At one o'clock next day the out-of-breath little train which had gasped
up mountains for five hours from Quebec uttered a relieved shriek and
stopped at a doll-house club station sitting by itself in the
wilderness. Four or five men in worn but clean clothes--they always
start clean--waited on the platform, and there was a rapid fire of "_Bon
jour_, m'sieur," as we alighted. Then ten quick eyes took in my colonel
in his horizon-blue uniform. I was aware of a throb of interest. At once
there was a scurry for luggage because the train must be held till it
was off, and the guides ran forward to the baggage-car to help. I
bundled the colonel down a sharp, short hill to the river, while
smiling, observant Hurons, missing not a line of braid or a glitter of
button, passed with bags and _pacquetons_ as we descended. The blue and
black and gold was loaded into a canoe with an Indian at bow and stern
for the three-mile paddle to the club-house. He was already a schoolboy
on a holiday with unashamed enthusiasm.

"But it is fun--fun, zis," he shouted to me from his canoe. "And
_lequel_, m'sieur, which is Rafael?"

Rafael, in the bow of my boat, missed a beat of his paddle. It seemed to
me he looked older than two years back, when I last saw him. His
shoulders were bent, and his merry and stately personality was less in
evidence. He appeared subdued. He did not turn with a smile or a grave
glance of inquiry at the question, as I had expected. I nodded toward
him.

"_Mais oui_," cried out the colonel. "One has heard of you, _mon ami_.
One will talk to you later of shooting."

Rafael, not lifting his head, answered quietly, "_C'est bien, m'sieur._"