^ 
 
TLbc iRomance of a Jesuit /iMssion 
 
OK 
 
 Romance Of a 3e$uit mission 
 
 a 1bl0torkal IFlovel 
 
 iD* Boutcbiet Sanfort) 
 
 mew ^orft 
 
 Cbe JSaftct ^ ^ai2lor Company 
 
 5 8n& 7 JEast Siftccntb Street 
 
Cop^dgbt, 1807, big 
 Ube Salter & Ua^lor Company 
 
 TROW DIRECTORY 
 
 PRINTING AND BOOKBINOINO COMPANY 
 
 HEW YORK 
 
Uo tbe 
 
 IRev. milliam S. IRalnatorD, D.2). 
 
 Hn^ tbc Hssfstant Clergy of St, (Seovge'a Cburcb, 'Wew lorft, 
 
 in IRecognition of tbefr IRcvercnce for anl) S^mpatbg 
 
 witb tbe Earnest jfaitb of ©tbec IBicn, tbougb 
 
 it be not in Hll TKHa^s in Hccor6 wftb 
 
 Ubeir ©wn 
 
 Cv^^r^ 
 
 u»' ■ i^' i^^ ifc^ \j? ^ 
 
preface 
 
 The ancient country of the Hurons is now the 
 northern and eastern portions of Simcoe County, 
 Ontario. It Hes within the peninsula formed by 
 the Nottawasaga and Matchedash bays of Lake 
 Huron, the River Severn, and Lake Simcoe. In 
 this area the sites of more than a hundred Huron 
 villages have been located. The Hurons were in- 
 cessantly harassed by hostile tribes, and were com- 
 pelled to move from one place to another for safety. 
 . The first intention of the Jesuits was to form per- 
 manent missions in each of the principal Huron 
 towns, but before the close of the year 1639 they 
 were obliged to relinquish this idea. They there- 
 fore established a central station as a base of opera- 
 tions, as a residence, fort, magazine, and hospital. 
 The site is near the present town of Midland on 
 Gloucester Bay, not far from the little River Wye. 
 Sainte Marie, as represented in its ruins to-day, is 
 the oldest, and, with the exception of the remains 
 of the fort on Isle St. Joseph, the only work of its 
 kind in the Province of Ontario. The Canadian 
 Institute has taken steps to insure the preservation 
 of the relics of this monument. 
 
 7 
 
8 IPretace 
 
 Of the mission and the Fathers Parkman speaks 
 as follows: 
 
 *'On two sides the fort was a continuous wall of 
 masonry, flanked with square bastions, and proba- 
 bly used as magazines, storehouses, or lodgings. 
 The sides toward the river and lake had no other 
 defence than a ditch and palisade, flanked, like the 
 others, by bastions, over each of which was dis- 
 played a large cross. The buildings within included 
 a church, kitchen, refectory, places of retreat 
 for religious instruction, and lodgings. Beyond 
 the ditch or canal which opened on the river 
 was a large area, still traceable, in the form of an 
 irregular triangle, surrounded by a ditch, and ap- 
 parently by palisades. It seems to have been meant 
 for the protection of the Indian visitors who came 
 in throngs to Sainte Marie, and who were lodged in 
 a large house of bark, after the Huron manner. 
 Here, perhaps, was also the hospital, which was 
 placed without the walls, in order that Indian 
 women, as well as men, might be admitted to it." 
 
 ''A life sequestered from social intercourse, and 
 remote from every prize which ambition holds 
 worth the pursuit, or a lonely death, under forms, 
 perhaps the most appalling — these were the mis- 
 sionaries' alternatives. Their maligners may taunt 
 them, if they will, with credulity, superstition, or a 
 blind enthusiasm; but slander itself cannot accuse 
 them of hypocrisy or ambition.'* M. B. S. 
 
Contenta 
 
 1. 
 
 A Mysterious Arrival .... 
 
 II 
 
 II. 
 
 KiSHIK AND NiALONA .... 
 
 . 19 
 
 III. 
 
 L6ON DE CHAROLAIS .... 
 
 . 25 
 
 IV. 
 
 Seeking a Clew 
 
 . 29 
 
 V. 
 
 Life in the Palisades .... 
 
 . 36 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Missionaries and Their Flock . 
 
 . 48 
 
 VII. 
 
 Leon Receives Notice of Banishment 
 
 • 55 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Last Words with Br^beuf . 
 
 . 64 
 
 IX. 
 
 Father Br^beuf Visits Dorothy 
 
 . 72 
 
 X. 
 
 The Iroquois! The Iroquois! 
 
 . 84 
 
 XI. 
 
 Martyrdom. Farewell Message of Bi 
 
 ^e- 
 
 
 beuf 
 
 • 94 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Search for the Dead . . . 
 
 . 100 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Anxious Times 
 
 . 106 
 
 XIV. 
 
 In Peril in the Ruins .... 
 
 . no 
 
 XV. 
 
 Barred Out 
 
 . 119 
 
 XVI. 
 
 A Feast of the Dead .... 
 9 
 
 . 129 
 
lo Contents 
 
 XVII. The Departure from Sainte Marie 
 
 XVIII. On the Isle St. Joseph. Rene Seeks 
 Dorothy's Confidence 
 
 XIX. The Insolence of Hauteroche 
 
 XX. Washaka Makes the Charge of 
 Treachery 
 
 XXI. An Escape and a Meeting 
 
 XXII. Tempted in the Wilderness . 
 
 XXIII. Dorothy's Confession 
 
 XXIV. The Return of the Wanderers . 
 
 XXV. Departure of Leon and Bressani for 
 
 Quebec 
 
 XXVI. A Dreary Winter .... 
 
 XXVII. Brother Rene 
 
 XXVIII. Abandonment of the Huron Mission 
 XXIX. Dorothy in Peril .... 
 
 XXX. An Unexpected Visitor . 
 
 XXXI. Leon's Successful Quest 
 
 XXXII. A Forest Celebration . 
 
 XXXIII. To Him that Overcometh 
 
Z\)c IRomance of a Jeeutt flDleeion 
 
 I 
 H /iDpstettous Hrrival 
 
 Beyond the border of the forest there was a wide 
 clearing, and far across this clearing was a fortifica- 
 tion, from which the lights gleamed through the 
 swiftly falling snow. It was the central station of 
 the Jesuits of the Huron Mission — Fort Sainte 
 Marie. 
 
 On this winter night of the year 1649, the Fa- 
 thers, who had gathered from their scattered mis- 
 sions to attend one of the periodical councils at the 
 fort, had assembled in the refectory of the resi- 
 dence. They had spent the day in devotion and 
 consultation, and were now seated about a long 
 table made of rough boards. At another table sat 
 the members of the household — soldiers, traders 
 and laborers. 
 
 As this was a festive occasion, there was on each 
 table a large dish of venison, a rare treat. Instead 
 of bread, there were coarse cakes of pounded maize; 
 the vegetables were baked squash, and a mixture 
 
12 XTbe IRomance of a Jesuit /Mission 
 
 ' " of corn'^ and' -beans, like succotash. The everyday 
 
 V';' ^fai'c' was salami te, composed of pounded maize, 
 
 boiled, arid seasoned with scraps of smoked fish. 
 
 The Father Superior, Paul Ragueneau, sat in 
 the place of honor. At his right was Father Bres- 
 sani, whose scarred visage bore witness to his 
 trials as a pioneer of the Faith. Near him were 
 Jean de Brebeuf and Gabriel Lalemant, from the 
 Mission of St. Ignace. There, too, were the schol- 
 arly Noel Chabanel, the gentle Charles Garnier, and 
 their colleagues, eighteen in all. 
 
 A silence had fallen upon them, for Joseph Chau- 
 monot had announced that he had seen Antoine 
 Daniel, the martyr missionary of St. Joseph, seated 
 in his place, that had been left vacant. His coun- 
 tenance, so said Chaumonot, was radiant and ma- 
 jestic, and the Fathers believed that the spirit of 
 the proto-martyr had appeared to them, to inspire 
 them to endure to the end. 
 
 Though the night was cold, the rudely built hall 
 was warm and cheerful, for great blazing logs 
 crackled in the stone fireplace. Presently the mis- 
 sionaries began to recall experiences in their earlier, 
 unsubstantial houses, and in the bark lodges of the 
 Hurons, where the smoke of the fires had no outlet 
 but a hole in the roof; and where, with inflamed 
 and streaming eyes, they had spent many even- 
 ings, trying to study by the dim light of smoky 
 fires. 
 
B /ID^sterious Hrrlval 13 
 
 The conversation at the other table was ani- 
 mated, but the voices v^ere subdued, lest they dis- 
 turb the priests. 
 
 Presently a laborer remarked, "Jules Venette is 
 long absent; yet he said he would haste to return 
 for his supper." 
 
 **It may be the wind had forced open the church 
 doors," said Pierre Mounier, another laborer. "I 
 will place his portion and the boy^s by the lire; so 
 they have not cold fare." 
 
 Notwithstanding the protection of the walls, the 
 wind roared within the fort, and the drifts were 
 high, so Jules and a boy, Bernard Gautier, had been 
 sent out to see if the windows and doors of the 
 church v/ere securely fastened, and to sweep away 
 the snow^ if any had drifted in. After attending to 
 their errand, the two had passed the gate that 
 opened toward the forest. 
 
 ''Jules," pleaded the boy, "open the gate and 
 look out. I want to see how high the drifts rise." 
 
 Jules wished to return to the warmth of the hall; 
 but he yielded to Bernard's plea and opened the 
 gate. 
 
 Some of the drifts were almost even with the 
 tops of the walls. 
 
 "It's well for us," said Jules, "that no Iroquois 
 have been seen of late; for were they near us now, 
 they would pack the snow and scale the wall." 
 
 He stood in silence for a moment, and looked 
 
14 Ube IRomance of a Jesuit /iDlsslon 
 
 toward the forest. Presently he clutched the boy's 
 arm, and said, in a hoarse whisper, '' Bernard, look! 
 What see you?'' 
 
 Bernard, peering through the snow-wreaths to a 
 drift a few yards distant, saw an object that, to his 
 terrified eyes, appeared to be of gigantic propor- 
 tions. 
 
 He stood, almost paralyzed with fear. Then 
 Jules seized him, and drew him within the gate. 
 
 When the gate closed there came a sound that 
 chilled the blood in their veins — a shrill, agonized 
 wail — mingling with the howling of the wind, it 
 seemed Hke the cry of an animal in its death-throes. 
 
 " Jules, Jules, what is it? " Bernard spoke in a 
 low, awed tone, as if he feared the dread thing 
 might hear him. 
 
 Jules crossed himself. " I know not what it is. 
 It is not of human form, and I fear it will bring evil 
 to this place.'* 
 
 The pair made their way to the residence as 
 quickly as they could. But, in his haste, Bernard 
 tripped and twisted his foot under him. When 
 Jules helped him to rise, he limped, and was obliged 
 to go slowly. 
 
 The cry came to their ears again, but it was 
 weaker. 
 
 'Jules," whispered the boy, "it is the voice of a 
 woman." 
 
 "Hush! I tell you it is nothing human. The 
 
H /iDgstertous Hvrival 15 
 
 creature is full ten feet high. Saw you not its mon- 
 strous size?" 
 
 When they reached the kitchen Bernard sank on 
 a bench, and Jules took off his moccasin and bound 
 the maimed foot. Then, supporting the limping 
 boy, he entered the hall. 
 
 One of the priests was making an address, and 
 every one was listening, so Jules must defer his tale. 
 The Superior motioned to him to seat himself be- 
 side Bernard, and finish his interrupted meal. 
 
 In the cheerful blaze of the fire, with his com- 
 rades about him, and satisfying food before him, the 
 creature of the snow began to assume less formid- 
 able proportions. Was it possible that the strange 
 shape had been formed from the snow-flakes by the 
 wind? Was the terrible cry only the voice of the 
 storm? He could not readily believe that he and 
 his companion had been so deceived; yet he foresaw 
 that he might bring on himself the ridicule of his 
 comrades by his tale of a phantom, and he was glad 
 that the long address gave him time for considera- 
 tion. 
 
 He had just whispered to Bernard to say nothing 
 about the monster when there came a knocking 
 at the door. Huron visitors sometimes arrived 
 late in the night; but the sound was neither the 
 rough pounding of a warrior, nor the timid tapping 
 of a Huron girl. It had a fine, but penetrating 
 quality. 
 
1 6 zbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDisslon 
 
 Every eye turned to the door, but no one rose, 
 and no word of welcome was uttered. It was evi- 
 dent to every man that no ordinary visitor stood 
 without. 
 
 The faces of Jules and Bernard grew ghastly. 
 
 The rapping was repeated, accompanied by a low, 
 moaning sound. 
 
 'The gates are closed," said Father Ragueneau. 
 *T know not how a stranger could come within the 
 fort. Yet some poor wanderer may seek shelter 
 this bitter night; and, whether it be friend or foe, 
 we should not refuse it. Take arms, my sons, lest 
 this be a snare; then, Victor Caradeuc, open the 
 door with caution." 
 
 The men seized the weapons that were always at 
 hand, and stood on the defensive, while Victor un- 
 barred the door. He had intended to look out cau- 
 tiously, but the object that confronted him so un- 
 nerved him that he threw the door wide open, and 
 the creature staggered into the hall. 
 
 Some gazed in silence. Others drew back, and 
 made the sacred sign, as if to ward away some evil 
 thing. Here and there were heard exclamations 
 of awe and wonder. 
 
 The visitor's eyes glanced from one to another; 
 its lips muttered unintelligible sounds. 
 
 Brebeuf left his place, and strode toward it. As 
 he approached, it lifted up its hands, as if with a last 
 effort, and fell heavily on the floor. 
 
E /IDsstetious Htrtval 17 
 
 The Fathers drew near, but their steps were 
 strangely light, as if they were not treading the 
 solid floor. The members of the household, at 
 greater distance, peered eagerly. The shorter ones 
 tiptoed to look over the shoulders of their compan- 
 ions. 
 
 The form moaned, gasped feebly, then lay silent. 
 
 Brebeuf stooped, raised it in his strong arms, and 
 bore it to a bench which was covered by a robe of 
 bear skin. 
 
 The hesitancy, induced by wonder, had been but 
 of momentary duration. The strange visitor ap- 
 peared to be in sore distress, and the Fathers were 
 anxious to do what they could to reUeve it. 
 
 The face now upturned to the light was that of 
 a young girl, and, though pallid and pinched with 
 cold, its rare beauty was apparent. The brilliant 
 eyes were half closed. Some locks of hair had es- 
 caped from their coil beneath the hood, and hung 
 to the ground. They were stiff with crusted snow, 
 to which clung fragments of bark and pine needles. 
 When the hood was removed the hair shone in the 
 firelight with a rich golden hue, with a tinge of red. 
 The tattered skirt was heavily encrusted with snow. 
 The boots showed rents and gashes made by rough 
 travel. A heavy cloak enveloped the upper part 
 of the body, and had probably saved the girl from 
 freezing. 
 
 The Superior directed the men to leave the room. 
 
1 8 XTbe IRomance of a Jesuit /RMsston 
 
 The crowding toward the couch hindered the min- 
 istrations to the sufferer. 
 
 No wonder that these men had at first looked 
 upon the visitor as a supernatural being. No white 
 woman had ever been within the walls of Sainte 
 Marie; as far as they knew, not one had been within 
 hundreds of miles of that mission. Some of them 
 had not seen the face of a countrywoman for years. 
 And how had such a fragile creature come through 
 the forest in midwinter by a route whose hardships 
 had tested the endurance of strong men? 
 
 The Fathers knelt by the couch, removed the 
 torn, wet boots, and chafed the frost-touched feet 
 and hands. 
 
 Brebeuf went to the room without, and directed 
 one of the traders, "Victor Caradeuc, go quickly 
 with Rene le Breton to the lodge of Kishik. Tell 
 her of the arrival of this young stranger, and bid 
 her and Nialona bring warm clothing to replace 
 her frozen garments. Then return here with both 
 women. Should the girl become conscious, she 
 may be comforted by their presence, though they 
 be of darker skin." 
 
