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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.”

“Not yet, m’sieu’, I am sorry, but it is not yet.”

Alden laughed rather unpleasantly. “I believe you are afraid. I thought you were a good canoeman–“

“I am that,” said Jean, quietly, “and therefore,–well, it is the bad canoeman who is never afraid.”

“But last September you took your monsieur to the island and gave him fine fishing. Why won’t you do it for me? I believe you want to keep me away from this place and save it for him.”

Jean’s face flushed. “M’sieu’ has no reason to say that of me. I beg that he will not repeat it.”

Alden laughed again. He was somewhat irritated at Jean for taking the thing so seriously, for being so obstinate. On such a morning it was absurd. At least it would do no harm to make an effort to reach the island. If it proved impossible they could give it up. “All right, Jean,” he said, “I’ll take it back. You are only timid, that’s all. Francois here will go down with me. We can manage the canoe together. Jean can stay at home and keep the camp. Eh, Francois?”

Francois, the second guide, was a mush of vanity and good nature, with just sense enough to obey Jean’s orders, and just jealousy enough to make him jump at a chance to show his independence. He would like very well to be first man for a day,–perhaps for the next trip, if he had good luck. He grinned and nodded his head– “All ready, m’sieu’; I guess we can do it.”

But while he was holding the canoe steady for Alden to step out to his place in the bow, Jean came down and pushed him aside. “Go to bed, dam’ fool,” he muttered, shoved the canoe out into the river, and jumped lightly to his own place in the stern.

Alden smiled to himself and said nothing for a while. When they were a mile or two down the river he remarked, “So I see you changed your mind, Jean. Do you think better of the river now?”

“No, m’sieu’, I think the same.”

“Well then?”

“Because I must share the luck with you whether it is good or bad. It is no sham
e to have fear. The shame is not to face it. But one thing I ask of you–“

“And that is?”

“Kneel as low in the canoe as you can, paddle steady, and do not dodge when a wave comes.”

Alden was half inclined to turn back, and give it up. But pride made it difficult to say the word. Besides the fishing was sure to be superb; not a line had been wet there since last year. It was worth a little risk. The danger could not be so very great after all. How fair the river ran,–a current of living topaz between banks of emerald! What but good luck could come on such a day?