The Indian summer, that lingers in the Canadian forest after the fall of the leaves, had passed away.

The earth lay frozen, ready to bear the snow.

The rivers, with edge of thin ice upon their quiet places, rolled, gathering into the surface of their waters the cold that would so soon create their crystal prison.
The bright sun of a late November day was shining upon a small lake that lay in the lonely region to the west of the Gaspe Peninsula near the Matapediac Valley.

There was one farm clearing on a slope of the wild hills that encircled the lake.

The place was very lonely.