Amid a shower of lively conversation and laughter, the ladies seated
themselves in the light canoes, which danced like corks upon the
water. The gentlemen took the paddles, and, expert as Indians in
the use of them, swept out over the surface of the lake, which was
now all aglow with the bright crimson of sunset.
In the bow of one of the canoes sat the Arion of Tilly, Jean de La
Marche; a flute or two accompanied his violin, and a guitar tinkled
sweetly under the fingers of Heloise de Lotbiniere. They played an
old air, while Jean led the chorus in splendid voice:
"'Nous irons sur l'eau,
Nous y prom-promener,
Nous irons jouer dans l'isle.'"
The voices of all united in the song as the canoes swept away around
a little promontory, crowned with three pine-trees, which stood up
in the blaze of the setting sun like the three children in the fiery
furnace, or the sacred bush that burned and was not consumed.
Faint and fainter, the echoes repeated the receding harmony, until
at last they died away. A solemn silence succeeded.
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