The priest smiled wearily, and lowered the picture to the ground; but when Menard said, "You have broken it," he raised it hastily, and examined it. One corner of the wooden frame was loosened, but the canvas was not injured. "I can mend it," he said. Then they walked to the camp together, without talking; and Menard helped him repair the frame, and pack the picture carefully. "How is it that it was not ruined in the capsize at Coteau des Cedres?" Menard asked. "It was preserved by a miracle, M'sieu. This bundle did not leave the canoe." The _voyageurs_, still lounging in the clearing, were laughing and talking noisily. The Captain, after he had prepared the maid's couch, and bade her good-night, called to them to be quiet. For a time the noise ceased, but a little later, as he was spreading his blanket on the ground, it began again, and one of the transport men sang the opening strain of a ribald song. Menard strode over to the group so quickly that he took them by surprise. Colin was slipping something behind him, but he could not escape Menard's eye. In a moment he was sprawling on his face, and a brandy flask was brought to light. Menard dashed it against a tree, and turned to the frightened men. "Go to your blankets, every man of you. There are Iroquois on this river. You have already made enough noise to draw them from half a league away. The next man that is caught drinking will be flogged." He thought of the maid lying under her frail shelter, for whose life he was responsible. "If it occurs twice, he will be shot. Perrot, I want you to join the sentry. From now on we shall have two men on guard all night. See that there is no mistake about this. At the slightest noise, you will call me." The men slunk to their blankets, and soon the camp was still. The river sang as it rushed down its zigzag channel through the rocks,--a song that seemed a part of the night, and yet was distinct from the creeping, rustling, dropping, all-pervading life and stir of the forest. Every leaf, every twig and root, every lump of sod and rock-held pool of stagnant water, had its own miniature world, where living things were fighting the battle of life. In the far distance, perhaps, an owl hooted; or near at hand a flying squirrel alighted on a bending elm-twig. Deer and moose followed their beaten tracks to the streams that had been theirs before ever Frenchman pierced the forest; beaver dove into their huts above the dams their own sharp teeth had made; moles nosed under the rich soil, and left a winding track behind; frogs croaked and bellowed from some backset of the river,--and all blended, not, perhaps, so much into a sound, as into a sense of movement,--an even murmur in a low key, to which the lighter note of the water was apart and distinct.