“Jules beeg fou dose taimes,” Verbaux answered, and let his eyes roam over the forests that rose hill on hill to mountain heights beyond; for a second a hateful figure passed in his brain and he shivered.
Le Grand saw and understood. “She h’ask h’all taime for toi, Verbaux, dese sev’n mont’ passé,” he said softly.
The disagreeable thought was gone, and Jules nodded gratefully to his friend.
“B’en go!” As he spoke Le Grand lifted the canoe to throw it on his shoulders, but put it down with a groan.
“Mon pauvre vieux, dat woun’ do dat, hein?”
Jules threw the little craft on his own broad back and led the way into the green thickets. For a long time the woods were level and the two picked their way among windfalls and tangled masses of last year’s undergrowth. Twice they put the canoe in little lakes and paddled across their clear waters. Then they began to rise; unnoticeably at first, the walking sloped uphill, then it grew steeper and steeper until they were climbing slowly up the bouldered side of a mountain whose top looked down at them through the trees from far above. They came to a little brook that dashed refreshingly among the rocks and mosses, and Jules put down the canoe to rest. The forest was hot and breathless, but the little stream gave off a sense of coolness that was grateful to the two men. They drank of its strengthening flow and started on. Upward and onward they toiled, Jules always carrying the canoe, though Le Grand often attempted to get it, but Verbaux would not give it up.
“Laissez faire,” he said, “Ah’m no fatigue’.” So Le Grand followed, sometimes pushing when a particularly steep place had to be got over. At last the top was reached, and they both were glad.
“By gar, dat magnifique!” Le Grand said as they sat on the upturned canoe and looked round them.
It was coming evening; as far as the eye could reach, the lighter shades and deep greens of the wilderness spread away in beautiful expanse; still beyond, fifty miles or more, big mountain ranges loomed blue and gray in the afternoon haze, their bases clad in dark colours, their heads touching the sunset clouds. Scattered about, like jewels on a green cloth, were quantities of lakes shimmering in the soft glare of the sinking sun. Here they were bright and silvered, there they were dull, some blue, some colourless; all were still and like liquid drops and blotches from a mighty pen on a green background. One sheet of water that lay in the sun’s rays shone like a body of mercury, dazzling the eye. Lower and still lower sank the fiery globe, turning from yellow to orange; then deeper and grander shades came and it changed to pink, then red, tingeing the clouds with its hot colours. The upper winds of the skies drove streaks and long groups of feathery cloud across the sun’s face; these were at once magnified and painted in brilliant hues—the denser ones blue-black, the lighter ones gray, green, yellow, and scarlet. Ever changing, ever shifting, moving always, the ethereal scenes bewildered the senses of the two that sat there, spell-bound, watching: one dreaming, the other happy, contented with his friend, his quest ended, his hopes realised. Then but half of the red circle showed above the distant mountains; it cast far-reaching rays athwart the now purpling heavens and gilded the peak of Mont d’Ours with a mellow glow that softened everything. The canoe was deep yellow, the men were gently shadowed by its power. Gradually the light of day sank, and the deep shades of evening grew. The lakes and streams lost their sparkle and became vague, almost invisible. A deep sombreness spread over everything, then white mists rose from the waters as their surfaces condensed into vapour and floated upward to join the drifting clouds.