Lulled by the rocking of the fragile craft that shot forward like a
thing of life beneath the paddles dipping in perfect unison, McElroy
lay its a sort of apathy for hours, watching the sliding strip of sky
and the bending bodies of the Indians. He knew that the end awaited him
somewhere ahead, but it was far ahead, very far, even many leagues
beyond York factory, and his mind, again dropping into the dulness of
his early awakening, refused to concern itself with aught save the blue
sky and the sound of water lapping on birchbark. That sound was sweet
to his befuddled brain, suggesting something vaguely pleasant.
Ah, yes, it was the deep voice of the maid of the long trail speaking
of the streams and the waving grass of that visionary Land of the
Whispering Hills.
He fell to wondering at broken intervals if she would ever reach it, to
see drowsy visions of the tall form leading its band of venturers into
the wilderness beyond Lac a la Croix, penetrating that country which
tried the hearts of men, and with the visions came a sadness.
She would go without love, mourning her cavalier of the curls, and who
would be responsible for the desolation of the heart he would fain have
made happy but himself?
McElroy sighed, and the visions faded.
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