II 
 
 Ikisbt?? an^ IRtalona 
 
 The lodge occupied by Kishik and her grand- 
 daughter was situated outside the fort in a triangu- 
 lar-shaped piece of ground enclosed by palisades. 
 There was a hospital in this enclosure, and there 
 were larger dwellings, for the old men, women and 
 orphan children, whom the Fathers had gathered 
 there for protection and instruction. At one side 
 were two or three bark lodges of great length, for 
 the reception of visiting Hurons. Other buildings 
 were of rough boards or logs. 
 
 When the messengers knocked at Kishik's door, 
 a girl's voice asked, in good French, " Who is with- 
 out?" 
 
 The manner of the knock informed her that the 
 visitor was not an Indian. 
 
 " Caradeuc and Le Breton," said Victor. " We 
 bring a message from the Superior." 
 
 The girl opened the door and revealed a small 
 room, whose furniture had evidently been made in 
 the wilderness with imperfect tools. 
 
 An old woman had been dozing on a rug which 
 lay near the table. A chair stood beside the table 
 
 19 
 
20 ube IRomance ot a Result /IDtsslon 
 
 for her use; but partial civilization had never over- 
 come her early habit of squatting on the floor. On 
 state occasions, such as a visit from one of the 
 Fathers, she sat upright, and very uneasily, in her 
 chair. 
 
 The girl had been reading by the dim Hght of a 
 dip candle, and her book lay open on the table. 
 
 She wore a blanket dress, loosely made, and 
 girded at the waist by a band formed of strips of 
 deerskin, interwoven with colored bristles. A simi- 
 lar band decorated the neck. Her black hair was 
 neatly braided in two long plaits that hung below 
 the belt. Her speech and movements indicated 
 that she had been accustomed to civilized life. 
 
 In the year 1631, Kishik, with Nialona, then an 
 infant of a few months, had been rescued from a 
 band of Iroquois in the neighborhood of Quebec. 
 Their captors had murdered all the other members 
 of their family. The Frenchmen, who had taken 
 them from the Iroquois, put them in charge of the 
 Jesuits, who sent them to a convent in France, and 
 there they passed seventeen years. They were hap- 
 py years to Nialona, who had known no less re- 
 stricted life; but Kishik found them most weari- 
 some. She could not adapt herself to civilization, 
 and her devices to evade the efforts of the good 
 nuns for her improvement tried their patience sore- 
 ly. Nialona was a bright and diligent pupil. When 
 she had reached the age of eighteen, she was sent 
 
Tkisbtft auD IRtalona 21 
 
 back to Canada with her grandmother, and was 
 soon afterward called to the Mission of Sainte 
 Marie, to assist in teaching Huron women and chil- 
 dren. 
 
 '* Mademoiselle Nialona," said Victor, " a stran- 
 ger, a woman, has come to the fort through the 
 storm. The Superior directs you to find dry, warm 
 clothing for her, and to return with us." 
 
 Kishik rose and held her head as if Hstening to 
 the howHng of the wind. *'Her own lodge should 
 hold her this night," she grumbled. 
 
 Nialona at once busied herself in making up a 
 bundle of clothing. When she had done so, she 
 wrapped Kishik warmly, and sent her out, leaning 
 on the arm of Rene le Breton. She put out her 
 light, and followed with Victor. 
 
 She had not doubted that the stranger was a 
 Huron woman. She had often been called to min- 
 ister to squaws or their children who had arrived 
 at the fort pleading for aid. On the way from 
 the palisaded enclosure, she questioned Caradeuc. 
 *'What brought the stranger here at this hour?" 
 
 Caradeuc was reticent. He wished to see Nialo- 
 na's surprise. 
 
 The snow had drifted in great heaps across the 
 path, and more than once Nialona plunged waist 
 deep in a drift. Caradeuc ofTered her the support 
 of his arm, and was delighted by her acceptance; 
 mindful of her convent training, she received any 
 
22 xibc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDission 
 
 advances from the young men of the mission with 
 much dignity and reserve. The Christian girls 
 within the pahsades were strictly guarded, and 
 were seldom permitted to receive a visit from one of 
 the soldiers or traders without the surveillance of 
 a priest. Caradeuc appreciated his opportunity, 
 and would gladly have taken advantage of it by 
 avoiding the short cut to the fort, or by lingering 
 in the drifts; but the urgency of the case compelled 
 haste. Kishik, plodding slowly, had not reached 
 the fort when Caradeuc knocked at the door of the 
 refectory. 
 
 The door was opened by one of the priests, and 
 the young man followed Nialona into the room. 
 
 The stranger lay on the couch, moaning faintly. 
 
 Nialona did not see her face till she was almost 
 beside her. Then she exclaimed in astonishment. 
 
 The attending priest held up his hand in warning. 
 
 "How beautiful, how beautiful!" said the Indian 
 girl in a low voice. *'I thought to see one of our 
 own people." 
 
 "Did not Monsieur Caradeuc explain?" 
 
 Caradeuc smiled. "Pardon me. Father; I planned 
 a little surprise; yet we have brought the clothing. 
 It is here." 
 
 Nialona longed to ask questions, but her training 
 enabled her to restrain the expression of curiosity. 
 She went to the door to inform Kishik that the 
 stranger was a white girl. Kishik received the in- 
 
Tklsbtl? an5 IFllalona 23 
 
 formation in her usual stolid way. Her early life 
 had been marked by tragic incident; the arrival of 
 a stranger was a matter of little account to her. 
 She was more interested in the cheerful fire and the 
 remains of the feast on the table. But she listened 
 with docility to the instructions of the priest, and 
 when she was left alone with Nialona and the pa- 
 tient, her aged hands were gentle enough in remov- 
 ing the ice-crusted clothing, from which the water 
 was dripping to the floor. 
 
 Presently the girl opened her eyes and looked at 
 Nialona in an appealing, bewildered way. Nialona 
 kissed her forehead, hoping to comfort her. The 
 pale lips quivered, as if some memory were stirred. 
 The Indian maid spoke soothing words, and stroked 
 the stranger's face gently, and soon she lay quiet 
 again, and apparently unconscious. 
 
 On account of the storm, the Fathers had de- 
 cided that she should not be removed to the hospi- 
 tal. So the couch was made soft by additional 
 rugs, a bed was prepared for Kishik in a corner, and 
 Nialona had a fur rug and blankets on the floor 
 beside her patient. A screen was drawn before the 
 fire, and a night lamp, formed of a floating wick in 
 a tiny vessel of oil, was placed so it should not dis- 
 turb the girl. 
 
 Nialona was awakened from a light doze by a 
 footstep in the room. She started up and saw a 
 young man who had not been present at the even- 
 
24 TLbc IRomance ot a Sesuit fBMsston 
 
 ing*s feast. He had gone out of his way to pursue 
 a lurking foe, and having returned very hungry, had 
 come to the refectory in search of food. He looked 
 about him in astonishment; then, perceiving that 
 Nialona was awake, stepped lightly toward her to 
 inquire who was ill. 
 
 ''Hush!" whispered Nialona. *'It is a stranger, a 
 girl who came in this night, laden with snow, and 
 with clothing torn, as if from a long journey. But 
 whence she came, no one knows; and she, being in 
 delirium, cannot tell us." 
 
 At that moment the girl moved, then suddenly 
 raised herself and sat up. She looked about her 
 for a few moments in a bewildered way until her 
 glance fell on young Leon de Charolais; a gleam of 
 intelligence lighted her face, and she looked at him 
 as if she recognized a friend. His face flushed, 
 then paled; there was an expression in her eyes of 
 trust, of appeal, that deeply moved him. Presently 
 she swayed. Nialona put her arm about her, and 
 laid her gently down. Her eyes closed, and she 
 lapsed into unconsciousness. 
 
 De Charolais looked at her for a few moments, 
 then turned abruptly, and left the room. 
 
Ill 
 %ion ^e Cbarolale 
 
 From childhood De Charolais had wished to be a 
 soldier, to be valorous in arms, like other men of 
 his noble house. His mother, devoted to the 
 Church, tried to persuade him to become a soldier 
 of the Faith rather than an officer in the army of 
 France. But her plea was without effect till she lay- 
 on her deathbed; then, when she sent for him and 
 besought him to grant her last request, to permit 
 her to pass from earth in joy instead of mourning, 
 he made a solemn vow that he would soon enter his 
 studies for the priesthood, and would never turn 
 back or fail in his promise. His heart rebelled; but 
 he compelled himself to submission. The duties as- 
 signed to him in his novitiate were repugnant to. 
 him; but he did them thoroughly, as far as outward 
 act was concerned. He could not stimulate in him- 
 self any of the enthusiasm or religious zeal that he 
 saw in others. His heart reached out toward the 
 life he had relinquished; but his will was strong; he 
 disciplined himself rigorously, and succeeded in 
 keeping his reluctant feet in their path, his unwill- 
 ing hands to their service. 
 
 25 
 
26 ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /IDtsBlon 
 
 When he was yet a student, before he had taken 
 priestly vows, he was ordered to the Jesuit Mission 
 in North America. His father at first sought to 
 obtain a remission of this sentence of banishment. 
 He had but two sons, and Leon, the younger, was 
 his favorite. He had felt keenly the necessary sepa- 
 ration when Leon entered the novitiate, and the 
 boy had deplored the loss of his father's compan- 
 ionship, and had used every opportunity to renew 
 it. His father was his ideal. But after a consulta- 
 tion with the General of the Order, in which Caraffa 
 promised to recall the young man in two or three 
 years, if his conduct should justify it, the father 
 withdrew his plea. 
 
 Why did the Society of Jesus send a youth of the 
 temperament of De Charolais to the work of a mis- 
 sion in the wilderness? That Society knew its men. 
 It knew that this one had not the spiritual devotion 
 that had enabled others of similar nature to curb it, 
 or transform it to spiritual power. He longed for 
 the life of court or camp, and in that longing lay 
 danger. In the outdoor life of the mission, in the 
 fascinating element of peril, his energies, his rest- 
 less, uncompliant disposition, would find a vent 
 which could not be given in the Old World. To the 
 laborious missions, the Society usually sent men of 
 tried virtue; but it sometimes found it expedient 
 to transport a troublesome member to a remote 
 country. 
 
Xeon De Cbarolats 27 
 
 Every year that Society made a list of its houses 
 and members; in which the names, talents, virt- 
 ues and failings of each were recorded. In the 
 course of training, instruction was skilfully adapted 
 to the bent of the individual. One of the Generals, 
 alluding exultingly to his philosophers, mathema- 
 ticians, and orators, exclaimed: "And we have men 
 for martyrdom, if they be required! " 
 
 The men who had been sent to the Huron Mis- 
 sion were men for martyrdom, heroic and devoted, 
 and from among the purest of their order. 
 
 No charge of any serious moral failing had ever 
 been made against De Charolais; and, with the ex- 
 ception of some boyish pranks, he had outwardly 
 kept the law of obedience, but the authorities dis- 
 cerned the inward revolt, which might at any time 
 become active. They represented to the General 
 that his tendencies might be repressed or diverted 
 by the life in the Huron Mission; and CarafYa, who 
 was much interested in the brilliant youth, ordered 
 him there, in the hope that his waning faith might 
 be renewed and his better nature developed by as- 
 sociation with the devoted missionaries. 
 
 For some time after his arrival he appeared de- 
 spondent, but the despondency passed away under 
 the invigorating influences of his new environment; 
 his natural buoyancy, which he had for years en- 
 deavored to repress, rose and asserted itself un- 
 checked. He was soon the most popular man in 
 
28 XTbe 'K^omance of a Jesuit /HMsalon 
 
 the mission. His genial comradeship, his high spir- 
 its, wit, and good humor, endeared him to the sol- 
 diers and traders. His fine physique and manly 
 strength won the admiration of the young Indians, 
 and they were always ready to leave their gambling 
 games — a source of much uneasiness to the good 
 Fathers — for a race or a wrestle with their hero. 
 The Fathers turned this devotion to good account, 
 and punished unruly Indian boys by forbidding 
 them to join in these recreations, or rewarded them 
 by the promise of an outing with their friend. He 
 had learned many Huron words on his voyage 
 across the Atlantic, from copies he had made of 
 documents that had been sent over by the mission- 
 aries, and was soon able to converse with his Indian 
 companions. So, though the priests regretted his 
 lack of spiritual fervor, they found him a willing 
 and useful assistant, and, at the earliest opportunity 
 sent a satisfactory report to their General. 
 
 On his part, De Charolais v/as well pleased with 
 his new supervisors, and frankly contrasted their 
 mutual trust and good-fellowship with the espion- 
 age that had been a continual source of irritation 
 to him. He became specially attached to Father 
 Brebeuf, and spent much time with him at St. 
 Ignace. 
 
 At the time of the arrival of the mysterious stran- 
 ger, he had been nearly a year in the Mission, and 
 had never given the missionaries any grave anxiety. 
 
Seefttn^ a Clew 
 
 The early morning was clear, and there was little 
 wind. Before dawn laborers had removed the drifts 
 from the paths, and the sick girl, carefully covered 
 from the cold, was carried on a stretcher to Kishik's 
 lodge. She would be more comfortable there than 
 in the hospital. Should she regain consciousness, 
 she might be disturbed by the squaws and sick chil- 
 dren if she were placed in the ward of the Indian 
 women. 
 
 Jules Venette had cautioned Bernard not to men- 
 tion to any one that they had looked through the 
 gateway and seen a strange figure. But Bernard's 
 nature was not adapted for keeping secrets, and 
 he confided the tale to Laurent Girot, who, in turn, 
 repeated it to Pierre Mounier, and it finally came 
 to the ears of the Fathers. 
 
 Jules, in his terror, had not fastened the gate 
 firmly, and the high wind had forced it open far 
 enough to admit the slight form of the girl. Jules 
 was admonished for his carelessness. Any skulking 
 Iroquois might have entered in the same way. But 
 on the other hand Jules consoled himself with the 
 
 29 
 
30 XTbc IRomance ot a 5e0utt flDtsston 
 
 reflection that had the gate been firmly fastened 
 the girl would probably have perished in the snow. 
 
 Several men went out to try to trace her foot- 
 prints, but the drifts had covered them. Beyond 
 the discovery of the open gateway, nothing was 
 added to what they already knew. She had re- 
 tained sufficient consciousness to enable her to 
 seek a shelter, and, when she had succeeded, had 
 fallen into stupor. 
 
 It seemed probable that she had been captured 
 by Iroquois, and had escaped from them. In that 
 case, they might be in the neighborhood; so men 
 were detailed to keep watch. The members of the 
 household were instructed to be silent regarding 
 the white stranger when they were beyond the con- 
 fines of the fort. Kishik and Nialona were cau- 
 tioned to keep the Huron women for the present 
 out of their lodge. Washaka, a Christian Huron 
 girl, was taken into confidence, in order that she 
 might help Nialona to care for the patient. It was 
 in the interests of secrecy that the Fathers had or- 
 dered the removal of the sick girl to Kishik's lodge 
 before the people in the palisades had risen. 
 
 At intervals, for several days, Huron warriors 
 and French soldiers brought in reports of Iroquois 
 lurking in the forest. The palisades were guarded 
 night and day, and arrangements were made to 
 move the women and children to the fort if an at- 
 tack seemed imminent. But no attack was made, 
 
Seel^tno a Clew 31 
 
 and the ambushed men disappeared. Probably 
 their force was too weak to attack Sainte Marie. 
 The Fathers had hoped that the Hurons would 
 capture some of the enemy, from whom they might 
 learn how the young stranger had been brought 
 from the white settlements; but they were disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 Notwithstanding the important questions of 
 missionary effort which the Fathers discussed in 
 council, the chief interest of the household centred 
 in the patient. But days passed and she did not re- 
 cover consciousness; so the missionaries left for 
 their scattered stations without receiving any solu- 
 tion of the mystery. 
 
 After lying in a stupor for some time, she began 
 to mutter and rave, but her words were in a tongue 
 that was not intelHgible to Nialona; and it hap- 
 pened that when any of the priests came in to in- 
 quire about her condition she was silent. 
 
 At last she fell into a natural sleep. The Fathers 
 knew that the crisis was near. She might pass 
 away without waking; she might rouse from sleep, 
 but without a restoration of reason, and sink into 
 the torpor of approaching death; but, should she 
 awake conscious, she would probably live, unless 
 her strength had been exhausted. 
 
