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Even fiddlers and jollity were not lacking. A heavier race would have come to blows in that strait enclosure, but these French and half-breeds, in danger of scalping if the Indians proved turbulent, dried their eyes after losses, and shook their legs ready for a dance at the scraping of a violin. Little Ignace Pelott was directly pulling at Mari-anson's petticoat to get attention.
The water say to people on Mackinac, "Rosalin and Ignace Pelott, they are on Round Island." What make you proud, maybe, when you turn it and look at it the other way, make you sick. But I cannot walk the broken ice, and if I could, she would be lef alone with the dogs. I think I will build another camp.
"Sing, M'sieu' Pelott," says Rosalin. Oh God, yes I it is easy to sing with a vild-cat watch you on one side and a woman on the other! "But I not know anything except boat songs." "Sing boat songs." So I sing like a bateau full of voyageurs, and the dark echo, and that vild-cat must be astonish.
I wrap her up in the fur, and she thank me and tremble, and look me through with her big black eyes so that I am ready to go down in the strait. The people on the shore hurrah, though some of them cry out to warn us. "The ice is cracked from Mission Point to the hook of Round Island, Ignace Pelott!" "I know that," I say. "Good-day, messieurs!"
On the 15th day of March, 1897, Ignace Pelott died at Mackinac Island, aged ninety-three years. The old quarter-breed, son of a half breed Chippewa mother and French father, took with him into silence much wilderness lore of the Northwest.
I understand now why she sit down so hopeless when we first land. I have not know much about women, but I understand how she feel. It is not her lady, or the dark, or the ice break up, or the cold. It is not Ignace Pelott. It is the name of being prison on Round Island with a man till the ice is out of the straits. She is so shame she want to die. I think I will kill myself.
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