“He says well,” broke in Mary Connynge.  “There is something in this big river that chills me.  I am afraid.”

“And what say you, Tete Gris, and you, Pierre Noir?” asked Law.

“Why, myself,” replied the former, “I am with the captain.  It matters not.  There must always be one trail from which one does not return.”

“Oui,” said Pierre Noir.  “To be sure, we have passed as good beaver country as heart of man could ask; but never was land so good but there was better just beyond.”

“They say well, Du Mesne,” spoke John Law, presently; “’tis better on beyond.  Suppose we never do return?  Did I not say to you that I would leave this other world as far behind me as might be?”

“Eh bien, Monsieur L’as, you reply with spirit, as ever,” replied Du Mesne, “and it is not for me to stand in the way.  My own fortune and family are also with me, and home is where my fire is lit.”

“Very well,” replied Law.  “Let us run the river to its mouth, if need be.  ’Tis all one to me.  And whether we get back or not, ’tis another tale.”

“Oh, I make no doubt we shall win back if need be,” replied Du Mesne.  “’Tis said the savages know the ways by the Divine River of the Illini to the foot of Michiganon; and that, perhaps, might be our best way back to the Lakes and to the Mountain with our beaver.  We shall, provided we reach the Divine River, as I should guess by the stories I have heard, be then below the Illini, the Ottawas and the Miamis, with I know not what tribes from west of the Messasebe.  ’Tis for you to say, Monsieur L’as, but for my own part—­and ’tis but a hazard at best—­I would say remain here, or press on to the river of the Illini.”

“’Tis easy of decision, then,” replied Law, after a moment of reflection.  “We take that course which leads us farther on at least.  Again the paddles, my friends!  To-night we sup in our own kingdom.  Strike up the song, Du Mesne!”

A shout of approval broke from the hardy men along the boat side, and even Jean Breboeuf tossed up his cap upon his paddle shaft.

“Forward, then, mes amis!” cried Du Mesne, setting his own paddle-blade deep into the flood. “En roulant ma boule, roulant—­”

Again the chorus rose, and again the hardy craft leaped onward into the unexplored.

Day after day following this the journey was resumed, and day after day the travelers with eager eyes witnessed a prospect of continual change.  The bluffs, bolder and more gigantic, towered more precipitous than the banks of the gentler streams which they had left behind.  Forests ranged down to the shores, and wide, green-decked islands crept into view, and little timbered valleys of lesser streams came marching down to the imposing flood of Messasebe.  Again the serrated bluffs broke back and showed vast vistas of green savannas, covered with tall, waving grasses, broken by little rolling hills, over which crossed herds of elk, and buffalo, and deer.