 A priest, skilled in medical lore, was watching be- 
 side her when she opened her eyes, and he lifted up 
 
32 Ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /IDission 
 
 his heart in thanksgiving, for the light of reason 
 was in them. 
 
 She looked at him in a bewildered way, and, evi- 
 dently, with some alarm. 
 
 " You have been ill," he said, answering the ap- 
 peal of her eyes; " and we have taken care of you. 
 We hope you will be better soon." 
 
 She shook her head slowly, as a sign that she did 
 not understand. She had never heard the French 
 language spoken. 
 
 Presently she said in English. " This place — I 
 do not know it. All is — so strange." 
 
 The priest had never studied English, and for a 
 few moments he was at a loss. The girl's expres- 
 sion was so perplexed, so pathetic, that he not only 
 pitied her, but feared her distress might cause a 
 relapse. 
 
 He repeated a prayer in Latin. If she was a 
 Catholic, it would be familiar to her. But her face 
 was troubled and anxious as before. That too was 
 an unknown tongue. 
 
 A thought occurred to him. De Charolais was a 
 linguist. He could speak English and German, and 
 it appeared probable that the stranger was English. 
 He called Nialona, told her of the difficulty, and 
 set out in search of the young man. 
 
 De Charolais was at the Mission of St. Louis, 
 three miles away, but a messenger was sent to bid 
 him hasten to the fort. Meanwhile Nialona had 
 
Seehtng a Clew 33 
 
 tried to soothe her patient, and had persuaded her 
 to take some nourishment; but she was working 
 herself into an excited condition by her vain at- 
 tempts to make herself understood when De Charo- 
 lais was announced. 
 
 Nialona had propped her up slightly and wrapped 
 her in a loose garment of a soft blue shade. Her 
 waving golden hair was loosely braided, the color 
 of her gown accented the deep blue of her eyes, ex- 
 citement had deepened their briUiancy and sent a 
 flush to her cheeks. De Charolais thought he had 
 never seen any one so beautiful. 
 
 He sat down and said to her in English. "You 
 have been very ill, and we have nursed you. We 
 are your friends. Do not fear, no one shall harm 
 you." 
 
 Her face flushed, paled, and quivered, and she 
 burst into violent sobbing, which sorely embar- 
 rassed Leon. 
 
 Nialona came and put her arms about her, petted 
 and soothed her, and presently she said, weakly, " It 
 is — for joy — I wept. I feared that never might J 
 hear my own tongue again." 
 
 "We are French, but I and others have learned 
 the English tongue," replied De Charolais. He 
 remembered, and the recollection gave him pleas- 
 ure, that at present he was the only English speak- 
 ing man at the fort. 
 
 "How — came I here?" 
 
34 Ube IRomance of a Jeeuit /iDlsston 
 
 "On a cold and stormy night you arrived, well- 
 nigh frozen, at our doors; not here, but at the fort 
 beyond, where our priests live that they may teach 
 the Indians. You were ill, very ill, and exhausted." 
 
 She lifted her hand to her forehead, as if trying 
 to recall something. 
 
 "Do not think, do not trouble now," he said 
 gently. *' When you are strong you will tell us of 
 yourself." 
 
 She fixed her eyes intently on him. "In the for- 
 est — that — terrible night " 
 
 She shuddered and covered her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 "We will not speak of it now. Let no thought 
 trouble you. With us you are safe. We will care 
 for you. Trust us." 
 
 She smiled sweetly. " I do trust you. You are 
 like — so like " 
 
 She gave a pitiful sigh, and her voice broke. She 
 was very weak, and he feared she was going to cry 
 again. He rose nervously, and said, " I must leave 
 you now with your good nurse. She is of Indian 
 birth, as you see, but she lived in France many 
 years. She knows well how to care for you. Her 
 name is Nialona. She says she wants to be your 
 sister. Say to her, * Nialona, ina soeur,' she will un- 
 derstand." 
 
 The girl repeated it, and her voice was sweet, 
 " Nialona, ma soeur." 
 
Seeftlna a Clew 35 
 
 Nialona's face gleamed. She said a few words to 
 De Charolais. 
 
 ''She asks you to tell her your name," he said to 
 the stranger. 
 
 ''My name is Dorothy." 
 
 The young man repeated it to the Indian girl. 
 Then she knelt by the bedside, took the wasted 
 hands in hers, and said, "Dorothy, Dorothy, ma 
 soeur, ma soeur." 
 
 De Charolais was loath to leave them. When he 
 moved away, Dorothy cried, appealingly: " But — 
 you will come again. You — you only can speak 
 to me." 
 
 "Yes, I will come again." 
 
V 
 
 %itc in tbe paltsa^e0 
 
 Some of the Huron lodges in the paUsades were 
 very long buildings, with partitions of poles and 
 bark separating the inhabitants into families. This 
 was an improvement on the ordinary Indian dwell- 
 ing, in which the house was often one great cham- 
 ber, lodging a number of families. The frames of 
 such dwellings were made of saplings, planted in 
 double rows for the sides of the houses, bent till 
 they met, and lashed together at the tops. Other 
 poles were bound transversely, and the whole was 
 covered with large sheets of bark. There were 
 neither windows nor chimneys. Light and air were 
 supplied by an opening in the roof. At each end 
 was a store-room, where casks of bark, filled with 
 Indian corn, smokdd fish and other provisions not 
 liable to injury from the frost, were stored. Some- 
 times provisions were buried in deep holes in the 
 earth, within or without the houses. Wide scaf- 
 folds, formed of posts and transverse poles and 
 covered with thick sheets of bark, on which were 
 laid mats and skins, were built along the entire 
 length of both sides of the house. In summer, the 
 
 36 
 
Xite in tbe palisades 37 
 
 inmates slept on these scaffolds, and used the space 
 beneath for storage. In winter, they slept around 
 the fires, which were on the ground, in a line down 
 the middle of the dwelling. The influence of the 
 missionaries had improved the interior of the houses 
 in many respects, but the people clung to some of 
 their customs. 
 
 Kishik's lodge had been built under the direction 
 of the Frenchmen. It was a substantial log house, 
 with a sloping roof. It had a stone fireplace and 
 chimney, and, rarest of luxuries, a small glass win- 
 dow in the sitting-room, and a window in each of 
 the three bed-rooms. Kishik had also a kitchen, with 
 a good cellar below. The furniture of this lodge, 
 though made in the wilderness, had a resemblance 
 to that in the abodes of civilization. There were 
 chairs and tables, cupboards and bedsteads. Kishik 
 and Nialona had some toilet articles, brought from 
 France, which were the wonder and delight of the 
 Huron girls who were permitted to see them. 
 Sometimes, as a special treat, Nialona let them look 
 into her mirror, a very small one. They amused 
 themselves by gazing at their reflections in lake or 
 river; but the wonderful mirror was not affected by 
 ripples on the surface or cloudy skies. They ad- 
 mired Nialona's brushes, and had ingeniously man- 
 ufactured some for themselves from bristles, and 
 had learned to brush their hair and braid it neatly. 
 
 Nialona, with Washaka and Panasawa, two or- 
 
38 Ube IRomance ot a Jesuit /IDisston 
 
 phan girls who had been under the care of the mis- 
 sionaries for some years, assisted the Fathers in 
 the instruction of the children. They also taught 
 the Huron women to cook, to keep their lodges 
 in better order, and to care for the younger 
 orphans. 
 
 The priests found the children far more tractable 
 than their elders. Father Daniel, the martyr of 
 St. Joseph, had translated the Pater Noster into 
 Huron rhymes, and the children readily learned this 
 and other prayers, and their musical voices were 
 sometimes heard in sacred song. As rewards of 
 merit, a few beads or two or three prunes or raisins 
 were given. But about the time of Dorothy's ar- 
 rival these treats became rare. The dangers of 
 Iroquois attacks and the possibilities of siege were 
 increasing, and the stores must be economized. 
 
 The winter days, when the stranger lay slowly 
 convalescing in Kishik's lodge, were anxious ones 
 to the missionaries. Straggling parties of hunters 
 brought word that signs of the Iroquois had been 
 seen in the neighborhood. Yet the Hurons would 
 not be roused to take active measures for defence. 
 It was rumored that a thousand Iroquois, chiefly 
 Senecas and Mohawks, had taken the war-path for 
 the Hurons late in the autumn, and were wintering 
 in the forests. The Jesuits counselled and exhorted 
 their Huron people to be ready to meet the danger; 
 but their warnings were vain. The Indians lay idle 
 
%iU in tbe l!^aU0a^e5 39 
 
 in the villages, or made hunting parties for the 
 woods. The anxiety and the preparations for de- 
 fence must be borne by the missionaries and their 
 assistants alone. 
 
 Besides the eighteen priests, there were at this 
 time, in the various stations, four lay brothers, 
 twenty-three men serving without pay, seven hired 
 men, four boys, and eight soldiers. The white 
 traders, many of whom were devoted to the mis- 
 sion, had the right to trade with the Indians, and 
 sell their furs at the magazine of the Company; 
 some of them turned the profits of their trade to 
 the benefit of the mission, with the object of mak- 
 ing it partially self-supporting. But these men, on 
 whom reHance could be placed, were scattered 
 throughout the missions, and would be gathered 
 in the fort only in case the other stations were of 
 necessity abandoned. 
 
 The day after Leon de Charolais had spoken to 
 Dorothy, he was sent on foot with an Indian " run- 
 ner'' to carry a message to a distant mission. As he 
 was swift and sure-footed, he was often appointed 
 to such work, and preferred it to teaching or assist- 
 ing in the services of the Church. Nialona tried to 
 explain his absence by signs; but her patient ap- 
 peared so distressed that she sent for a priest who 
 could speak a few words of English to assure 'her 
 that the interpreter would return in a few days. 
 
 The poor girl, unable to hold communication 
 
40 Ubc iRomance of a Jesuit /©tssion 
 
 with those about her, lay in a depressed and list- 
 less state, and many times Nialona saw tears rolling 
 down her pale cheeks. And who could wonder 
 that she was unhappy? It was probable that she 
 had been seized and carried away h*om her own 
 people. It might be that they had been murdered 
 before her eyes. On the return of De Charolais, 
 her story would be told. 
 
 Meanwhile, with the idea of diverting her, some 
 of the Huron girls were invited to the lodge. They 
 sat on the floor, weaving rush mats or baskets, or 
 making nets from twine which they had spun from 
 hemp by rolling it on their thighs. The stranger 
 watched them for a time with some interest, and 
 then closed her eyes wearily. The next day they 
 brought in new work, thinking variety \vould please 
 her, and while one embroidered a robe, and another 
 worked moccasins with the dyed quills of the 
 hedgehog, a third fashioned decorations with white 
 and purple wampum beads. 
 
 Nialona had a piece of porcupine quill work on 
 hand for the hospital. The groundwork was formed 
 of finely cut strips of leather fastened together as 
 a \varp; these strips were bound two and two by 
 colored quills, wound several times and fastened in- 
 geniously. On this groundwork the Indian girl 
 was interweaving a large cross. She had become 
 skilful in fine embroidery in the French convent; 
 but her supply of materials for such work was very 
 
Xite in tbe ipalisa^ea 41 
 
 small, so she had learned the handiwork of her Hu- 
 ron companions. 
 
 The stranger smiled sweetly when she under- 
 stood that her visitors were trying to divert her; 
 but the smile came with effort. She was very weak 
 yet, too weak to be much interested in anything; 
 when strength returned slowly, keener remem- 
 brance came with it and anguish of heart. 
 
 The soldiers and traders, the French boys in the 
 fort, and the Huron boys in the palisades, sought 
 excuses to call at Kishik's lodge, and some of them 
 brought dainties for the invalid; but since the night 
 of her arrival they had not seen her. 
 
 Young Bernard Gautier had suffered much from 
 remorse. He believed that if Jules Venette and 
 he had searched the drifts when they heard her 
 cry she might have been spared much suffering. 
 He tried to make amends by bringing her such 
 delicacies as he could obtain. He had some nuts 
 left from his autumn store, and these were placed at 
 Nialona's disposal to make cakes for Mademoiselle 
 Dorothee. Bernard had eaten cakes in France with 
 pounded nuts in them. One day he brought a fish 
 which he had caught through a hole in the ice. To 
 his great delight, Nialona invited him to come in. 
 Dorothy was propped up in an easy chair which 
 had been made for her by Caradeuc and Le Breton. 
 Had Kishik accepted all the offers of lounges, 
 chairs, and other furniture of forest manufacture 
 
42 Ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsslon 
 
 for the comfort of the invaHd, her lodge could not 
 have contained them. 
 
 The boy held the fish toward Dorothy, and she 
 understood he had brought it for her. She bowed 
 and smiled pleasantly, and his handsome face 
 flushed with delight; but ^vhen he went out he was 
 more uneasy than before lest she should hear of his 
 shutting the gate against her. When he announced 
 to Marc Fourcheux that he had seen Mademoiselle 
 Dorothee, Marc inquired, jeeringly, " Ah, did the 
 lady desire that you should see in good daylight 
 that her height is not ten feet? " And poor Ber- 
 nard could make no reply. 
 
 In the time that passed before De Charolais re- 
 turned Dorothy learned some French and Huron 
 words, but could not make her hearers under- 
 stand her story. When Nialona told her that the 
 young man was at the fort, and w^ould soon come 
 to see her, her eyes brightened, her listlessness gave 
 place to animation, and Washaka said: "Ah, the 
 white stranger's heart was sore, her voice was si- 
 lent; now she will speak of her own people; her 
 heart will be glad; she will be well." 
 
 Yet it was evident that she shrank from speaking 
 of her people. De Charolais thought her reluctance 
 was explained when she told him that her father 
 and mother had died within a few days of each 
 other, that she had been left penniless, and had 
 
%itc in tbe palisades 43 
 
 been sent from England with strangers to find a 
 home in the New World. 
 
 '' Had you no relatives to care for you? " asked 
 De Charolais. 
 
 Her pale face flushed, and she hesitated before 
 she answered, " No, not one." 
 
 The story she told was, that when they had been 
 at sea for weeks, and hoped they were nearing land, 
 a terrible storm arose, almost wrecked their ship, 
 and drove them far out of their course. After toss- 
 ing about for many days, they came in sight of 
 land; but the dismantled ship was driven on the 
 rocks, and some of the passengers and a part of the 
 crew were drowned. The others reached the shore 
 in one of the ship's boats, with such provisions as 
 they could carry. 
 
 It was late in the autumn, and very cold; but the 
 sailors said the season had been milder than usual, 
 and the ground was not yet covered with snow. 
 It was an unknown coast to the seamen; there was 
 no sign of habitation; but they believed they were 
 not far from the French settlements. 
 
 For a day or two they remained near the shore, 
 hoping to catch sight of some vessel. Some of their 
 men went inland, others a few miles to the south, 
 to see if they could discover any inhabitants; but 
 returned with the news that they had not seen a 
 human being. 
 
 On the fourth day a party of men returned in 
 
44 ^be IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 much alarm. They had seen a large fleet of canoes 
 manned by Indians coming in the direction of the 
 encampment of whites. 
 
 They dared not venture on the water, as the men 
 reported that the Indians largely outnumbered 
 their party. They were reluctant to abandon their 
 boat, in which they had hoped they might make 
 their way along the coast to the white settlements; 
 their only safe course appeared to be to go inland; 
 at least, until the Indians were out of sight. With 
 great difficulty they carried the large boat ashore, 
 and stowed it high on land in a thicket, hoping the 
 Indians would not land and discover their foot- 
 prints. 
 
 Then they made their way as rapidly as they 
 could through the pine forest, placing marks on the 
 trees here and there so they might return by the 
 same path; yet endeavoring to cover their foot- 
 prints and the tree marks so they should not be 
 too readily discerned by the Indians. 
 
 Late at night they halted for rest, and were so 
 weary that they slept until they were roused by 
 their watchmen, who reported that the Indians 
 were following. 
 
 They set out in the darkness of night, men and 
 women and young children, not knowing whither 
 they went. They were seeking escape from one 
 band of enemies, but they might be walking into 
 the embrace of another. 
 
%itc in the paltsa^e0 45 
 
 They trudged wearily that night and the next 
 day, taking short intervals of rest and hurried 
 meals. It seemed evident that the Indians had 
 given up their pursuit, and the fugitives had a 
 night's rest without disturbance. But they 
 doubted the possibility of finding their way again 
 to their boat and the shore, and the danger of 
 meeting the savages appeared too great. 
 
