“Yes, every seigniory will be sending out its men to the wife market. If I could not marry without traveling three thousand miles for a husband, and then going to live with him in one of the river côtes, I would be a nun.” “Still, there must be wives for all these bachelors,” the other woman argued. “And his Majesty bears the expense. The poor seasick girls, they looked so glad to come ashore!” These chatting voices, blown by the east wind, dropped disjointed words on the passers’ ears, but the passers were themselves busy in talk. Both were young men, but the younger was evidently his elder’s feudal master. He was muscular and tall, with hazel eyes, and dark hair which clustered. His high features were cut in clear, sharp lines. He had the enthusiast’s front, a face full of action, fire, and vision-seeing. He wore the dress of a French officer and carried his sword by his side. “I think we have come in good time, Jacques,” he said to his man, who stumped stolidly along at his left hand. Jacques was a faithful-looking fellow, short and strong, with stiff black hair and somber black eyes. His lower garments looked home-spun, the breeches clasping a huge coarse stocking at the knee, while remnants of military glory clothed his upper person. Jacques was plainly a soldier settler, and if his spear had not become a pruning-hook it was because he had Indians yet to fight. His hereditary lord in France, his late commander and his present seignior under whom he held his grant of land, was walking with him up the rock of Quebec. This Jacques was not the roaring, noisy type of soldier who usually came in droves to be married when Louis’ ship-load of girls arrived. Besides, the painstaking creature had now a weight upon his soul. He answered: “Yes, m’sieur. She will hardly be anchored twenty-four hours.” “In four hours we must turn our backs on Quebec with your new wife aboard, and with the stream against us this time.” “Yes, m’sieur. But if none of them will have me, or they all turn out unfit?” His seignior laughed. “From a hundred and fifty sizes, colors, and dispositions you can surely pick yourself one mate, my man.” “But the honesty of them,” demurred Jacques, “and their obedience after you are at the trouble of getting them home; though girls from Rouen were always good girls. I have not made this long voyage to pick a Rouen wife, to go back again empty of hand. M’sieur, it is certainly your affair as much as mine; and if you see me open my mouth to gaze at a rouged woman who will eat up our provender and bring us no profit, give me a punch with your scabbard. What I want is a good hearty peasant girl from Rouen, who can milk, and hoe, and cut hay, and help grind in the mill, and wait on Mademoiselle de Granville without taking fright.”