“Come, let us go on with our work,” said Hector, with something like impatience in his voice; and the strokes of his axe fell once more in regular succession on the log; but Louis’s eye was still on the mysterious fisher, whom he could discern lounging on the grass and smoking his pipe. “I do not think he sees or hears us,” said Louis to himself, “but I think I’ll manage to bring him over soon”--and he set himself busily to work to scrape up the loose chips and shavings, and soon began to strike fire with his knife and flint.
“What are you about, Louis?” asked Hector. “Lighting a fire.”
“It is warm enough without a fire, I am sure.”
“I know that, but I want to attract the notice of yonder tiresome fisherman.”
“And perhaps bring a swarm of savages down upon us, who may be lurking in the bushes of the island.”
“Pooh, pooh! Hec.:--there are no savages. I am weary of this place--anything is better than this horrible solitude.” And Louis fanned the flame into a rapid blaze, and heaped up the light dry branches till it soared up among the bushes. Louis watched the effect of his fire, and rubbed his hands gleefully as the bark canoe was pushed off from the island, and a few vigorous strokes of the paddle sent it dancing over the surface of the calm lake.
Louis waved his cap above his head with a cheer of welcome as the vessel lightly glided into the little cove, near the spot where the boys were chopping, and a stout-framed, weather-beaten man, in a blanket coat, also faded and weather-beaten, with a red worsted sash and worn mocassins, sprung upon one of the timbers of Louis’s old raft, and gazed with a keen eye upon the lads. Each party silently regarded the other. A few rapid interrogations from the stranger, uttered in the broad patois of the Lower Province, were answered in a mixture of broken French and English by Louis.
A change like lightning passed over the face of the old man as he cried out--“Louis Perron, son of my ancient compagnon.”
“Oui! oui!”--with eyes sparkling through tears of joy, Louis threw himself into the broad breast of Jacob Morelle, his father’s friend and old lumbering comrade.
“Hector, son of la belle Catharine Perron,--and Hector, in his turn, received the affectionate embrace of the warm-hearted old man.