We ran back to where a fringe of bleached drift-wood marked the line of the highest tides, and returned with our arms laden with the dry, tindery stuff. Carefully selecting the smallest pieces, the Indian skilfully built a little pile, but so small I wondered at his purpose. The priest, kneeling by it, soon had it alight, and kept adding to it constantly, while Andre ran off again to return with a supply of green brush; by this time a heap of glowing coals was ready, and on this the Indian carefully laid his green branches, one after another. In a few minutes a strong, thick smoke arose, and went curling out in a long thin line over the now quiet waters of the river. Meantime le pere Jean had a second pile of wood in readiness, and at his word Andre quickly smothered up the first with sand, and, after waiting for the smoke to drift completely away, soon had a second thread trailing out after the first. This was repeated again, and the fire extinguished as before. "There, my daughter! that is the manner in which we sometimes send a message in this country, and the answer will be the appearance of Maitre Gabriel himself by the morning." We then withdrew to the shelter of the wood, for the smoothest sand makes but a sorry bed, and made our camp for the night. After our meal, le pere Jean bade Andre pile more drift-wood on our fire, and, producing the little journal in which he kept the brief record of his labours, as required by his Order, he fell to writing. "Here," he said, when he had finished, handing me the folded paper, "is your letter to my good friend M. de Montcalm. It is not over-long, as paper is much too precious to waste in compliments; I have used so much, as it is, in fully explaining your position, so that you may not be exposed to embarrassing inquiries; in demanding his fullest assistance, so that you may be under the lightest personal obligation, that I have left no space to set forth your future movements; these you must yourself lay before him, and so spare me the sacrifice of another page of my precious journal." The next morning, as the priest had foretold, we were awakened by Andre's announcement of the pilot's arrival, and before long, Gabriel Dufour was presented in due form. He was a stout, thick-set man, much reddened by exposure, with his dark hair gathered into a well-oiled pigtail, comfortably dressed in grey, home-spun jacket and breeches, with bright blue stockings, and a short canvas apron, like to the fishermen in France. He at once expressed himself ready to take us to Quebec. "What day have you chosen for your return, Gabriel?" asked le pere Jean. "Qui choisit, prend le pire, mon pere. All days are alike for me. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, I find much the same as Thursday, Friday, Saturday. I can start to-day, to-morrow, or the day after that, as madame may say."