Some miles farther, and the woods fell away again, disclosing the river.  The road descended the last hill from the higher land and sank almost to the level of the ice.  Three houses were dotted along the mile of bank above; but they were humbler buildings than those of the village, and behind them scarcely any land was cleared and there was little sign of cultivation:-built there, they seemed to be, only in witness of the presence of man.

Charles Eugene swung sharply to the right, stiffened his forelegs to hold back on the slope and pulled up on the edge of the ice.  Chapdelaine opened his eyes.

“Here, father,” said Maria, “take the reins!” He seized them, but before giving his horse the word, took some moments for a careful scrutiny of the frozen surface.

“There is a little water on the ice,” said he, “and the snow has melted; but we ought to be able to cross all the same.  Get up, Charles Eugene.”  The horse lowered his head and sniffed at the white expanse in front of him, then adventured upon it without more ado.  The ruts of the winter road were gone, the little firs which had marked it at intervals were nearly all fallen and lying in the half-thawed snow; as they passed the island the ice cracked twice without breaking.  Charles Eugene trotted smartly toward the house of Charles Lindsay on the other bank.  But when the sleigh reached midstream, below the great fall, the horse had perforce to slacken pace by reason of the water which had overflowed the ice and wetted the snow.  Very slowly they approached the shore; there remained only some thirty feet to be crossed when the ice began to go up and down under the horse’s hoofs.

Old Chapdelaine, fully awake now, was on his feet; his eyes beneath the fur cap shone with courage and quick resolve.

“Go on, Charles Eugene!  Go on there!” he roared in his big voice.  The wise beast dug his calked shoes through the deep slush and sprang for the bank, throwing himself into the collar at every. leap.  Just as they reached land a cake of ice tilted beneath their weight and sank, leaving a space of open water.

Samuel Chapdelaine turned about.  “We are the last to cross this year,” said he.  And he halted the horse to breathe before putting him at the hill.

After following the main road a little way they left it for another which plunged into the woods.  It was scarcely more than a rough trail, still beset with roots, turning and twisting in all directions to avoid boulders and stumps.  Rising to a plateau where it wound back and forth through burnt lands it gave an occasional glimpse of steep hillside, of the rocks piled in the channel of the frozen rapid, the higher and precipitous opposing slope above the fall, and at the last resumed a desolate way amid fallen trees and blackened rampikes.

The little stony hillocks they passed through seemed to close in behind them; the burnt lands gave place to darkly-crowding spruces and firs; now and then they caught momentary sight of the distant mountains on the Riviere Alec; and soon the travellers discerned a clearing in tile forest, a mounting column of smoke, the bark of a dog.