It was bad enough to travel all the way down the Richelieu, past Isle aux Noix, St. John’s and Chambly, past British encampments, British provision boats, canoes and bateaux carrying British officers and men; disheartening to turn to the west against the tremendous roiled St. Lawrence. But when the arms of our paddlers never faltered as we drew abreast of Mount Royal, we were in despair.

“It’s no use,” Verrieul said, when I told him to remind Sponge-belly that Lanaudiere had promised we’d be taken to Montreal. “It would do us more harm than good. They hate to be talked to while they’re paddling. They say a person who talks in a canoe is an old woman. That’s the worst thing they can say of anyone. It’s worse than accusing a man of getting lost in the woods. I’ll speak when they go ashore for the night, but it won’t help us.”

Verrieul was right.

When he told them what Lanaudiere had said, and asked them to deliver us to the British in Montreal, according to Lanaudiere’s promise, Sponge-belly seemed faintly amused. His reply was terse; and when Verrieul heard it, he turned to us with such a pleased, contented look that for a moment I thought his plea had been successful.

“Pretend you’re hearing good news,” Verrieul said. “And maybe it is. We’re none of us wounded or sick, and we have Doc to look out for us. If we’re careful, we’ll be well treated, probably. By great good fortune, I can make myself understood to them, and they can speak to us, so they’ll never have to kill us for disobeying orders. Now you must make noises such as you’ve heard them make, showing you’re satisfied.”

We made yowping sounds—“How! How! How!” The making of them gave Doc the hiccups.

“Then Lanaudiere lied to us?” I asked.

“Yes, he lied,” Verrieul said. “He never so much as mentioned Montreal to any of these seven. He just gave us to them. We’re theirs. What’s more, I don’t believe he expected us ever to get away—as long as we live.”

We contrived, somehow, to keep our faces cheerful; but that night I lay long awake—not because of the penetrating cold that bit into knees and shoulders, but because of my fears that Lanaudiere’s expectations might be realized: that we might be fated to wander in the wilderness, like beasts, for the remainder of our days.

XLIV

THE next day we went on, and the day after that we went on, and the day after that, and the day after that. We went on endlessly: always on: always on and on, and still on. It seemed to me our western journey was perpetual; that we were doomed to hurry eternally up rivers and across lakes; past meadows, swamps, islands, mountains, forests, cliffs, cataracts, landslides, blowdowns, forts, settlements.