 They wandered for many days, sometimes ford- 
 ing streams on which ice had begun to form. Their 
 provisions were running short, their clothing was 
 insufficient for the cold weather, and they were 
 still wandering in an uninhabited region. It was 
 November, but winter had set in, and they feared 
 they should be frozen or starved in the wilderness. 
 One day they came on the ashes of camp-fires. 
 Their scouts reported that they were in the neigh- 
 borhood of an Indian encampment. They were so 
 depressed by their privations that they had almost 
 lost their ten-or of encountering the savages, and 
 it was possible that the Indians might be friendly. 
 
 Several men were sent out to reconnoitre. They 
 were absent long. Then one came back. His com- 
 panions had been killed in a skirmish with a band 
 of red men. 
 
 They hastened away again, expecting almost 
 momentarily to be overtaken; but again, for some 
 reason that they did not understand, the enemy 
 ceased to pursue. 
 
4^ Zbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 One day a man who had been sent in advance 
 returned to say that he was sure he had caught 
 sight of two white men dressed in skins. He had 
 shouted to them, but they had not heard; and he 
 could not overtake them. Their hopes rose; they 
 beHeved they were approaching a white settlement. 
 But it was late, and they encamped for the night. 
 Toward morning they were roused by wild cries. 
 Their sentries had been attacked. Then confusion 
 reigned. The women and children darted here and 
 there, seeking shelter, not knowing where to find 
 it, and Dorothy was separated from her com- 
 panions. 
 
 She wandered alone until she caught sight of an 
 Indian peering about, and then she secreted her- 
 self in the forest. She was hiding in a hollow tree 
 when a man passed. She could not see his face 
 through the snow and darkness; but was convinced 
 from his dress that he was not an Indian, and so 
 gathered courage to call to him. She saw him 
 turn to pursue the savage, and though her mind 
 had grown bewildered from her long wandering 
 and lack of food, she was impressed with the belief 
 that there were white people in the direction in 
 which he had been going. She made her way to the 
 border of the forest and saw the lights in the fort. 
 She had no distinct recollection of anything that 
 had occurred afterward until she had awakened to 
 consciousness in Kishik's lodge. 
 
%itc in the palisades 47 
 
 This part of her story was told with a frankness 
 that left no doubt of its truth in the mind of De 
 Charolais. But her hesitation concerning her pre- 
 vious Hfe, her uneasiness when questioned, con- 
 vinced him that some painful secret was connected 
 with her departure from England. Had she been 
 a Catholic she might have been induced to reveal 
 it in the confessional; but she had been brought up 
 in a faith that held it in distrust; and it was evident 
 from remarks that escaped her, that though her 
 prejudices had been modified by the kindness of 
 the missionaries, she looked on the confessional 
 as a device of the Evil One. 
 
 No sign of her party had been seen by the 
 Frenchmen. The violent storm had covered all 
 tracks; whether they had been captured by the 
 Indians, or had escaped, and gone southward, no 
 one could tell. 
 
VI 
 
 Z\)C /IDlBSfonaries an^ XTbetr fflocft 
 
 The priests had been schooled to bear the op- 
 position and unruly conduct of the Indians with 
 patience. A paper printed by the Jesuits of Paris 
 gave them these instructions regarding their con- 
 duct toward those whom they sought to convert: 
 " You should love the Indians as brothers with 
 whom you are to spend the rest of your life. — Never 
 make them wait for you in embarking. — Take a flint 
 and steel to light their pipes and kindle their lire at 
 night; for these little services win their hearts. — 
 Try to eat their sagamite as they cook it, bad and 
 dirty as it is. . . . Do not make yourself 
 troublesome, even to a single Indian. — Do not ask 
 them too many questions. — Bear their faults in 
 silence, and appear always cheerful. ... Be 
 not ceremonious with the Indians; take at once 
 what they offer you: ceremony offends them. 
 . . . Remember that it is Christ and His Cross 
 that you are seeking, and if you aim at anything 
 else you will get but affliction for body and mind." 
 
 In the instruction of their people the priests 
 
 found pictures of Heaven. Hell, and the Last Judg- 
 
 48 
 
/lDi06tonaries ant) tbetr fflocft 49 
 
 ment very effective. Some intractables circulated 
 a report that a young girl had returned to life, and 
 had given a deplorable account of the Heaven of 
 the French. She said that the Jesuits had tried to 
 convert the Indians to their faith in order that after 
 death they might have the satisfaction of torturing 
 them in Heaven. 
 
 The pagan could not readily understand the love 
 and forgiveness taught by the Christian. " Why 
 did you baptize that Iroquois? " asked some con- 
 verts of their priest, who had baptized a captive 
 who had been afterward tortured to death. " He 
 will get to Heaven before us," said the captors, 
 " and will try to turn us out." 
 
 When the villages of Wenrio and Ihonatiria were 
 visited by pestilence. Gamier and Jogues, the mis- 
 sionaries there, were accused of being the cause of 
 it; their litanies were said to be charms and incan- 
 tations; and baptism was dreaded as a precursor 
 of death. Nevertheless, if the missionaries heard 
 the wail of a sick child they entered the wigwam, 
 in spite of threats, and while making inquiries 
 about the infant frequently contrived to baptize it; 
 sometimes bringing in a little water for that pur- 
 pose on a corner of a handkerchief. They deceived 
 the parents, but they believed that their action was 
 justified, because they saved the child from the 
 " Infernal Wolf," and enabled it to pass from the 
 wigwam of the savage to the abode of the blest. 
 
50 Ubc IRomance of a Jesuit /lDt5ston 
 
 They gladly braved death and endured pain and 
 privation, and at last won to their side many among 
 whom they labored. 
 
 Their daily life was systematic. The priests rose 
 at four from the sheets of bark on which they slept, 
 and employed the time till eight o'clock with 
 masses, private devotions, reading religious books, 
 and breakfasting. At eight they opened the door 
 and admitted the Hurons. Those who appeared 
 intractable were courteously requested to depart; 
 the more docile were catechized. At intervals the 
 guests smoked their pipes while they squatted on 
 the floor. 
 
 To make provision for the large number of peo- 
 ple who depended on them, the priests at Sainte 
 Marie cultivated a tract of ground near the fort, 
 where they raised quantities of Indian corn, pump- 
 kins, beans, and other vegetables. Within the walls 
 they had cattle, swine, and poultry. Their usual 
 food was sagamite, but this simple fare was a treat 
 to some of the improvident Indians. 
 
 They were anxious about the spiritual condition 
 of the young heretic who had been so strangely 
 and, as they believed, providentially cast upon 
 their care. But for the present they were obliged 
 to leave her to the ministrations of De Charolais; 
 his skill as an interpreter was not to be denied, but 
 he had never given any evidence of zeal for the 
 conversion of the Indians, and the Fathers were 
 
/BMssionartes ant) tbetr fflocft 51 
 
 doubtful of his efforts to win the white sister to 
 the Faith. But she was learning French and Hu- 
 ron, and they must be patient. 
 
 One mild Sunday morning they thought she was 
 strong enough to attend mass in the chapel of the 
 fort. Though she could not understand the words, 
 she might be impressed by the service. The French 
 and Huron boys disputed for the privilege of con- 
 veying her to the chapel on a toboggan. The mat- 
 ter was finally settled by lot, and Bernard Gautier 
 and Mitasog had the honor by turns. 
 
 The church was full to the doors, for, in addition 
 to the Hurons who lived in the palisades, visitors 
 from other villages came to the fort on alternate 
 Sundays and were entertained until Monday. 
 
 Dorothy's first public appearance caused the 
 good Fathers serious anxiety. They had expected 
 that the visiting Indians, who had never seen a 
 white girl, would show much curiosity; but they 
 were not prepared for the great interest of the 
 young traders, some of whom had not been at the 
 fort on the night of her arrival, and had come to 
 the service from neighboring missions because the 
 news had spread that she would attend mass. One 
 dark, bold-looking youth, Raoul Hauteroche, 
 stared at her so persistently that she blushed deeply 
 and tried to avoid his eyes. De Charolais observed 
 her embarrassment, and shot an indignant glance 
 at Hauteroche. which the trader met with an in- 
 
52 Hbe IRomance ot a 5e6uit /IDtsston 
 
 Solent expression. Leon was not assisting in the 
 service, but sat in the body of the church, to help 
 to keep order among the more intractable Indians; 
 but all thought of this duty passed from his mind 
 as soon as he became aware of the undesirable at- 
 tention that Hauteroche and the other young men 
 were bestowing on Dorothy. He had seen her 
 almost daily, had been the bearer of messages of 
 sympathy and kindness from the Fathers, and had 
 on his own part done what he could to cheer her. 
 He had come to look on the time he passed with 
 her as the supreme hour of the day. He knew that 
 she trusted him, depended on him, that her face 
 brightened at his approach, and dropped when he 
 left her; that she never failed to beg him to come 
 again soon, and often asked why he could not spend 
 more time with her. He believed she was under his 
 special protection, and almost resented any inter- 
 ference with his plans for her, even from the Su- 
 perior, though he had never given expression to 
 this feeling. He remembered uneasily that Haute- 
 roche could speak English, and the thought sent 
 the blood to his face. 
 
 While he sat, full of jealous forebodings, heedless 
 of the service, and unmindful of the scuffling of 
 some Indian boys, he observed that Dorothy's 
 face had grown very white and that she was sway- 
 ing in her seat. Hauteroche, too, had observed it 
 
jflDlBsionaties an^ tbelr iflocft S3 
 
 and had risen, but De Charolals was at her side 
 before him. 
 
 '* Are you ill? " he said, bending low. 
 
 "Yes, yes; please take me away," she said, 
 faintly. 
 
 He stooped, raised her in his arms, and carried 
 her from the church, while she clung to him as if 
 fearing she would fall. 
 
 The atmosphere of the chapel had been close, 
 and she revived when she was in the open air. 
 Nialona had followed, and De Charolais saw that 
 directly behind her were Hauteroche, Le Breton, 
 and Victor Caradeuc. 
 
 Hauteroche drev/ out the toboggan, and there 
 was a sneer on his face when he suggested that De 
 Charolais return to his duties in the chapel, and 
 permit him to convey Mademoiselle Dorothee 
 home. 
 
 " No, no," whispered Dorothy, " not that man. 
 Do not leave me." 
 
 The trusting face, the clinging arms, were dear 
 to Leon. He did not want to relinquish his pre- 
 cious burden. He whispered to her tenderly, as to 
 a timid child, " Do not fear. I will be with you. 
 I will take you home." 
 
 Then he stooped and placed her on the tobog- 
 gan, and tucked the robes carefully about her. 
 
 " My thanks. Monsieur Hauteroche," he said, 
 
54 ^be IRomance of a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 " but I require no assistance, and will not detain 
 you longer from the service." 
 
 Defiant glances were exchanged by the two 
 young men; but Hauteroche made no open resist- 
 ance, and returned to the chapel. 
 
 The relations between the trader and De Charo- 
 lais had never been friendly. Hauteroche was a 
 vain fellow and a braggart, and the other men 
 thought he was jealous of Leon's popularity. Many 
 of the traders were devoted to the mission; but it 
 was evident that Hauteroche had not come there 
 with disinterested motives, and that his sole object 
 was to enrich himself. He sought every opportu- 
 nity to ingratiate himself with the Fathers, but 
 they distrusted him. 
 
 After they left the chapel, he accompanied them 
 to the residence to dine, and took occasion to warn 
 Father Ragueneau privately that unless there was 
 a speedy end to the relations between De Charolais 
 and the fair stranger, Leon would soon discover 
 that he had no vocation for the priesthood. 
 
 He was gratified by observing the concern in the 
 Superior's face, and the insolence of his glance at 
 De Charolais was mingled with an expression of 
 triumph that perplexed Leon. 
 
VII 
 X^on IReceives IRotlce ot Bantsbment 
 
 In the afternoon Leon was summoned to the 
 Superior's room, a bare and cheerless place, and 
 something in its aspect, or the Superior's manner, 
 made the young man's heart sink. 
 
 Ragueneau had not taken counsel with any one 
 regarding the insinuations of Hauteroche. He had 
 given them careful consideration, and had decided 
 that he would not refer to Dorothy in his interview 
 with Leon. 
 
 As soon as the young man entered, the Superior 
 began, abruptly: " Leon, Father Garnier is at this 
 time almost alone at St. Matthias, in the Tobacco 
 Nation. He needs an assistant, and the choice has 
 fallen upon you. Prepare to leave this mission 
 to-morrow, at dawn. Some Huron men will ac- 
 company you. You will carry a sealed letter of 
 instruction for Father Garnier.'* 
 
 Ragueneau observed that the young man started 
 back as if he had received a sudden blow. He 
 could not disguise the trouble in his voice when he 
 asked: " Father, do you mean that I take your in- 
 structions to the mission, and return here? " 
 
 55 
 
5^ Ubc IRomance of a Sesutt /HMssion 
 
 " I do not," said the Superior, sternly. He was 
 a disciplinarian, earnest and sincere; but he had 
 not much tenderness in dealing with human weak- 
 ness. " You will remain at St. Matthias to assist 
 Father Garnier. I have no reason at this time to 
 believe that we shall have occasion to recall you.'* 
 
 " I will be ready. Father," said Leon. His voice 
 sounded flat and Hfeless. 
 
 "That is all," said Ragueneau; and Leon left 
 him. 
 
 He was at a loss to understand the unexpected 
 action of the Superior, his curt manner, and few 
 words. He did not connect his dismissal with 
 Dorothy, until, about an hour later, when he was 
 on his way from the fort to the palisades, he met 
 Hauteroche by the gate. Hauteroche had heard 
 the news from Caradeuc, and was awaiting an op- 
 portunity to taunt De Charolais. 
 
 " Ah," he said, mockingly, " you go to inform 
 Mademoiselle Dorothee of your approaching de- 
 parture. Would I might witness the parting. She 
 will be pensive, therefore more beautiful. But be 
 comforted, my friend, she will not remain long in 
 afifliction. I have observed her. She is April's 
 child: now smiling, now sad. She will readily 
 forget." 
 
 Leon muttered something between his teeth, 
 which Hauteroche could not hear. But he followed 
 De Charolais, and continued, " The good Superior 
 
Leon's notice ot JSanisbment 57 
 
 is wise. Ah, he was once young; perhaps even 
 now, who knows, he hides tender memories beneath 
 a stern visage. He has become aware that he must 
 take speedy action, else might the Church lose a 
 priest whose favor with the fair sex may hereafter 
 win even heretics to the faith. Perhaps it is even 
 now too late. It may be that one whose spiritual 
 state has caused the good Father sore anxiety has 
 discovered his unfitness for the sacred vocation. 
 The time has been so short, yet all have observed 
 the understanding, the more than friendly relations, 
 between him and the fair stranger." 
 
 The next moment Hauteroche w^as sprawling on 
 the snow, and Leon said, as he strode past him, 
 " When you carry this tale to the Superior pray 
 mention it as another evidence of my fitness for the 
 sacred office." 
 
 He understood now. Hauteroche, or some one 
 at Hauteroche's instigation, had advised Father 
 Ragueneau to prohibit his visits to Dorothy. Yet 
 he had made them in the first place under the in- 
 structions and with the approval of the Superior. 
 True, the visits had become more and more fre- 
 quent. He had called several times in one day, and 
 had perhaps neglected duties in consequence. But 
 he had done it openly, and had never been reproved. 
 Had any one dared to utter slanderous words, to 
 speak lightly, falsely, of her? He recalled Father 
 Ragueneau's hardness, his apparent displeasure, 
 
58 tibe IRomance ot a 5esuit /iDission 
 
 and his face burned with indignation. Of himself 
 they might think and speak as they pleased; but no 
 one, not even the Superior, should dare to utter a 
 word against her, pure and innocent, untouched 
 by evil, as she was. Not a word had passed between 
 them that he would hesitate to tell his confessor. 
 The Fathers had given him a position of trust, and 
 he had neither by word nor deed betrayed it inten- 
 tionally. He had been injudicious in meeting her 
 so often, but he had meant no wrong. He recalled 
 now the tremor in her voice, the light in her eye, at 
 his approach, to which his voice and eye had an- 
 swered. But, until the moment when the Superior 
 had given the word that would part them, he had 
 not realized his feeling for her. He had sympa- 
 thized with her desolate position, had longed to 
 cheer and comfort her; but he had been so schooled 
 to the belief that he must never permit a thought 
 of love to enter his heart that it had come upon 
 him unawares. He realized it now, yet he had no 
 thought of opposition to his Superior's command. 
 He had been ordered to go far from her, and he 
 must obey, and part from her, if need be, at once 
 and forever. But he felt that in leaving her he 
 would leave all the sweetness that life held. The 
 hearts of the other men were in their work. The 
 Fathers were content, more than content, to work 
 for God and the souls of their people; the traders 
 were devoted to the mission, or to the pursuit of 
 
Xeon'0 naottce of Banlabment 59 
 
 gain. But since the time when he had given up 
 the hopes of his life, in compliance with his dying 
 mother's plea, he had lived but for the day, without 
 any but a passing interest, with no defined hope or 
 object. He had done the work appointed for him; 
 but his heart had not been in it. 
 
