Days upon days, they travelled with incredible labour, now portaging over
a stubborn country, now, placing their lives in hazard as they shot down
untravelled rapids.
One day on the Black Wing River a canoe was torn open and its three
occupants were thrown into the rapids. Two of them were expert swimmers
and were able to catch the stern of another canoe as it ran by, and
reached safe water, bruised but alive. The third was a boy, Maurice
Joval, the youngest of the party, whom Iberville had been at first loth
to bring with him. But he had remembered his own ambitious youth, and
had consented, persuading De Troyes that the lad was worth encouragement.
His canoe was not far behind when the other ran on the rocks. He saw the
lad struggle bravely and strike out, but a cross current caught him and
carried him towards the steep shore. There he was thrown against a rock.
His strength seemed to fail, but he grasped the rock. It was scraggy,
and though it tore and bruised him he clung to it.
Iberville threw off his doublet, and prepared to spring as his boat came
down. But another had made ready. It was the abbe, with his cassock
gone, and his huge form showing finely. He laid his hand upon
Iberville's arm.
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