Many notable faces could be identified here and there among the pressing throng on the wharves.  Some were there to meet friends or relatives; some wanted the news from France; some came for mail to be delivered to the various points along the river.  Prominent among them was Governor Lauson, a grey-haired, kindly civilian, who, though a shrewd speculator, was by no means the man to be at the head of the government in Canada.  He was pulled this way and that, first by the Company, then by the priests, then by the seigneurs.  Depredations by the Indians remained unpunished; and the fear of the great white father grew less and less.  Surrounding Monsieur de Lauson was his staff and councillors, and the veterans Du Puys had left behind while in France.  There were names which in their time were synonyms for courage and piety.  The great Jesuits were absent in the south, in Onondaga, where they had erected a mission:  Father Superior le Mercier, and Fathers Dablon and Le Moyne.

Immediately on landing, Father Chaumonot made a sign, and his sea-weary voyagers fell upon their knees and kissed the earth.  New France!

“Now,” said Victor, shaking himself, “let us burn up the remaining herrings and salt codfish.  I see yonder a gentleman with a haunch of venison on his shoulder.”

“One would think that you had had no duck or deer since we passed Acadia,” laughed Du Puys.  “But, patience, lad; Monsieur de Lauson invites all the gentlemen to the Fort at six to partake of his table.  You have but four hours to wait for a feast such as will make your Paris eyes bulge.”

“Praise be!”

As he breathed in the resinous, balsamic perfume which wafted across the mighty river from the forests and the river-rush; as his eye traveled up the glorious promontory, now mellowed in sunshine, to the summit bristling with cannon; as his gaze swept the broad reaches of the river, and returned to rest upon the joyous faces around him, joyous even in the face of daily peril, the Chevalier threw back his shoulders, as if bracing himself for the battle to come.  Here he was to forget and build anew; France, his mother, was dead, and here was his foster-mother, rugged and brave, opening her arms to him.  New France!  Ah, well, there was here, somewhere, a niche for him, and the man in him vowed to fill it.  He did not yet say “With God’s help.”  It was early, and the sting of his misfortune still stirred the poison in his soul.

“New France, Paul,” cried the poet at his side.  The newness and strangeness of the scene had filled the poet’s face with animation.  No problems beset his buoyant soul.

“Yes, lad; this is New France.  Fortune here seems to be of the masculine; and I daresay that you and I shall receive many cuffs in the days to come.”

“Come, my friends,” said Brother Jacques, “and I will show you the path which leads to the citadel.”

And the three proceeded up the incline.