shadow of death. In the midst of it, where the trees had nearly all
disappeared, and where the ground was covered with coarse wild grass,
we came upon the Morancy River, a placid yellow stream twenty or
twenty-five yards wide, abounding with trout. We walked a short
distance along its banks and peered curiously into its waters. The
mountains on either hand had been burned by the fire until in places
their great granite bones were bare and white.

At another point we were within ear-shot, for a mile or more, of a
brawling stream in the valley below us, and now and then caught a
glimpse of foaming rapids or cascades through the dense spruce,--a
trout stream that probably no man had ever fished, as it would be quite
impossible to do so in such a maze and tangle of woods.

We neither met, nor passed, nor saw any travelers till late in the
afternoon, when we descried far ahead a man on horseback. It was a
welcome relief. It was like a sail at sea. When he saw us he drew rein
and awaited our approach. He, too, had probably tired of the solitude
and desolation of the road. He proved to be a young Canadian going to
join the gang of workmen at the farther end of the road.

About four o'clock we passed another small lake, and in a few moments
more drew up at the bridge over the Jacques Cartier River, and our
forty-mile ride was finished. There was a stable here that had been
used by the road-builders, and was now used by the teams that hauled in
their supplies. This would do for the horse; a snug log shanty built by
an old trapper and hunter for use in the winter, a hundred yards below
the bridge, amid the spruces on the bank of the river, when rebedded
and refurnished, would do for us. The river at this point was a swift,
black stream from thirty to forty feet wide, with a strength and a