As for the rest of us, it had gone to our heads.

We were intoxicated with the wine of the rugged, new, free life.  Sky above; wild woods where never foot had trod; air that drew through the nostrils in thirst-quenching draughts; blood atingle to the laughing rhythm of the river—­what wonder that youth leaped to a fresh life from the mummified existence of little, old peoples in little, old lands?

We laughed aloud from fulness of life.

Jean laid his paddle athwart, ripped off his buckskin, and smiled back.

“Ramsay feels as if he had room to stretch himself,” said he.

“Feel!  I feel as if I could run a thousand miles and jump off the ends of the earth—­”

“And dive to the bottom of the sea and harness whales and play bowling-balls with the spheres, you young rantipoles,” added M. Radisson ironically.

“The fever of the adventurer,” said Jean quietly.  “My uncle knows it.”

I laughed again.  “I was wondering if Eli Kirke ever felt this way,” I explained.

“Pardieu,” retorted M. de Radisson, loosening his coat, “if people moved more and moped less, they’d brew small bile!  Come, lads!  Come, lads!  We waste time!”

And we were paddling again, in quick, light strokes, silent from zest, careless of toil, strenuous from love of it.

Once we came to a bend in the river where the current was so strong that we had dipped our paddles full five minutes against the mill race without gaining an inch.  The canoe squirmed like a hunter balking a hedge, and Jean’s blade splintered off to the handle.  But M. de Radisson braced back to lighten the bow; the prow rose, a sweep of the paddles, and on we sped!

“Hard luck to pull and not gain a boat length,” observed Jean.

“Harder luck not to pull, and to be swept back,” corrected M. de Radisson.

We left the main river to thread a labyrinthine chain of waterways, where were portages over brambly shores and slippery rocks, with the pace set at a run by M. de Radisson.  Jean and I followed with the pack straps across our foreheads and the provisions on our backs.  Godefroy brought up the rear with the bark canoe above his head.

At one place, where we disembarked, M. de Radisson traced the sand with the muzzle of his musket.

“A boot-mark,” said he, drawing the faint outlines of a footprint, “and egad, it’s not a man’s foot either!”

“Impossible!” cried Jean.  “We are a thousand miles from any white-man.”

“There’s nothing impossible on this earth,” retorted Radisson impatiently.  “But pardieu, there are neither white women in this wilderness, nor ghosts wearing women’s boots!  I’d give my right hand to know what left that mark!”

After that his haste grew feverish.  We snatched our meals by turns between paddles.  He seemed to grudge the waste of each night, camping late and launching early; and it was Godefroy’s complaint that each portage was made so swiftly there was no time for that solace of the common voyageur—­the boatman’s pipe.  For eight days we travelled without seeing a sign of human presence but that one vague footmark in the sand.