Like Tayoga, the raw chill of the morning and the desolate forest of winter had no effect upon him.

He too, was happy, uplifted, and he sang to himself the song he had heard De Galissonniere sing: "Hier sur le pont d'Avignon J'ai oui chanter la belle, Lon, la, J'ai oui chanter la belle, Elle chantait d'un ton si doux Comme une demoiselle, Lon, la, Comme une demoiselle." All that seemed far away now, yet the words of the song brought it back, and his extraordinary imagination made the scenes at Bigot's ball pass before his eyes again, almost as vivid as reality.

Once more he saw the Intendant, his portly figure swaying in the dance, his red face beaming, and once more he beheld the fiery duel in the garden when the hunter dealt with Boucher, the bully and bravo.
Quebec was far away.

He had been glad to go to it, and he had been glad to come away, too.

He would be glad to go to it again, and he felt that he would do so some day, though the torrent of battle now rolled between.