the high peak
darkened the river before us. Always the broad St. Lawrence seem