 While he was making his preparations for de- 
 parture he almost determined to go away without 
 seeing her. He feared that in parting from her he 
 might betray too much feeling. But he longed to 
 see her face once more, and were he to leave her 
 without a word his conduct would appear to her 
 cruel and unwarrantable. 
 
 When he knocked at Kishik's door it was Dor- 
 othy's voice that bade him come in. When he 
 entered he found her alone. 
 
 " Where is Mademoiselle Nialona? " The ques- 
 tion served to cover some embarrassment. 
 
 " She has gone to see a little child who is very 
 ill. Grandmother Kishik is with her." 
 
 " I — have come to ask, are you better? Have 
 you recovered from your illness of this morning? " 
 
 "Thank you; I am not ill. It was only that I 
 have not yet strength to sit up so long, and the 
 crowd was great." 
 
 When she had finished speaking, he stood near 
 her, looking down into her face without a word. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, and her voice was 
 
6o U\)c IRomance of a Jesuit /liMssion 
 
 troubled. " Has anything happened? Why are 
 you so pale? " 
 
 " I am going away to-morrow." His voice was 
 so low that she heard with difficulty. 
 
 " To-morrow! But only for a little while. You 
 will come back? " 
 
 " No, I am going far away. It may be I shall 
 never come back." 
 
 " But why? " 
 
 " I have no choice. The Superior commands, 
 and we must obey. An hour ago he told me I must 
 leave at to-morrow's dawn, to go to St. Matthias, 
 the farthest mission; it is in the land of the To- 
 bacco Nation. He gave me no hope that he would 
 recall me." 
 
 She dropped her head in her hands, and both 
 were silent. When she looked up her face was wet 
 with tears. " O, it is cruel," she wailed. " It will 
 be so desolate, so dreary, without you. I — cannot 
 bear it." 
 
 She had no thought of disguising her distress. 
 Her frank delight in his presence had been one of 
 her great charms for him. 
 
 He tried to comfort her. " It may be the Supe- 
 rior will grant me permission to return. I cannot 
 tell. But — now you speak some French, some 
 Huron words, others will understand; you will be 
 less lonely. Nialona, Washaka, are kind. If— you 
 should be in sorrow, if you need counsel, help, ask 
 
%to\x'3 naotlcc of JBantsbment 6i 
 
 permission to write to Father Brebeuf at St. Ig- 
 iiace. He knows your language well. He will come 
 to you." 
 
 She shook her head sadly. " Ah, no; but — you 
 are different. They — the priests are stern. They 
 seek but to bring me to their faith. You are gen- 
 tle; you are so good, so kind." 
 
 At another time he might have said that all the 
 Fathers were kind; but it seemed to him then that 
 the Superior was very hard. He answered: "At 
 heart many are kind, the stern appearance some- 
 times hides the tender heart; but you will know 
 that Father Brebeuf is truly kind and gentle — kind 
 and gentle as he is wise and strong." 
 
 She found little consolation in his words, but she 
 said only, '' I have not seen him." 
 
 " You do not remember. On the night when you 
 came to us he raised you from the floor, so they 
 tell me, and carried you to the couch. He went 
 back to St. Ignace in the morning when you were 
 yet unconscious. It is but a few miles distant, and 
 he has visited Sainte Marie since that night; but 
 he has been always busy, so he has returned without 
 seeing you." 
 
 There was silence between them. He fixed his 
 eyes on her so intently that she cast down her own. 
 Then he gave a quivering sigh, and turned his head 
 away. 
 
 '* O, why must you go? " she said, brokenly. 
 
62 XTbe IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDission 
 
 " Surely — it is a mistake. You — ^do good here. 
 Tlie boys love you. And — it breaks your heart to 
 be banished. This — has been your home; your 
 friends are here. Will they not plead with him, 
 the Superior, to permit you to remain? It may be 
 that his heart would soften." 
 
 '' It v/ould be useless, worse than useless. Were 
 I to say a word, to oppose his decision, it would 
 take from me all hope of recall. And — I cannot 
 say in truth that he is not right, however hard it is 
 for me to believe it and obey." 
 
 Something in his tone made her look at him in 
 surprise. '' Right ! Do you mean there could be 
 wrong in your staying here? " 
 
 He hesitated, and Nialona and Kishik came in. 
 He told thCm that he must go away, and Nialona 
 expressed regret; but it was evident that it did not 
 touch her deeply. He stayed for a few moments 
 and tried to conduct himself without betraying 
 emotion. But when he took Dorothy's hand at 
 parting, Nialona observed that he held it long, that 
 his voice trembled when he said his farewell words, 
 and that the pain that looked from his eyes was 
 keen. She recalled insinuations of Hauteroche, 
 remarks of Victor Caradeuc, on the young man's 
 frequent visits. She had replied to them that it 
 was proper that one who would be a priest should 
 spend time in trying to win a heretic to the 
 faith. As the conversations had been in English 
 
%ton'3 Motice ot JBaniebment 63 
 
 she was not aware that De Charolais had made 
 few efforts in that direction. She had said that his 
 interest and kindness were natural, for the girl was 
 a stranger and cut off from communication with 
 others who could not speak her language. But 
 she began to understand that his interest was more 
 than friendly, and it shocked her convent-trained 
 mind that a man who was destined for the priest- 
 hood should have permitted his affections to wan- 
 der, or be disloyal for a moment, even in thought, 
 to his holy office. Her training had apparently 
 eHminated the savage from her nature. She had 
 been much commended for her diligence and obe- 
 dience, and thoroughly believed in her own recti- 
 tude. She was severe in criticism of actions that 
 did not accord with her standard, and she began to 
 condemn De Charolais without reserve. When he 
 turned to speak to her she looked coldly into his 
 pale face, and with a hard ring in her voice informed 
 him that Father Ragueneau had doubtless excellent 
 reasons for transferring him to St. Matthias. 
 
 His face flushed, and he replied with evident an- 
 noyance that he had not presumed to doubt the 
 Superior's discretion, and was av/are that he never 
 did anything without good reason. 
 
 He turned once more to look at Dorothy, who 
 was dismayed by Nialona's attitude, and then hur- 
 ried from the lodge. 
 
VIIL 
 
 Xa0t Morbs wltb Br^beut 
 
 Leon had been excused from duty. The Superior 
 believed that he was in his narrow room preparing 
 for departure. He had counselled him to spend 
 the evening in prayer and meditation. 
 
 When Father Brebeuf arrived from St. Ignace 
 to confer with Ragueneau on a difficulty that had 
 arisen, the Superior informed him of Leon's ap- 
 proaching removal and the reasons therefor. To 
 Brebeuf alone would he confide them. 
 
 Brebeuf was much moved. In spite of the dif- 
 ference in age — he was fifty-six years old — there 
 was a strong bond of fellowship between him and 
 the young man. He thought he understood De 
 Charolais well. He saw in him the possibilities for 
 good and for evil, and had often chosen him, with 
 Ragueneau's permission, as his companion in work 
 and in his rare times of recreation. Leon, on his 
 part, was much attached to Brebeuf, and admired 
 his manly vigor. His age had an evidence in the 
 gray that sprinkled his short mustache and beard; 
 but his tall, finely proportioned frame, erect and 
 vigorous, showed no sign of diminishing power. 
 
 64 
 
%ast Mor^s witb m6tc\xt 65 
 
 But when Ragueneau told him many things that 
 had been repeated to him regarding Leon's devo- 
 tion to the stranger, Brebeuf recalled the young 
 man's reticence in speaking of the girl, and said, 
 with a sigh, that the Superior did well in removing 
 him from temptation. 
 
 He wished to see De Charolais, but the messen- 
 ger who was sent to call him returned with the 
 news that his room was empty, and no one in the 
 fort had seen him within an hour. 
 
 " It may be he has walked to St. Ignace," said 
 Brebeuf. " He would not willingly go so far with- 
 out a word of parting to me." 
 
 " He did not ask permission," said Ragueneau. 
 Leon's manner had been sullen and distant since 
 he had heard the decree of banishment, and it had 
 not propitiated the Superior. 
 
 " Poor lad," said Brebeuf. " He is thoughtless, 
 but he means no disrespect. He knew you would 
 not refuse his request to visit me, and in his distress 
 at the parting he neglected to make it. If he is 
 at St. Ignace, I will not detain him long." 
 
 But Leon was not at St. Ignace. When Brebeuf 
 had left the fort a short distance behind him he 
 discovered a tall figure pacing back and forth be- 
 neath the palisade wall, and he knew that it was 
 Leon. 
 
 The last time they had walked together the 
 young man's laugh had rung out gaily on the win- 
 
60 ube IRomance ot a 5e6uit /iDtseion 
 
 try air. His dark eyes had glowed, exercise had 
 brought a ruddy hue to his brown skin. Now, in 
 the clear moonlight, Brebeuf saw that his face was 
 pallid, his eye dull. 
 
 '' Leon, my son," he said, with gentle reproach, 
 *' had you forgotten me? Would you have gone 
 away without a word to me? " 
 
 " Forgive me. Father; I have thought of you; 
 I have longed to see you; but the time has been 
 short; I was unprepared; I — have not known what 
 to do." 
 
 In his distress and confusion of mind, Brebeuf 
 read the truth of Ragueneau's fears, and Leon saw 
 that the priest seemed to have been stricken with 
 age. His face was pale and deeply lined; he was 
 not erect, as he had been when he passed that way 
 at an earlier hour. 
 
 " Come with me a little way," he said; and Leon 
 walked beside him on the crisp snow. 
 
 " Leon," said the elder man, " I knew your father, 
 and loved him; and when you came to us I loved 
 you for his sake, and afterward for your own. I 
 held you in my arms in your infancy, and your 
 mother told me then that she had dedicated you 
 to the service of the Church. I trusted that you 
 would incline to it; I am aware of the trials the life 
 imposes on one who has no spiritual devotion, and 
 I would never counsel any youth to enter it if he 
 could not do it with a wiUing and devoted heart. 
 
Xast Mot^s witb Bt^beut 67 
 
 You have told me, in bitterness of spirit, what your 
 promise to your dying mother has cost you. But 
 I have hoped that, in answer to many prayers, you 
 would come to be more than reconciled. I know 
 well how difficult your position is. Though a man's 
 spiritual life be deep, though his heart be devoted 
 to his work, he must strive and pray for strength 
 to curb and guide his nature. I hoped that here, 
 in the wilderness, you would escape some tempta- 
 tions; but — it has not been so." 
 
 He stopped and laid his hand on the young man's 
 arm. " Trust me, Leon; tell me your trouble. It 
 will be sacred with me as if spoken in the con- 
 fessional." 
 
 There were tears in the young man's eyes. He 
 did not answer; but he was touched by Brebeuf's 
 sympathy. 
 
 " Leon, do you love the girl? " 
 
 " I do. God help us both." 
 
 " My son, surely you have not spoken of love to 
 her? " Brebeuf's appeal was anxious. 
 
 " No, Father, not by any word. I — did not un- 
 derstand — until I knew that I must leave her. I 
 have done wrong, but unwittingly, and — she suf- 
 fers. It is in her face. Father, is it too late? I 
 am not ordained. I have taken no irrevocable vow, 
 unless that one to my mother be such. O, surely, 
 were she living now, could she know the truth, she 
 
68 ubc IRomance of a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 would absolve me from that, and bid me, bid us 
 
 both, be happy! " 
 
 Brebeuf did not answer. 
 
 " Father, could she hear my voice to-night would 
 she not set me free? " 
 
 " My son, I cannot tell. Yet I believe that were 
 she with us now, she would say, ' Be firm, be strong, 
 and dare not to draw back.' That was your moth- 
 er's nature. She was strong and enduring; she 
 expected strength and endurance from others. She 
 beHeved the priesthood Vv^as your destiny, and she 
 exacted from you the promise." 
 
 " But was it right? " 
 
 Brebeuf sighed. '' My son, the promise was 
 given. It is for me to try to strengthen you, by 
 the grace of God to keep it. You know the Script- 
 ure, ' If thy right hand ofTend thee, cut it off, and 
 cast it from thee.' It is hard. I know it. But as 
 the surgeon amputates the limb to save the life, 
 so by cutting away the evil may the spiritual life 
 be preserved. When you are at St. Matthias, fill 
 your days with work, your mind with holy medita- 
 tion and prayer, and resolve to put all thought of 
 the young girl from your heart. Never, in any way, 
 hold communication with her. Will you give me 
 your word, my son? These are perilous times; we 
 know not when we part if we may meet again in 
 this world. As it were a last promise, will you 
 grant me what I ask? " 
 
Xast Mor^5 vvitb mtbcwt 69 
 
 The struggle was visible in the young man's face. 
 A deep sigh broke h-om him. He had made his 
 vow to one who was dead; he could not be released 
 by her, and he must keep it. His code of honor 
 was high. The word of a De Charolais must not 
 be broken. And, if his vow must be kept, the Su- 
 perior was right, Brebeuf was right, he must flee 
 temptation. So presently he said, but his voice 
 was low: '* Father, I promise, except I be sum- 
 moned back by the Superior, except I do it with 
 his sanction, I will see her face no more. No word 
 of mine henceforth shall serve to keep me in her 
 memory, and — she may forget." 
 
 They walked on in silence for a few moments, 
 then Leon said: " Father, she, too, may be tempted. 
 She is innocent and pure; but there are evil hearts 
 not far from her. Raoul Hauteroche you know, 
 and she should know that he is not to be trusted. 
 Father, I have told her that you would go to her 
 if she is in sorrow. Will you see her soon, and com- 
 fort her if her heart is sore? " 
 
 " I will, my son; so long as I live I will be mind- 
 ful of her. Your heart may rest in my promise as 
 my heart has trust in yours. But, Leon, the words 
 of the holy St. Paul have been ofttimes in my mind 
 of late, * I am ready to be sacrificed, and the time 
 of my dissolution is at hand.' It is borne upon me 
 that we speak together for the last time." 
 
 Brebeuf stopped, and put his hands on the young 
 
70 XTbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 man's shoulders and looked into his face. The 
 moonlig-ht was so bright that Leon saw the quiver- 
 ing of the strong mouth, the moistening of the 
 dark eyes. He was deeply moved, and a vague 
 dread of coming disaster was borne upon him. Be- 
 fore he entered the novitiate he had learned some- 
 thing of the scepticism of his day; he had heard 
 discussions whether the soul is mortal and ridicule 
 regarding certain so-called superstitions. Doubt 
 had entered his mind and remained there. When 
 he had expressed his doubts in confession, his con- 
 fessor had told him they were temptations of the 
 devil. He had tried to occupy himself in work and 
 forget them. He had never spoken of them to 
 Brebeuf ; he had shrunk from distressing his friend. 
 Despite Brebeuf's cool and vigorous judgment and 
 sober sense in practical matters, he is regarded as 
 visionary and superstitious by men of our time. He 
 believed that he beheld visible presentations from 
 the unseen universe, saw portents, heard voices, 
 was tempted of hell, and succored by Heaven. The 
 visible world was to him but a phase of the eternal, 
 spiritual reality. His zeal and devotion are beyond 
 question. Leon respected his earnestness, and had 
 forborne to utter a word of incredulity regarding 
 the marvellous visions. Now, in his excited, over- 
 strained condition, the premonition of which Bre- 
 beuf had spoken had an unusual effect upon him, 
 and the pain of parting was deepened by dread. 
 
