"I see," said John, picking up the short twig and bending it into an arch, "we are now climbing up this side of the slope, eh? And on the other there will likewise be a river?" The boatman nodded. "A hard way to find, m'sieur. But have no fear. I have travelled it." "Assuredly I have no fear with you, M.--" "Guyon, m'sieur--Jean Bateese Guyon. This M. Barboux is a merry fellow--il ne peut pas se passer de ses enjouements. But I was not born like this." And here he touched his shoulder very simply and gravely. "It was an accident then, M. Guyon?" "An accident--oh, yes, be assured it was an accident." A flush showed on the little man's cheek, and his speech on a sudden became very rapid. "But as we were saying, I know the trail across yonder; and my brother Dominique he knows it even better. I wish we may see Dominique, m'sieur; there is no such _voyageur_ from Quebec up to Michilimackinac, aye or beyond! He has been down the Cascades by night, himself only; it was when I had my--my accident, and he must go to fetch a surgeon. All along the river it is talked of yet. But it is nothing to boast of, for the hand of God must have been upon him. And as good as he is brave!" "And where is your brother Dominique just now?" "He will be at home, m'sieur. Soon they will be carrying the harvest at Boisveyrac, and he is now the seigneur's farmer. He will be worrying himself over the harvest, for Dominique takes things to heart, both of this world and the next; whereas--I am a good Catholic, I hope--but these things do not trouble me. It seems there is no time to be troubled." Bateese looked up shyly, with a blush like a girl's. "M'sieur may be able to tell me--or, maybe, he will think it foolish. This love of women, now?" "Proceed, M. Guyon." "Ah, you believe in it! When the sergeant begins his talk--c'est bien sale, is it not? But that is not the sort I mean. Well, Dominique is in love, and it brings him no happiness. He can never have what he wants, nor would it be right, and he knows it; but nevertheless he goes on craving for it and takes no pleasure in life for the want of it. I look at him, wondering. Then I say to myself, 'Bateese, when le bon Dieu broke you in pieces He was not unkind. Your heart is cracked and cannot hold love, like your brother's; but what of that, while God is pouring love into it all day long and never ceases? You are ugly, and no maid will ever want you for a husband; therefore you are lucky who cannot store away desire for this or that one, like poor Dominique, who goes about aching and fit to burst. You go singing _a la claire fontaine_, which is full of unhappiness and longing, but all the while you are happy enough.' Indeed, that is the truth, monsieur. I study this love of Dominique's, which makes him miserable; but I cannot judge it. I see that it brings pain to men." "But delight also, my friend." "And delight also--that is understood. M'sieur is, perhaps, in love? Or has been?"