Then he would go back to the vale of Onondaga and match himself against
the clever St. Luc or any other spokesman whom the Marquis Duquesne
might choose to send.

But his golden dreams were of Quebec, which was a continuous beacon and
lure to him. Despite a life spent chiefly in the woods, which he loved,
he always felt the distant spell of great capitals and a gorgeous
civilization. In the New World Quebec came nearer than any other city to
fulfilling this idea. There the nobles of France, then the most
glittering country in the world, came in silks and laces and with gold
hilted swords by their sides. The young French officers fought with a
jest on their lips, but always with skill and courage, as none knew
better than the British colonials themselves. There was a glow and
glamor about Quebec which the sober English capitals farther south did
not have. It might be the glow and glamor of decay, but people did not
know it then, although they did know that the Frenchman, with his love
of the forest and skill in handling the Indians, was a formidable foe.

"When do you think we'll reach the St. Lawrence, Dave?" he asked.

"In two or three days if we're not attacked again," replied the hunter,
"and then we'll get a bigger boat and row down the river to Quebec."

"Will they let us pass?"

"Why shouldn't they? There's no war, at least not yet."

"That battle back there in the gorge may not have been war, but it
looked precisely like it."