Eutrope Gagnon was speaking with unusual ease, slowly, but without seeking words, as though his story had been shaped beforehand.  Amid her overwhelming grief the thought flitted through Maria’s heart:—­ “Francois wished to come here ... to me,” and a fugitive joy touched it as a swallow in flight ruffles the water with his wing.

“The shanty was not very far in the woods, only two days’ journey from the Transcontinental which passes La Tuque.  Butastheluck was, something had happened to the line and the trains were not running.  I heard all this through Johnny Niquette of St. Henri, who arrived from La Tuque two days ago.”

“Yes.”

“When Francois found that he could not take the train he burst into a laugh, and in that sort of a humour said that as it was a case of walking he would walk all the way-reaching the lake by following the rivers, first the Croche and then the Ouatchouan which falls in near Roberval.”

“That is so,” said Chapdelaine.  “It can be done.  I have gone that way.”

“Not at this time of year, Mr. Chapdelaine, certainly not just at this time.  Everyone there told Francois that it would be foolhardy to attempt such a trip in midwinter, about Christmas, with the cold as great as it was, some four feet of snow lying in the woods, and alone.  But he only laughed and told them that he was used to the woods and that a little difficulty was not going to frighten him, because he was bound to get to the upper side of the lake for the holidays, and that where the Indians were able to cross he could make the crossing too.  Only-you know it very well, Mr. Chapdelaine-when the Indians take that journey it is in company, and with their dogs.  Francois set of alone, on snow-shoes, pulling his blankets and provisions on a toboggan.”  No one had uttered a word to hasten or check the speaker.  They listened as to him whose story’s end stalks into view, before the eyes but darkly veiled, like a figure drawing near who hides his face.

“You will remember the weather a week before Christmas-the heavy snow that fell, and after it the nor’west gale.  It happened that was then in the great burnt lands, where the fine snow drives and drifts so terribly.  In such a place the best of men have little chance when it is very cold and the storm lasts.  And, if you recall it, the nor’wester was blowing for three days on end, stiff enough-to flay you.”

“Yes, and then?”

The narrative he had framed did not carry him further, or perhaps he could not bring himself to speak the final words, for it was some time before the low-voiced answer came-” He went astray ...”

Those who have passed their lives within the shadow of the Canadian forests know the meaning but too well.  The daring youths to whom this evil fortune happens in the woods, who go astray-are lost-but seldom return.  Sometimes a search-party finds their bodies in the spring, after the melting of the snows.  In Quebec, and above all in the far regions of the north, the very word, ecarte, has taken on a new and sinister import, from the peril overhanging him who loses his way, for a short day only, in that limitless forest.