Jacques looked back, as he walked, at the long zigzag shadows on the river.  Forest fire in the distance showed a leaning column, black at base, pearl-colored in the primrose air, like smoke from some gigantic altar.  He had seen islands in the lake under which the sky seemed to slip, throwing them above the horizon in mirage, and trees standing like detached bushes on a world rim of water.  The Ste. Marie River was a beautiful light green in color, and sunset and twilight played upon it all the miracles of change.

“I wish my father had never left this country,” said young Repentigny, feeling that spell cast by the wilderness.  “Here is his place.  He should have withdrawn to the Sault, and accommodated himself to the English, instead of returning to France.  The service in other parts of the world does not suit him.  Plenty of good men have held to Canada and their honor also.”

“Yes, yes,” assented Louizon.  “The English cannot be got rid of.  For my part, I shall be glad when this post changes hands.  I am sick of our officers.”

He scowled with open resentment.  The seigniory house faced the parade ground, and they could see against its large low mass, lounging on the gallery, one each side of a window, the white uniforms of two French soldiers.  The window sashes, screened by small curtains across the middle, were swung into the room; and Louizon’s wife leaned on her elbows across the sill, the rosy atmosphere of his own fire projecting to view every ring of her bewitching hair, and even her long eyelashes as she turned her gaze from side to side.

It was so dark, and the object of their regard was so bright, that these buzzing bees of Frenchmen did not see her husband until he ran up the steps facing them.  Both of them greeted him heartily.  He felt it a peculiar indignity that his wife’s danglers forever passed their good-will on to him; and he left them in the common hall, with his father and the young seignior, and the two or three Indians who congregated there every evening to ask for presents or to smoke.

Louizon’s wife met him in the middle of the broad low apartment where he had been so proud to introduce her as a bride, and turned her cheek to be kissed.  She was not fond of having her lips touched.  Her hazel-colored hair was perfumed.  She was so supple and exquisite, so dimpled and aggravating, that the Chippewa in him longed to take her by the scalp-lock of her light head; but the Frenchman bestowed the salute.  Louizon had married the prettiest woman in the settlement.  Life overflowed in her, so that her presence spread animation.  Both men and women paid homage to her.  Her very mother-in-law was her slave.  And this was the stranger spectacle because Madame Cadotte the senior, though born a Chippewa, did not easily make herself subservient to anybody.