A soft word came from the
lips of the girl, and it seemed to Carrigan that her head was held
higher in the moon glow. The chant increased in volume, a
rhythmic, throbbing, savage music that for a hundred and fifty
years had come from the throats of men along the Three Rivers. It
thrilled Carrigan as they bore down upon it. It was not song as
civilization would have counted song. It was like an explosion, an
exultation of human voice unchained, ebullient with the love of
life, savage in its good-humor. It was LE GAITE DE COEUR of the
rivermen, who thought and sang as their forefathers did in the
days of Radisson and good Prince Rupert; it was their merriment,
their exhilaration, their freedom and optimism, reaching up to the
farthest stars. In that song men were straining their vocal
muscles, shouting to beat out their nearest neighbor, bellowing
like bulls in a frenzy of sudden fun. And then, as suddenly as it
had risen in the night, the clamor of voices died away. A single
shout came up the river. Carrigan thought he heard a low rumble of
laughter. A tin pan banged against another. A dog howled. The flat
of an oar played a tattoo for a moment on the bottom of a boat.
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