It felt as if we were a thousand miles from everywhere and everybody. Cities, factories, libraries, colleges, laws, palaces, theatres, temples—what had we dreamed of these things? They were far off, in another world. We had slipped back, who knows how many centuries, into a primitive life, and Ferdinand was telling me the naked story of the brave heart, even as it has been told from the beginning. I cannot tell the story just as he did. There was a charm in his speech too quick for the pen: a flavor of fresh-cut pine logs and clean wood-smoke, that is not to be found in any ink for sale in the shops. Perhaps he left out something that belongs to the tale, and that I may be fool enough to put in. But it shall be as little as possible. The spirit of the tale shall be his. It is Ferdinand's story. If you care for the real thing, here it is. You shall hear the difference between being called Vaillantcœur and having _le cœur vaillant_. II There were two young men in Abbéville who were easily the cocks of the woodland walk. Their eminence rested on the fact that they were the strongest men in the parish. Strength is the thing that counts, when people live on the edge of the wilderness. These two were well known all through the country between Lake St. John and Chicoutimi as men of great capacity. Either of them could shoulder a barrel of flour and walk off with it as lightly as a common man would carry a side of bacon. There was not a half-pound of difference between them in ability. But there was a great difference in their looks and in their way of doing things. [Illustration: "No, for what shall I fight with Raoul?"—Page 156.] [Illustration: "But to fight—that is another affair."—Page 156.] Raoul Vaillantcœur was the biggest and the handsomest man in the village; nearly six feet tall, straight as a fir-tree, and black as a bull-moose in December. He had natural force enough and to spare. Whatever he did was done by sheer power of back and arm. He could send a canoe up against the heaviest water, provided he did not get mad and break his paddle—which he usually did. He had more muscle than he knew how to use. Prosper Leclère did not have so much, but he knew better how to handle it. He never broke his paddle—unless it happened to be a bad one, and then he generally had another all ready in the canoe. He was at least six inches shorter than Vaillantcœur; broad shoulders, long arms, light hair, gray eyes; not a handsome fellow, but pleasant looking and very quiet. What he did was done more than half with his head. Leclère was the kind of a man that never needs more than one match to light a fire. But Vaillantcœur—well, if the wood was wet he might use a dozen, and when the blaze was kindled, as like as not, he would throw in the rest of the box. Now, these two men had been friends and were rivals. At least that was the way that one of them looked at it. And most of the people in the parish seemed to think that was the right view.