"
A strong and steady east wind had driven away all vestige of the storm.
The sea was running westward in long and swinging leaps, colorful,
dazzling, foam-crested. The singing air was spangled with frosty
brine-mist; a thousand flashes were cast back from the city windows;
the flower of the lily fluttered from a hundred masts. A noble vision,
truly, was the good ship Saint Laurent, standing out boldly against the
clear horizon and the dark green of the waters. High up among the
spars and shrouds swarmed the seamen. Canvas flapped and bellied as it
dropped, from arm to arm, sending the fallen snow in a flurry to the
decks. On the poop-deck stood the black-gowned Jesuits, the sad-faced
nuns, several members of the great company, soldiers and adventurers.
The wharves and docks and piers were crowded with the curious:
bright-gowned peasants, soldiers from the fort, merchants, and a
sprinkling of the noblesse. It was not every day that a great ship
left the harbor on so long and hazardous a voyage.
The Chevalier leaned against the railing, dreamily noting the white
faces in the sunshine. He was still vaguely striving to convince
himself that he was in the midst of some dream.
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