%aBt mov^s wttb Bt^beut 71 
 
 For several moments neither spoke, then Bre- 
 beuf said, " My son, you have much work before 
 you to prepare for your departure, and I must not 
 detain you; yet would I gladly keep you with me 
 now, for I shall see your face no more." 
 
 " O, say not so. Father. God grant we may meet 
 again." 
 
 *'Nay, nay, my son; pray only that His holy 
 will be done. Pray for me that I be faithful 
 unto death. And so long as I abide in this body 
 will I pray — yea, when the body is broken by the 
 martyrdom which is coming soon upon me, my 
 soul, which no mortal flame can sear, nor sword of 
 man destroy, will pray for you and, if it be per- 
 mitted of Heaven, will be near you to comfort and 
 sustain you." 
 
 Leon could not answer, and Brebeuf went on: 
 " Now into the hands of God I commit that which 
 I have held most dear. Adieu, my son." 
 
 Leon was tall, but the giant-framed Brebeuf, the 
 Ajax of the Mission, stooped to kiss his forehead — 
 the kiss of benediction — a sacrament. 
 
 Then they parted; but when Leon had gone a 
 little way he turned and saw that Brebeuf stood, 
 gazing after him. For a moment they remained 
 motionless, one looking at the other from afar, and 
 then they went their separate ways. 
 
IX 
 ffatber JSrSbeut msits Dorotb^ 
 
 As soon as possible after the departure of De 
 Charolais, Brebeuf visited the fort of Sainte Marie, 
 and inquired concerning Dorothy. 
 
 The Superior said she was not gaining strength, 
 and he feared she was fretting because Leon had 
 been sent away. He could not ascertain anything 
 of her state of mind with certainty; she was not 
 able to express herself clearly in French, and his 
 conversations with her had been brief. But even 
 had she a command of the language it was unlikely 
 that she would make any confession; she was not 
 a Catholic, and, apart from the confessional, it 
 might be difficult to induce her to give her con- 
 fidence to a priest. Ragueneau had observed that 
 she was timid and uneasy in his presence. He was 
 glad Brebeuf had come, as he could talk with her 
 in her own language. 
 
 When he reached Kishik's lodge in the palisades 
 Brebeuf paused. It was a mild day, and the little 
 window in the sitting-room had not its usual thick 
 coating of frost. Dorothy sat near it. Her work 
 had dropped from her hand, and she was leaning 
 
 72 
 
ffatber mtbcrxt WBitQ Dototb^ 73 
 
 forward in deep thought. Brebeuf stood for a few 
 moments, looking at her intently. He thought he 
 had never seen an expression so pathetic on a face 
 so young. No ordinary girlish sorrow had left its 
 imprint there. Was it only pining for Leon and 
 grief for separation from home and kindred? Or 
 had there been deeper tragedy in her past? The 
 man who had seen much of human joy and sorrow 
 believed that she had suffered bitterly. 
 
 When he knocked, Dorothy opened the door. 
 Her face brightened, and she said, " I know you are 
 Father Brebeuf." 
 
 He smiled benignan'tly. " .Yes, my child ; I have 
 come to see you." 
 
 " Grandmother Kishik and Nialona have gone 
 out," she said, " and I do not know when they will 
 return." 
 
 It was evident that she was far from strong. The 
 blue veins in her forehead, so clearly seen beneath 
 the transparent skin, were witnesses of her fragility. 
 Her hair was coiled about her shapely head, and 
 fastened with pins that the Indian boys had carved 
 from bone and stained in shades of reddish brown 
 and gold. A blue-fringed cap like a toque sur- 
 mounted the golden coils. She put her hand to 
 her head when she noticed the direction of the 
 priest's glance. 
 
 " Ah, my mind wanders sadly. Father, since I 
 
74 Ube IRomance of a Jesuit /iDlsslon 
 
 have been ill. I came in nearly an hour ago, and 
 my bonnet is on my head. I am very forgetful." 
 
 " I fear you are not gaining strength. Have you 
 sufficient nourishing food? " 
 
 '* Yes, Father; the young men, the Frenchmen 
 and the Indians, are kind. They bring us many 
 dainties — venison, rabbits, partridge, and fish — 
 more than we can use. We often send portions to 
 the sick in the hospital." 
 
 " Did not the Superior direct that you receive no 
 presents? " 
 
 " He did. Father, and his reason was explained 
 to me.. Others might be displeased because so 
 many gifts were made to me; yet all might see that 
 because I had come to the fort ill and lonely the 
 gifts were prompted by sympathy and kindness, 
 for which I have been grateful." 
 
 " How is it then, my daughter, that you have 
 disregarded the Superiors instructions? " 
 
 Dorothy tried to repress a smile. " Father, they 
 offer me nothing; everything is now bestowed on 
 Grandmother Kishik. She has often said: ' O, 
 those young men, they once did leave me to eat 
 sagamite day after day. What cared they? But 
 their hearts change; they fill my house with all 
 good things.' " 
 
 Brebeuf appreciated the humor of this devotion 
 by proxy. He glanced about the room. Its ap- 
 pearance had been much improved. There were 
 
Ifatber mttbcnt IDisits Borotb^ 75 
 
 new fur rugs on the floor, two easy-chairs, a com- 
 fortable couch, and a pretty rustic work-table on 
 which were some dainty boxes and a book-rest. 
 
 " Were these also given to Madame Kishik? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, Father; they were presented by Monsieur 
 Rene le Breton — the table and the book-rest — 
 Grandmother does not read. The rugs and some 
 pretty furs and feathers were the gifts of others. 
 Monsieur Fourcheux has so repaired the walls that 
 Grandmother no longer complains of draughts, and 
 Monsieur le Breton has made an excellent oven in 
 the kitchen floor. He was troubled about Grand- 
 mother's appetite, and he made the oven so we 
 might bake bread. It may be. Father, it would 
 please you to see our kitchen." 
 
 The priest was aware that the girl was talking 
 rapidly to conceal some nervousness and embar- 
 rassment; probably she feared he had come to ques- 
 tion her. But he gave no sign of this understand- 
 ing, and smilingly assented to her proposal to visit 
 the kitchen and see the new oven. 
 
 Dorothy showed a girlish interest and pride in 
 the contrivance. The oven was a hole in the 
 ground, lined with stones. Dorothy explained that 
 it was a few inches longer and wider than the bak- 
 ing-pans. The cooks placed live coals in the bottom 
 of the oven, then laid in their pans, filled the sides 
 and covered the top with coals. When they cooked 
 
;6 XTbe IRomance of a Jesuit /IDisston 
 
 game they put water in the pan, and when the birds 
 were done there was an excellent gravy surround- 
 ing them. " But, Father," Dorothy went on, 
 " when we cooked our first partridges we were 
 sadly disappointed when we lifted them from their 
 pan. They were tender and pleasing to the taste, 
 but white as though they had been boiled. We 
 now hold them before the fire until they are of a 
 brown color, and their appearance is more agree- 
 able." 
 
 She went to a cupboard, which was also the work 
 of Rene le Breton, and took out a pair of appetiz- 
 ing partridges and a jar of preserved cranberries. 
 " Father, Nialona has told me this is not a fast day, 
 though it is in the season of Lent. Will you gratify 
 me by accepting these birds for your supper? They 
 are my own. Grandmother Kishik gave them to 
 me to present to whom it pleased me. No, you will 
 not deprive us of our meal; we have already a suf- 
 ficiency for our supper. You will do me a kindness 
 by enjoying what we have cooked; and cranberries, 
 I am told, are wholesome in the spring season." 
 
 Brebeuf assented on condition that Father Lale- 
 mant share the treat, and Dorothy packed them 
 daintily in a basket. 
 
 " The poor little birds," said she when they had 
 returned to the sitting-room; '' they are happy in 
 life; is it not cruel to put them to death that we 
 may live? They tell me if our men did not shoot 
 
ffatber JSrebeut Dtstts Borotb^ 77 
 
 them they would be the prey of other wild creat- 
 ures. Yet, why must they suffer? Why should 
 one creature prey upon another? Why is life so 
 hard, so cruel? " 
 
 " Their suffering, child, is brief. The momentary 
 pang in death is as nothing in comparison with 
 their enjoyment of life; and we believe they do not 
 feel pain so keenly as the higher creatures do. Do 
 not doubt the wisdom and goodness of our Heav- 
 enly Father and His tender care for all." 
 
 '' I have read in the Scriptures, Father, of a time 
 to come when ' They shall not hurt or destroy in 
 all my holy mountain.' Ah, I would it might come 
 quickly! But " 
 
 " What is it, my daughter? Do not hesitate to 
 tell me anything that is on your mind." 
 
 '* I have heard. Father, that those of your faith 
 do not read the Holy Book. Is that true? " 
 
 " No, my child; it is a mistake. We read a por- 
 tion of the Scriptures daily." 
 
 A knock interrupted the conversation. Rene 
 le Breton had brought a pair of swinging shelves 
 for Kishik's books. When he saw the priest, he left 
 his gift with some embarrassment, and said he must 
 return at once to his companion, Victor Caradeuc. 
 
 '' Did not Monsieur le Breton bring the book- 
 rest to Madame Kishik? " asked Brebeuf. 
 
 " Yes, Father." She smiled demurely. " There 
 
78 Ubc IRomauce ot a Jesuit /IDission 
 
 are but two much-worn books, brought from 
 France by Nialona." 
 
 '' Does he make frequent visits? " 
 
 " Yes, Father; but they are brief. The Superior 
 has directed the young men to remain without the 
 door if duty requires them to call. Monsieur le 
 Breton obtained a special dispensation to enable 
 him to finish his work for Grandmother Kishik. 
 But since that time he has not been permitted to 
 cross the threshold. I have heard, indeed, that 
 hereafter they may be forbidden to enter the pali- 
 sades." 
 
 Brebeuf watched her keenly. Nothing in her 
 voice or expression indicated that the presence or 
 absence of the young men was of any interest to 
 her. 
 
 " But I have been informed they have some op- 
 portunities to talk with you," he said. 
 
 " Yes, Father, when we go beyond the palisades 
 to slide upon the ice, or walk on our snowshoes, 
 three at least accompany us to guard us. There is 
 always fear of the Iroquois. But one of the priests 
 is also with us." 
 
 Dorothy's face lighted with amusement. The 
 soldiers or traders were the guard of the white 
 stranger and the Huron girls, while they, in their 
 turn, were under the guard of a priest. 
 
 '' You understand, my daughter, the necessity 
 for this supervision, that a young girl must be very 
 
ffatber mtbcnt msits Dorotb^ 79 
 
 discreet. You have no mother, no suitable woman 
 guardian here to advise you ; so we who know the 
 world must do so." 
 
 " I think I am discreet, Father. If it is possible, 
 I walk apart with one of the girls. And, Father, 
 in our conversation we are discreet of necessity. 
 They know few words of my language, and I have 
 little acquaintance with theirs." 
 
 " Does not Monsieur le Breton speak EngHsh? " 
 
 " But poorly. Father. There is one. Monsieur 
 Hauteroche, who converses in English with ease; 
 but it is unnecessary to warn me to have few words 
 with him. Monsieur Hauteroche is very objection- 
 able to me." 
 
 Dorothy drew herself up, and her eyes flashed. 
 A bright color flamed in her cheeks, but soon faded 
 and gave place to the pallor of illness. For a 
 moment the priest had a glimpse of an impulsive 
 nature concealed beneath an appearance of indif- 
 ference; though probably she was truly indifferent 
 to many things. He saw, too, that if returning 
 health should restore her brilliant coloring she 
 would be even more beautiful than she was now in 
 her delicate loveliness. 
 
 He asked no questions about Hauteroche. He 
 remembered Leon's warning; and he had for a long 
 time distrusted the young trader. He would ad- 
 vise the Superior to send him to a distance. 
 
 The time was passing quickly, and he had not 
 
So uhc IRomance ot a Jesuit /nMssion 
 
 said what he had come to say. Even Leon had re- 
 luctantly admitted that Dorothy was strangely re- 
 ticent about herself. She had evaded the answers 
 to many questions, sometimes by asking questions 
 about others. No one knew what her family name 
 was. In response to inquiries she had said, with a 
 laugh that concealed some disquiet, " Call me 
 Dorothy. What need have I here of any other 
 name? " 
 
 Yet, had she been practised in deceit, she might 
 readily have coined a name. 
 
 " My daughter," said Brebeuf, '' this is not a 
 suitable place for you to live. For the present, it 
 may be for many months to come, we must keep 
 you here; for it would not be possible to return 
 you in safety to your proper guardians. But as 
 soon as may be we must communicate with them. 
 Our Huron runners sometimes travel long dis- 
 tances, through many perils. A message borne by 
 them to Quebec may be sent to England to your 
 kinsfolk. Where and to whom should such a mes- 
 sage be sent? " 
 
 Dorothy's face grew whiter, and she gave a little 
 gasp of distress. But she did not answer a word. 
 
 Brebeuf looked very grave. " My dear child, it 
 is evident that my question pains you; but I must 
 do my duty. Is it possible that you have forsaken 
 your own people? You are hiding a secret in your 
 heart ; we must not aid you in concealment." 
 
ffatber JSr^beut IDlstts IDorotb^ 8i 
 
 The girl's hands were clenched, and she was 
 trembling violently. '' Father," she pleaded, " do 
 not ask me. Let me stay here. O, believe me, it 
 is better so; better for me, for every one." 
 
 " You are too young to judge what is best for 
 you; and we cannot if we do not know the truth. 
 Trust us. If you have done any wrong we will not 
 judge you harshly. We know how many snares are 
 set for young feet ; how easy it is for such to stray 
 from the paths of righteousness. We have learned 
 from the Divine compassion to be tender and com- 
 passionate toward all. Only trust us, and do not 
 fear." 
 
 The girl's slight frame writhed, as if in physical 
 agony. Loud sobs, from a heart wrung with pain, 
 broke from her. In a moment, to Brebeuf s sur- 
 prise, she was kneeling at his feet, with her head 
 bowed in her hands. 
 
 " I want to be good," she cried, with choking 
 voice. " I want to do right. Indeed, I have tried. 
 I will be obedient. I will be helpful. But I cannot, 
 cannot tell you what you ask. May I not begin my 
 life here, a new life, and put away from me all the 
 past?" 
 
 Brebeuf was deeply moved, and his eyes swam 
 with tears. " Poor child, poor httle one; yes, I be- 
 Heve you want to be good, but it is not possible for 
 you to conceal all your past and remain good and 
 true. It may be some one has dealt harshly with 
 
S2 XTbe IRomance ot a 5esult /iDlBston 
 
 you, made you fear to confess. You are timid and 
 delicate; you have not strength to tell that which 
 would ease your heart if told. Here, kneeling as 
 you are, ask God to give you strength to do your 
 duty, to confess your sorrow, or — your sin." 
 
 " O, Father, Father, I cannot tell you. It is not 
 strength for confession that I need, but strength 
 to bear my silence." 
 
 Footsteps sounded on the snow, a hand was laid 
 on the latch. Dorothy sprang to her feet, and tried 
 to look undisturbed when Nialona and Washaka 
 entered. 
 
 Brebeuf, washing to divert attention from her 
 tear-stained face, began to question the Huron 
 girls about the school. When he took his leave, 
 Dorothy followed him from the door. " Father," 
 she said, pitifully, " you are brave, you are true, and 
 you think I am weak and false. Perhaps, if I could 
 tell you, you would judge differently. But — I can- 
 not, O, I cannot. Let me take my silence to the 
 grave. I would I might take it there now." 
 
 " It may be, my daughter, that you hold the 
 secret of another, that it seems to you it would be 
 dishonor to reveal it. Were you of our faith you 
 would understand that in the confessional, where 
 every confidence is sacred, the inmost secrets of 
 every heatt may be disclosed, to the heart's great 
 comfort. We will talk of this another day; but, 
 believe me, I do not wish to force your secret from 
 
you. I hope the time may come when you will 
 give me your confidence freely." 
 
 Dorothy did not answer, and Brebeuf said, " The 
 March air is cold for your uncovered head. I will 
 see you again. And I will pray for you, my 
 daughter." 
 
 " I thank you, Father." 
 
 She watched him as he walked to the gate of the 
 palisades. She was glad he had said he would come 
 another day. She little knew that he would never 
 walk that path again. 
 
