She laughed again, and took the paddle. They pushed off; the maid kneeling at the bow, Menard in the stern. He guided the canoe against the current. The water lay flat under the still air, reflecting the gloomy trees on the banks, and the deepening colours of the sky. He fell into a lazy, swinging stroke, watching the maid. Her arms and shoulders moved easily, with the grace of one who had tumbled about a canoe from early childhood. "Ready, Mademoiselle?" He was heading for a deep pool near a line of rushes. The maid, laying down her paddle, reached back for the line, and put on the bait with her own fingers. Menard held the canoe steady against the current, which was there but a slow movement, while she lowered the hook over the bow. They sat without a word for some minutes. Once he spoke, in a bantering voice, and she motioned to him to be quiet. Her brows were drawn down close together. It was but a short time before she felt a jerk at the line. Her arms straightened out, and she pressed her lips tightly together. "Quick!" she said. "Go ahead!" "Can you hold it?" he asked, as he dipped his paddle. She nodded. "I wish the line were longer. It will be hard to give him any room." She wound the cord around her wrist. "Will the line hold, M'sieu?" "I think so. See if you can pull in." She leaned back, and pulled steadily, then shook her head. "Not very much. Perhaps, if you can get into the shallow water--" Menard slowly worked the canoe through an opening in the rushes. There was a thrashing about and plunging not two rods away. Once the fish leaped clear of the water in a curve of clashing silver. "It's a salmon," he said. "A small one." The maid held hard, but the colour had gone from her face. The canoe drew nearer to the shore. "Hold fast," said Menard. He gave a last sweep of the paddle, and crept forward to the bow. Kneeling behind the maid, he reached over her shoulder, and took the line below her hand. "Careful, M'sieu; it may break." "We must risk it." He pulled slowly in until the fish was close under the gunwale. "Now can you hold?" "Yes." She shook a straying lock of hair from her eyes, and took another turn of the cord around her wrist. "Steady," he said. He drew his knife, leaned over the gunwale, and stabbed at the fighting fish until his blade sank in just below the gills, and he could lift it aboard. The maid laughed nervously, and rested her hands upon the two gunwales. Her breath was gone, and there was a red mark around her wrist where the cord had been. The canoe had drifted into the rushes, and Menard went back to his paddle, and worked out again into the channel. "And now, Mademoiselle," he said, "we shall have a breakfast of our own. You need not paddle. I will take her down."