I was looking over my flies now, the book open before me, its fascinating pages of color more brilliant than an old missal, and maybe as filled with religion—­the peace of God, charity which endureth, love to one’s neighbor.  I chose a Parmachene Belle for hand-fly, always good in Canadian waters.  “A moose-skin hasn’t much warmth, has it, Rafael?”

The hunter was back, hawk-eyed.  “But yes, m’sieu.  Moose skin one time safe me so I don’ freeze to death.  But it hol’ me so tight so I nearly don’ get loose in de morning.”

“What do you mean?” I was only half listening, for a brown hackle and a Montreal were competing for the middle place on my cast, and it was a vital point.  But Rafael liked to tell a story, and had come by now to a confidence in my liking to hear him.  He flashed a glance to gather up my attention, and cleared his throat and began:  “Dat was one time—­I go on de woods—­hunt wid my fader-in-law—­mon beau-pere.  It was mont’ of March—­and col’—­but ver’ col’ and wet.  So it happen we separate, my fador-in-law and me, to hunt on both side of large enough river.  And I kill moose.  What, m’sieur?  What sort of gun?  Yes.  It was rifle—­what one call flint-lock.  Large round bore.  I cast dat beeg ball myself, what I kill dat moose.  Also it was col’.  And so it happen my matches got wet, but yes, ev-very one.  So I couldn’ buil’ fire.  I was tired, yes, and much col’.  I t’ink in my head to hurry and skin dat moose and wrap myself in dat skin and go sleep on de snow because if not I would die, I was so col’ and so tired.  I do dat.  I skin heem—­je le plumait—­de beeg moose—­beeg skin.  Skin all warm off moose; I wrap all aroun’ me and dig hole and lie down on deep snow and draw skin over head and over feet, and fol’ arms, so”—­Rafael illustrated—­“and I hol’ it aroun’ wid my hands.  And I get warm right away, warm, as bread toast.  So I been slippy, and heavy wid tired, and I got comfortable in dat moose skin and I go aslip quick.  I wake early on morning, and dat skin got froze tight, like box made on wood, and I hol’ in dat wid my arms fol’ so, and my head down so”—­illustrations again—­“and I can’t move, not one inch.  No.  What, m’sieur?  Yes, I was enough warm, me.  But I lie lak dat and can’t move, and I t’ink somet’ing.  I t’ink I got die lak dat, in moose-skin.  If no sun come, I did got die.  But dat day sun come and be warm, and moose skin melt lil’ bit, slow, and I push lil’ bit wid shoulder, and after while I got ice broke, on moose skin, and I crawl out.  Yes.  I don’ die yet.”

Rafael’s chuckle was an amen to his saga, and at once, with one of his lightning-changes, he was austere.

“M’sieur go need beeg trout tonight; not go need moose skin till nex’ wik.  Ze rod is ready take feesh, I see feesh jump by ole log.  Not much room to cast, but m’sieur can do it.  Shall I carry rod down to river for m’sieur?”