Pierre's voice, and as the sweeps began to flash in
the setting sun, it gave way entirely to the evening chant of the
Paddling Song.
David gripped himself as he listened and watched the slowly
drifting glory of the world that came down to the shores of the
river. He could see St. Pierre clearly, for the bateau had worked
its way nearer. He could see the bare heads and naked arms of the
rivermen at the sweeps. The sweet breath of the forests filled his
lungs, as that picture lay before him, and there came into his
soul a covetousness and a yearning where before there had been
humiliation and the grim urge of duty. He could breathe the air of
that world, he could look at its beauty, he could worship it--and
yet he knew that he was not a part of it as those others were a
part of it. He envied the men at the sweeps; he felt his heart
swelling at the exultation and joy in their song. They were going
home--home down the big rivers, home to the heart of God's
Country, where wives and sweethearts and happiness were waiting
for them, and their visions were his visions as he stared wide-
eyed and motionless over the river. And yet he was irrevocably an
alien.
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