X 
 XTbe IFroquoia ! Ube ITroauoie ! 
 
 The missionaries passed many anxious hours in 
 the spring days of 1649. Rumors of the approach 
 of the Iroquois were renewed, but the Huron men 
 remained indifferent. 
 
 In the fort and the pahsades work went on as 
 usual. Nialona taught daily in the school, and 
 Dorothy, who had learned some Huron words, was 
 able to instruct the little ones. 
 
 After school hours, with a guard of strong Hu- 
 ron boys and one or two soldiers or traders from 
 the fort, the young teachers took their pupils out 
 for recreation. Sometimes they made snow forts 
 and soldiers and had friendly battles. At other 
 times they walked on snowshoes, slid on the ice, 
 or coasted down the neighboring hills. 
 
 On the bright days of early spring the stronger 
 ones tramped over the sparkling snow to the near 
 woods to tap maple-trees. There had been thaws, 
 and they often plunged waist-deep in slush, and 
 went through the woods in damp, clinging gar- 
 ments. But they kept themselves warm by active 
 exercise, and suffered no ill effects. When Dor- 
 
 84 
 
XTbe IFtoaitois ! Ubc ITroquols ! 85 
 
 othy showed signs of fatigue the boys drew her on 
 their sleds, in turn. 
 
 They gathered the sap in troughs hewn from the 
 solid wood, and boiled it in large pots over great 
 log fires. The skies wxre clear, the air was mild, 
 and the young people were in merry mood. Their 
 laughter rang through the woods when they went 
 from tree to tree to collect the sap, or stood at 
 night about the huge fires in the clearing, taking 
 turns in stirring the boiling Hquid till the grain of 
 the sugar formed, now and then pouring some, to 
 candy, on the snow. When their work was done, 
 when they piled great cakes of sugar and earthen 
 vessels full of luscious syrup on the sledges, they 
 went home gleefully to house their sweet stores. 
 
 They knew that their elders were anxious, that 
 all must be watchful, but the element of danger 
 gave an added fascination to their pleasures. 
 
 Their thoughtless, pleasurable excitement in the 
 vicinity of peril gave place to a terrible realization. 
 
 Early one morning the sentries were alarmed by 
 great clouds of smoke that rose above the leafless 
 forest from the southeast. Then tongues of flame 
 shot upward, and smoke and flame were seen in the 
 direction of the Mission of St. Louis. 
 
 One looked at another, and then the words broke 
 forth: " The Iroquois ! The Iroquois! They have 
 taken the town! They are burning it to the 
 ground! " 
 
86 XTbe IRomance of a 5c6v\tt /iDtBSlon 
 
 The alarm was given to all in the fort, and white 
 lips asked the vain question, '' Where are Brebeuf 
 and Lalemant? What has happened to them?" 
 
 But they must not spend time in anxious queries. 
 The victorious Iroquois might be already on the 
 march to Sainte Marie, and hurried preparations 
 must be made to resist them. 
 
 " Bring in the women and children from the pali- 
 sades," was the order. " We cannot defend them 
 there. We must concentrate our forces." 
 
 Soldiers and traders hurried to a scene of terror 
 and confusion. The sick and feeble imagined that 
 their barbarous foes were already at their gates. 
 The little ones had caught the infection of fear, and 
 v/ere screaming and clin^ng to their elders. The 
 girls from the lodge, with some of the women, were 
 trying to pacify and encourage the terrified crowd. 
 Some young boys were running about excitedly, 
 shouting their war cries. The older ones, who real- 
 ized the gravity of the situation, had begun to make 
 preparations for removal to the fort. But they 
 were not ill-pleased at the prospect of a fight. They 
 had been under military drill, and when a soldier 
 sounded a call they responded, ran to the open 
 space near him, and formed in line. 
 
 He directed the older ones to move the sick to 
 the fort on sledges. The younger boys were or- 
 dered to assist in the removal of the little children 
 or in carrying bundles. Provisions, bedding, and 
 
XTbe Ifroquots I OTelFroauots! ^7 
 
 clothing were strapped on the backs of boys and 
 girls, and the march began. 
 
 In a short time every inhabitant of the palisades 
 was transferred to Sainte Marie. Then, when the 
 scouts reported that no Iroquois were in sight, 
 some went to and fro carrying food and light fur- 
 niture to the fort. The siege might be long, and 
 the Iroquois would probably burn the palisades. 
 
 The women and children were assigned to the 
 lodges which were, in times of peace, for the use 
 of visiting Hurons. The older boys were instructed 
 and made ready for action in case of attack. There 
 were about forty Frenchmen, well armed, in the 
 fort. 
 
 They would gladly have gone to the rescue of the 
 priests of St. Louis. It was terrible to wait in the 
 fort, not knowing what had happened and unable 
 to help those whom they loved so well. But dis- 
 tant war-whoops had told them that they had sur- 
 mised truly; the Iroquois had been victorious, and 
 the handful of men, were they rash enough to at- 
 tempt the rescue, would but serve to whet the thirst 
 for blood of those who were drunk with victory. 
 
 Presently two runners, spent and breathless, 
 approached the gates. They were recognized as 
 Christian Hurons, and admitted. They brought 
 news of the attack on St. Louis and the capture of 
 St. Ignace. Some of their companions had escaped 
 from the mission soon after the attack had been 
 
8'8 zbc IRomance of a Jesuit /IDtsston 
 
 begun, and had set out to try to make their way 
 through the forests to St. Jean and St. IMatthias, 
 the far-away missions of the Tobacco Nation. The 
 two priests at St. Louis had refused to fly, and the 
 fugitives knew nothing of their fate. 
 
 St. Ignace, St. Louis, and three other villages, 
 formed the mission of which Brebeuf and Lalemant 
 had charge. St. Ignace was defended on three sides 
 by a deep ravine, and strengthened by paUsades 
 fifteen or sixteen feet high. On the fourth side it 
 w^as protected by palisades alone, and these were 
 often left unguarded. A great part of the popular 
 tion had abandoned the town, believing it to be 
 too much exposed to the enemy. At the time of 
 the attack there were about four hundred people, 
 for the most part women, children, and old men, 
 in the place. The warriors were hunting, or on 
 scalping parties against the Iroquois. 
 
 The foe had come on snowshoes through the 
 forest, lurking in ambush when any were near who 
 would carry an alarm. The blind, indifferent Hu- 
 rons had not seen, or had not heeded, the prints in 
 the snow. The enemy had silently approached St. 
 Ignace in the night, stealthily peered about it 
 through the darkness, and entered by the weakest 
 side. There was no exit on the other sides, and 
 only three Hurons escaped, followed in their flight 
 by the shrieks and moans of the wounded and dying, 
 
Ubc ITroquoiB I Ube Ifroquols ! 89 
 
 the unavailing cries and entreaties of women and 
 children. 
 
 The conquerors smeared their faces with blood, 
 left a guard to hold the town, and rushed in the 
 early dawn toward St. Louis, about three miles 
 distant. 
 
 About sunrise the inhabitants had been roused 
 by wild yells without the walls. The three fugitives 
 from St. Ignace were entreating for admittance 
 and urging the people of St. Louis to escape. The 
 greater number heeded the alarm, and fled to seek 
 safety, but the old, sick, and decrepit were left 
 helpless in the lodges. 
 
 Brebeuf had resisted the entreaties of his con- 
 verts, and refused to forsake his place beside the 
 helpless people. The sensitive and delicate Lale- 
 mant trembled, spite of his efforts for composure, 
 yet he remained steadfastly by his colleague. 
 
 The Huron fugitives could not tell the anxious 
 watchers at Sainte Marie a word of the present 
 condition of the priests; but there was little room 
 for hope that they had escaped capture — and 
 capture, in the hands of the Iroquois, meant tor- 
 ture, if not death. 
 
 Some of the women went to the church to pray. 
 And Dorothy, Protestant bred, prostrated herself 
 before the altar, in agonized appeal for the brave, 
 strong, tender man who was in deadly peril. 
 
 Amid their great anxiety the Fathers saw the 
 
90 XLbc IRomance of a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 need for restoring order and calming fear. The 
 children were roaming at will about the fort ; some 
 were crying for food, and the mothers were un- 
 mindful that any were hungry. The mothers and 
 older girls were assembled, by order of the Su- 
 perior, and instructed. Work must go on, dis- 
 cipHne must be maintained, though conditions were 
 changed and peril was at the gates. A large lodge 
 was set apart as a schoolroom; the girls who had 
 taught in the palisades were directed to resume 
 their classes; others were appointed to help the 
 mothers with the younger children. Arrangements 
 were made for the daily supply of provisions, the 
 preparation of meals; and the crowded lodges were 
 divided, as well as possible, for the many families. 
 
 Nialona was commended for her fortitude and 
 presence of mind. She was invaluable to the mis- 
 sionaries; she never appeared to shrink from a 
 duty; she was kind, in her way, especially to those 
 who submitted to her without question; but 
 Dorothy found her dictatorial, and Nialona felt 
 that Dorothy should show more gratitude for all 
 the care she had received in her illness. Dorothy 
 had tried to be truly grateful, but something in 
 the hardness of Nialona's nature repelled her. 
 
 The missionaries were surprised by her apparent 
 calmness. She was very pale, but made no ex- 
 pression of alarm, and went about the duties as- 
 signed to her in a remarkably quiet and orderly 
 
ITbe IF toquols ! XTbe IFroauoia ! 91 
 
 way. Apart from her distress for Brebeuf's sake, 
 the peril and excitement seemed almost a relief 
 from the misery of her own thoughts. For the 
 time they took her out of herself. 
 
 Toward evening the men on the watch-towers 
 saw the Iroquois scouts prowling along the borders 
 of the forest. The lamps were kept burning all 
 night, and all night, in the chapel and in the resi- 
 dence, prayer was said by one or another. The 
 festival of St. Joseph was at hand. Each priest 
 made a vow to say a mass in his honor every month 
 for a year; others bound themselves by vows to 
 various penances. 
 
 Early in the morning a dark, moving body was 
 seen in the distance, and the cry went forth that 
 the Iroquois were at hand. But, before long, 
 friendly faces were recognized. Three hundred 
 warriors, who were chiefly converts from the mis- 
 sions of La Conception and Sainte Madeleine, ar- 
 rived at the fort, and reported that others were 
 coming to aid in the defence. They were fairly 
 well armed, and eager to fight. Several bands of 
 them took posts by the passes of the forest, hop- 
 ing to waylay parties of the enemy. 
 
 But a short time passed before the watchers in 
 the fort heard the cries of battle. Two hundred 
 Iroquois, who had made their way from St. Ignace 
 to begin the attack on the fort, came on one of the 
 Huron bands, slaughtered many, and put the rest 
 
92 Ubc IRomance of a 5esutt /iDfsston 
 
 to flight. Those who escaped fled to seek refuge 
 in Sainte Marie. But their cries had brought their 
 comrades to their rescue. In their turn they routed 
 the Iroquois, who ran for St. Louis, with the victors 
 at their heels. The houses had been burned and 
 the inhabitants killed or taken bound to St. Ignace; 
 but the palisades, though breached and broken, 
 might avail for defence. 
 
 The pursuing Hurons came upon them, and were 
 again victorious. But some of the Iroquois who 
 escaped ran on toward St. Ignace and joined the 
 main body. Then all the enraged warriors hastened 
 back to St. Louis for revenge. 
 
 So many Hurons had been killed or disabled that 
 the force within the broken palisades did not much 
 exceed one hundred and fifty. For weapons they 
 had bows and arrows, war-clubs, hatchets, knives, 
 and a few guns. The Iroquois had a larger force, 
 and most of the men were armed with guns. But 
 the Hurons fought with the courage of despair, 
 and drove back their assailants time after time. 
 Forgetful of caution, they made repeated sallies. 
 Darkness came on, but yell answered yell, and fierce 
 sally was met by desperate resistance. The battle, 
 which was one of the fiercest in Indian annals, con- 
 tinued far into the night; but at last the Iroquois 
 prevailed. Their principal chief was w^ounded, 
 nearly one hundred of their warriors had been 
 killed, and their prize was only about twenty 
 
Ubc tftoquots ! XTbe Uroauols ! 93 
 
 wounded and exhausted Hurons. The others lay 
 dead about the broken palisades. 
 
 The scouts from Sainte Marie, listening under 
 the pines, heard the din of battle rising far into the 
 night. Again the lamps burned all night in the 
 fort, and the defenders watched, muskets in hand. 
 
 And all the next day they watched, but not an 
 Iroquois appeared. A strange stillness, which 
 seemed ominous, succeeded the turmoil, and the 
 Father Superior wrote, " It was as if the country 
 were waiting, palsied with fright, for some new 
 disaster." 
 
XI 
 
 /iDatt^tbom^ ffarewell /iDcssace of Brebeut 
 
 Days passed before the Fathers at Sainte Marie 
 heard the story of the martyrdom of their com- 
 panions. 
 
 On the fateful morning the few warriors who had 
 remained for the defence of St. Louis had sung 
 their war songs, and resolved to hold it to the last. 
 
 The sun had just risen when the Iroquois, stained 
 with the blood of their victims at St. Ignace, came 
 yelling to the assault. Yell was met by yell, shot by 
 shot. The Hurons fought bravely. Twice they 
 drove back the Iroquois; twice the Iroquois, like 
 wild beasts that have tasted blood, renewed their 
 ferocious charge. They hacked the palisades with 
 their hatchets, cut through them at several points, 
 and there was a deadly fight at the breaches. 
 
 At last the Iroquois broke in and captured the 
 surviving defenders. They set the town on fire, 
 and the sick and feeble were consumed in the burn- 
 ing dwellings. They stripped and bound Brebeuf 
 and Lalemant, and drove them with the other pris- 
 oners to St. Ignace. There all turned out and 
 savagely beat the two priests with sticks and clubs 
 
 94 
 
Brebeuf 5 ifarewell /iDessaGc 95 
 
 till they entered the town. Then they left them 
 for a time. They had other work in hand. The 
 torture could wait. The victors divided themselves 
 into bands to burn the neighboring villages and 
 hunt those who fled. 
 
 But on the afternoon of that day, the sixteenth 
 of March, they found time to wreak their vengeance 
 on the Jesuit Fathers. They led Brebeuf apart and 
 bound him to a stake; but they could not bind his 
 dauntless spirit. In a loud voice he urged the cap- 
 tive converts to endure with patience; their trials 
 would be short, and Heaven would be their reward. 
 
 As he stood there he saw a band of Christian 
 Huron lads of St. Ignace. Their captors hoped to 
 torment them by the sight of the last agonies of 
 the priests. 
 
 " O, Father, Father," they cried, " our hearts 
 sufifer for you! " 
 
 He knew that their lives v/ould probably be 
 spared; that they would be adopted into the fam- 
 ilies of the Iroquois. 
 
 " My sons," he said, " stand fast in the Faith. 
 Wherever you go, whatever may befall you, trust 
 in God and keep your souls pure." 
 
 His thoughts flew to another young soul in 
 peril. The remembrance of his last meeting with 
 her, of his anxiety for her and the young man whom 
 he loved as a son, moved him as no dread of his own 
 fate could move; and he lifted up his heart in prayer 
 
9^ Zbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /BMsston 
 
 for the soul of the girl and the soul of the man who 
 loved her. In that love there was danger and sor- 
 row for both. He knew, too, that the girl was op- 
 pressed by some secret which she could not or 
 would not speak, perhaps some mystery of her past, 
 some wrong of others for which she was not ac- 
 countable. He had hoped to see her again, perhaps 
 to hear her confession; if not, at least to give her 
 some comfort and counsel; but it had been ordained 
 that she should never again receive help from him. 
 In the few moments when his captors left him 
 bound while they prepared other victims for the 
 torture his thoughts seemed luminous; his hopes 
 and fears, his questionings and their answers, 
 flashed before him. 
 
 Perhaps one or more of the lads might escape, 
 might see Leon or Dorothy. He would give a 
 message, though it might never be delivered. 
 
 The boys had learned a Httle French, and he 
 spoke to them in that language, so the enemy 
 should not understand. 
 
