Conjurors House | Page 3

her aloft in farewell. One she felt plainly--a gallant youth who
held her up for all to see. One she saw clearly--a dewy-eyed, lovely
woman who murmured loving, broken words. One she heard
distinctly--a gentle voice that said, "God's love be with you, little one,
for you have far to go, and many days to pass before you see Quebec
again." And the girl's eyes suddenly swam bright, for the northland was
very dreary. She threw her palms out in a gesture of weariness.
Then her arms dropped, her eyes widened, her head bent forward in the
attitude of listening.
"Achille!" she called, "Achille! Come here!"
The young fellow approached respectfully.
"Mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Don't you hear?" she said.
Faint, between intermittent silences, came the singing of men's voices
from the south.
"Grace à Dieu!" cried Achille. "Eet is so. Eet is dat brigade!"
He ran shouting toward the factory.

Chapter Two
Men, women, dogs, children sprang into sight from nowhere, and ran
pell-mell to the two cannon. Galen Albret, reappearing from the factory,
began to issue orders. Two men set about hoisting on the tall flag-staff
the blood-red banner of the Company. Speculation, excited and earnest,
arose among the men as to which of the branches of the Moose this
brigade had hunted--the Abítibi, the Mattágami, or the Missináibie.
The half-breed women shaded their eyes. Mrs. Cockburn, the doctor's
wife, and the only other white woman in the settlement, came and stood
by Virginia Albret's side. Wishkobun, the Ojibway woman from the
south country, and Virginia's devoted familiar, took her half-jealous
stand on the other.
"It is the same every year. We always like to see them come," said Mrs.
Cockburn, in her monotonous low voice of resignation.
"Yes," replied Virginia, moving a little impatiently, for she anticipated
eagerly the picturesque coming of these men of the Silent Places, and
wished to savor the pleasure undistracted.
"Mi-di-mo-yay ka'-win-ni-shi-shin," said Wishkobun, quietly.
"Ae," replied Virginia, with a little laugh, patting the woman's brown
hand.
A shout arose. Around the bend shot a canoe. At once every paddle in it
was raised to a perpendicular salute, then all together dashed into the

water with the full strength of the voyageurs wielding them. The canoe
fairly leaped through the cloud of spray. Another rounded the bend,
another double row of paddles flashed in the sunlight, another crew,
broke into a tumult of rapid exertion as they raced the last quarter mile
of the long journey. A third burst into view, a fourth, a fifth. The silent
river was alive with motion, glittering with color. The canoes swept
onward, like race-horses straining against the rider. Now the spectators
could make out plainly the boatmen. It could be seen that they had
decked themselves out for the occasion. Their heads were bound with
bright-colored fillets, their necks with gay scarves. The paddles were
adorned with gaudy woollen streamers. New leggings, of holiday
pattern, were intermittently visible on the bowsmen and steersmen as
they half rose to give added force to their efforts.
At first the men sang their canoe songs, but as the swift rush of the
birch-barks brought them almost to their journey's end, they burst into
wild shrieks and whoops of delight.
All at once they were close to hand. The steersman rose to throw his
entire weight on the paddle. The canoe swung abruptly for the shore.
Those in it did not relax their exertions, but continued their vigorous
strokes until within a few yards of apparent destruction.
"Holá! holá!" they cried, thrusting their paddles straight down into the
water with a strong backward twist. The stout wood bent and cracked.
The canoe stopped short and the voyageurs leaped ashore to be
swallowed up in the crowd that swarmed down upon them.
The races were about equally divided, and each acted after its
instincts--the Indian greeting his people quietly, and stalking away to
the privacy of his wigwam; the more volatile white catching his wife or
his sweetheart or his child to his arms. A swarm of Indian women and
half-grown children set about unloading the canoes.
Virginia's eyes ran over the crews of the various craft. She recognized
them all, of course, to the last Indian packer, for in so small a
community the personality and doings of even the humblest members
are well known to everyone. Long since she had identified the brigade.

It was of the Missináibie, the great river whose head-waters rise a scant
hundred feet from those that flow as many miles south into Lake
Superior. It drains a wild and rugged country whose forests cling to
bowlder hills, whose streams issue from deep-riven gorges, where for
many years the big gray wolves had gathered in unusual abundance.
She knew by heart the winter posts, although she had