 '' My sons," he said, " if you see again your white 
 sister at the fort, tell her that in the hour of my 
 death I remembered my promise to speak with her 
 again. She will know that I could not fulfil it, but 
 I send her my last words. Tell her that, in dying, 
 I prayed for her, prayed that her heart might trust 
 in God, that she might find strength and peace. 
 
 " And, my lads, there is another to whom I would 
 
JSrebeuf's ffarewell /iDeBsage 97 
 
 send a message, one whom you know well, the 
 Brother Leon de Charolais. Tell him from me that 
 my thoughts were with him in my last hours, that 
 I loved him to the end. Tell him I prayed he might 
 inherit the blessings of God, promised to him that 
 overcometh. I held him in my arms, lads, when 
 he was an infant; and he is very dear to me." 
 
 The tormentors returned. Brebeuf had hardly 
 time to give a brief message for the Fathers at the 
 fort, when the angry Iroquois, seeking to silence 
 him, scorched him from head to foot. But, without 
 flinching, he continued his exhortations to his fel- 
 low captives. They cut aw^ay his lower lip, and 
 thrust a red hot iron down his throat; but he held 
 himself erect and dauntless. 
 
 He would not yield nor show sign of suiTering 
 for any torture they could devise for his body, and 
 they sought to overcome him through his sym- 
 pathies. 
 
 They tied strips of bark, smeared v/ith pitch, 
 about the naked body of Lalemant, and led him 
 out that Brebeuf might witness his sufferings. 
 
 Poor Lalemant could not conceal his agitation 
 at the condition of his Superior. Throwing him- 
 self at Brebeuf s feet, he cried, in a broken voice, 
 " We are made a spectacle to the world, to angels, 
 and to men." 
 
 The Iroquois seized him, fastened him to a stake, 
 and set fire to the enveloping bark. Throwing his 
 
9^ XCbe IRomancc ot a Jesuit /BMssion 
 
 arms upward, he cried aloud to Heaven. Through- 
 out his tortures, at times, he seemed beside himself; 
 but he rallied, and with upHfted hands offered his 
 sufferings as a sacrifice. 
 
 The tormentors hung round Brebeuf's neck a col- 
 lar of hatchets, heated red hot, but he stood un- 
 moved. 
 
 ** Pour hot water on their heads," cried a rene- 
 gade Huron, who had been adopted by the Iro- 
 quois; " they have poured so much cold water on 
 the heads of others." 
 
 The savages slowly poured the boiling water on 
 the heads of the two missionaries, exclaiming, " We 
 baptize you, that you may be happy in Heaven; 
 for nobody can be saved without a good baptism." 
 
 "We wish to make you happy," cried other 
 renegade Hurons. " You have told us that the 
 more one suffers on earth, the happier he is in 
 Heaven. We torment you because we love you, 
 and you ought to thank us for it." 
 
 Through revolting tortures Brebeuf repressed all 
 sign of suffering. At last, seeing him nearly dead, 
 they laid open his breast, and the warriors drank 
 his blood, believing they might imbibe some of his 
 courage. 
 
 The slender Lalemant lingered for hours after 
 the death of his robust companion, until an Iro- 
 quois put an end to his sufferings with the blow of 
 a hatchet. 
 
:Bvibc\\VQ jfatewell /iDessaae 99 
 
 Brebeuf had many times expressed his desire to 
 die for the Faith. He had bound himself by a vow 
 never to refuse the grace of martyrdom, but to 
 accept it at the hand of God with all the content- 
 ment and joy of his heart. 
 
 It is said that he came of the race from which 
 sprang the English Earls of Arundel. The courage 
 of a noble line, the enthusiasm of a devotee, enabled 
 this soldier of the Cross to meet the most excruci- 
 ating tortures and a terrible death with almost 
 matchless heroism. 
 
XII 
 Ube Searcb toe tbe DeaD 
 
 On the nineteenth of March, the festival of St. 
 Joseph, some fugitive Indians arrived at Sainte 
 Marie in great excitement. The Iroquois at St. 
 Ignace had been seized with a panic, believing that 
 the Hurons were coming upon them in force. The 
 chiefs had been unable to control them, and they 
 were about to abandon the place. 
 
 The news was true. But before they retreated 
 the savages committed another atrocity. They 
 planted stakes in the bark houses, and bound to 
 them all the prisoners v/hom they did not wish to 
 preserve alive. Old men, women, and young chil- 
 dren were placed side by side. Then they set fire 
 to the town, and yelled with delight as the shrieks 
 of their victims rose from the burning dwellings.* 
 
 They loaded the stronger prisoners with plunder, 
 
 * " The site of St. Ignace still bears evidence of the catas- 
 trophe in the ashes and charcoal that indicate the position of 
 the houses, and the fragments of broken pottery, and half 
 consumed bone, together with trinkets of stone, metal, or 
 glass, which have survived the lapse of two centuries and 
 more. The place has been minutely examined by Dr. Tache." 
 
 •— P.\RKMAN. 
 
 100 
 
XTbe Searcb for tbe Deab '^ ^ loi 
 
 and drove them through the forests southward, 
 killing any who gave out on the march. 
 
 An old woman, who had escaped from the flames 
 of St. Ignace, made her way through the forest to 
 St. Michel, a large town not far from the ruins of 
 St. Joseph. St. Joseph, or Teanaustaye, had been 
 the mission of Father Daniel, who had been mar- 
 tyred by the Iroquois on the 4th of July, 1648. She 
 found at St. Michel about seven hundred Huron 
 warriors, and set them on the track of the retreat- 
 ing enemy. But they could not, or would not, 
 overtake them, and after two days gave up the 
 attempt. 
 
 Other fugitives from the burned towns, instead 
 of seeking Sainte Marie, followed those v/ho had 
 fled from St. Louis to the towns of the Tobacco 
 Nation in the Blue Mountains. They struggled 
 through the soft snow in the forest until they 
 reached Lake Huron, which was still covered by 
 the treacherous ice of spring. They ventured upon 
 it, and travelled all that day and the following night 
 until, cold and starving, they found their refuge. 
 
 On the morning of the twentieth a priest from 
 the fort, with seven soldiers, set out for the ruins of 
 St. Ignace. They found there the half-consumed 
 bodies of those who had perished in the burned 
 dwellings, and horrors upon horrors. At last, apart 
 from the rest, they came upon the scorched and 
 mangled remains of the martyr priests. 
 
id2 abe IRomance of a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 They had been told of their death, of their tort- 
 ures, but the sight renewed their grief and horror. 
 With breaking hearts they took up the bodies and 
 carried them to Sainte Marie. They were buried 
 in the cemetery, but the skull of Brebeuf was pre- 
 served as a relic. 
 
 The danger of an Iroquois attack had passed 
 for the time, and the inhabitants of the palisades 
 returned to their homes. The evening after the 
 burial Nialona and Dorothy were standing near 
 Kishik's lodge, watching a wonderful aurora. Its 
 brilliant coruscations of many hues seemed to shoot 
 up from beyond the forests on all sides, uniting in 
 a corona at the zenith. 
 
 " O, Dorothy, behold!" exclaimed Nialona. 
 " See above you the symbol of their glory. It is 
 the martyrs' crown! " 
 
 But Dorothy put her hands before her eyes. She 
 could not look beyond the tortures of which she 
 had heard to the joys of martyrdom. The brave 
 and tender priest, whose sympathy had consoled 
 her, whose strength would have supported her, had 
 been, and now was not. Perhaps he lived else- 
 where; but his words of counsel and strength would 
 never again sound in her ears, unless she should 
 some day reach that unknown land to which — so 
 they told her — he had gone. But what was that 
 far-ofif day to her who needed help and counsel in 
 the sorrow of her youth? 
 
Ubc Seatcb tot tbe Dea^ 103 
 
 Nialona was impatient with her companion's 
 grief, and felt jealously that Dorothy was usurping 
 her privileges. The stranger had seen the good 
 Father but twice. What right had she to go re- 
 fusing to be comforted? Nialona had been in- 
 structed by him, had helped him, had often received 
 his commendation for faithful work; yet she was 
 bearing her bereavement with resignation. 
 
 But that night the bitterness of Dorothy's sor- 
 row was softened. A priest came from the fort with 
 one of the Huron boys who had escaped from St. 
 Ignace, and, calling her apart from Nialona, gave 
 her the last message of Father Brebeuf. 
 
 Far off, pacing back and forth under the gloomy 
 pines near St. Matthias, was Leon de Charolais. 
 He, too, had heard that last message from one who 
 had sought refuge in the distant town. Beyond 
 the forest he, too, saw the lances of light shooting 
 upward in the northern sky. But the coronal 
 splendor had no significance to him of the martyrs' 
 crown. What proof had he of any life hereafter? 
 Schools of philosophy had argued that the soul of 
 man is mortal. Perhaps they were right, and who 
 could tell? He was by nature sceptical, and his 
 rebellion against the Hfe which he had not chosen, 
 and which he found so irksome, had deepened his 
 scepticism. Yet, was it possible that a credulous 
 acceptance of a myth had given the man, Brebeuf, 
 the strength to overcome and transform his nature? 
 
I04 Ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /SMssion 
 
 He was brave; with faith, or without, he would 
 have died as a hero. But it was the inspiring faith 
 within him that enabled him to live as a saint. Leon 
 groaned aloud when he remembered their last part- 
 ing. Anywhere, under any circumstances, it would 
 have been hard to lose such a friend; but, in the 
 lonely wilderness, where friends were few, where 
 none understood him, where some whom he might 
 have made his friends had come to mistrust him, his 
 life seemed void and desolate indeed. 
 
 The missionaries of St. Jean — Charles Garnier 
 and Noel Chabanel — men who, like the other Hu- 
 ron missionaries, had been chosen from the purest 
 of their order — had treated him with kindness. But 
 he believed that information of the reasons why he 
 had been transferred had been sent to them, and he 
 was sensitive of criticism. Garreau and Grelon at 
 St. Matthias had apparently little confidence in 
 him. Without companionship, with little faith, 
 and full of distaste for his work, the dreariness of 
 his Hfe oppressed him so that at times it seemed 
 unbearable. And into that dreariness would come 
 the vision of the lovely girl, of the happiness that 
 might have been; and he could not shut it out. 
 He had no interest in the world without; he 
 dreaded to turn to that within him. As in duty 
 bound, he recited prayers and spiritual exercises 
 from the breviary — they were naught to him but 
 empty words. Work was his sole refuge, and he 
 
Zbc Searcb tor tbe BeaD 105 
 
 worked with the energy of despair. Even Gamier 
 remonstrated with him against exhausting his 
 strength. 
 
 Gamier was devoted to the mission. He was 
 the favorite child of wealthy and noble parents, and 
 had been nursed in ease and luxury. Yet, though 
 his constitution was delicate, he contented himself 
 with v-/retched fare, living in times of famine on 
 roots and acorns. When the country was infested 
 by the enemy he would walk thirty or forty miles 
 in midsummer to baptize some dying Indian. And 
 he had often passed the night alone in the forest 
 in the depth of winter when on some similar errand. 
 He was anxious to fall into the hands of the Iro- 
 quois, that he might preach the Faith to them even 
 out of the midst of the fire. 
 
 Yet Gamier sent a communication to the Su- 
 perior that De Charolais was undermining his 
 strength by exhausting labors; that his zeal led 
 him to overrate his youthful endurance; that he 
 had grown pale and emaciated, and should be re- 
 strained from such reckless drafts on his consti- 
 tution. 
 
 But the Superior did not desire to restrain him. 
 He believed that a passion that expressed itself by 
 such abnormal activity would soon wear itself out, 
 that Leon would cease to trouble himself about the 
 girl, and would settle down to orderly devotion to 
 his work. 
 
XIII 
 Hnxtous Utmes 
 
 Within two weeks from the destruction of St. 
 Ignace and St. Louis, fifteen Huron towns were 
 abandoned, and the greater number burned lest 
 they give shelter to the Iroquois. The Hurons had 
 been seized by despair; they seemed incapable of 
 defence; their one desire was for flight. They had 
 no thought of provision for the future; they left 
 their fields untilled, and roamed the wilderness half 
 starved; for there had been a poor harvest in the 
 previous year. Some sought refuge on the rocky 
 islands of the bay; others had gone to the Tobacco 
 Nation ; a few wandered as far as the Neutrals on 
 the north shore of Lake Erie. 
 
 The Fathers had hoped that their mission would 
 be the beginning of a glorious work, that the sav- 
 age tribes would become sons of the Church, and 
 their land, by peaceful conquest, the heritage of 
 France. But now the Hurons, dispersed and 
 broken, had ceased to exist as a nation; the chron- 
 icles thereafter told only of a vanishing people. 
 
 All the fortified towns between Sainte Marie and 
 the Iroquois country had been destroyed, some by 
 
 io6 
 
Bniious UimcB 107 
 
 the enemy, some by their own people; that fort 
 stood alone. The Jesuits took counsel, and re- 
 solved to abandon the beloved place. The people 
 were scattered, the neighboring missions were in 
 ruins; to remain would be folly; they were ready 
 for martyrdom, if necessary; but they had no right 
 to court it and senselessly expose Hfe that might 
 have fields of usefulness elsewhere. For a time they 
 felt almost crushed by the disappointment; but 
 they rallied. 
 
 Father Ragueneau wrote: " Since the birth of 
 Christianity the Faith has nowhere been planted 
 except in the midst of suffering and crosses. Thus 
 this desolation consoles us; and in the midst of 
 persecution, in the extremity of the evils which 
 assail us, and the greater evils which threaten us, 
 we are all filled with joy: for our hearts tell us that 
 God has never had a more tender love for us than 
 now." 
 
 Several priests followed the scattered Hurons. 
 One shared the rovings of his half-starved converts 
 through the thickets and mountains. Another, 
 embarking in a canoe, sought his despairing people 
 among the rocks and islands of Lake Huron north- 
 ward. The remaining priests, after taking counsel 
 at Sainte Marie, determined to establish a new mis- 
 sion on the Grand Manitoulin Island, to which the 
 Hurons gave the name Ekaentoton. It would 
 bring them nearer the French settlements by the 
 
io8 ubc TRontance ot a Jesuit /Bbission 
 
 route of the Ottawa, and to Algonquin tribes along 
 the borders of the lake. The soil was productive 
 and the fishing good. 
 
 But after they had resolved to transfer their 
 mission a number of Huron chiefs arrived and 
 begged for an interview. They informed the mis- 
 sionaries that many of their people had determined 
 to reunite and form a settlement on the Island of 
 Ahoendoe, called by the Jesuits Isle St. Joseph. 
 They urged the Jesuits to join them, and gave the 
 Superior ten collars of wampum, saying that these 
 were the voices of their wives and children. After 
 a conference of three hours the Jesuits agreed to 
 abandon their plan of a settlement on the Mani- 
 toulin Island and to join the Hurons at Ahoendoe. 
 
 Notwithstanding the anxiety and uncertainty, 
 daily duties in the palisades were conducted in an 
 orderly way. Nialona and Dorothy taught the 
 children and helped the women in the care of tlie 
 lodges as if they were to remain permanently in 
 their homes. The Fathers knew too well the value 
 of discipline and regularity to permit any marked 
 relaxation on account of troublous times. A large 
 number of Hurons from the deserted villages had 
 come to the fort for shelter, and there was much 
 work for all hands to do. 
 
 When the ice 'had gone from the lakes and river, 
 the young people were allowed to paddle their ca- 
 noes for a short distance, if the scouts reported that 
 
Hnxtous TLimcB 109 
 
 no Iroquois had been seen lurking in the neigh- 
 borhood. But they never ventured far, and the 
 groups kept together. They were allowed to ram- 
 ble in the neighboring woods, and gather wild 
 flowers for the decoration of the church and hos- 
 pital. 
 
 Nialona grieved at the prospect of leaving Sainte 
 Marie, where she had spent happy days. But 
 Dorothy, to whom the place was so bitterly associ- 
 ated with tragedy and sorrow, believed that the 
 change could, at least, bring nothing worse. 
 
 In one respect, the agitation had been the means 
 of a respite to her. Either because they judged it 
 to be the wiser course, or because their attention 
 was turned to affairs of more immediate impor- 
 tance, the Fathers had ceased to ask any questions 
 regarding her past, and appeared content for the 
 present to leave her undisturbed in her heretical 
 views. They said among themselves that her con- 
 duct, her obedience to their wishes, were exem- 
 plary; and they were unable at the time to form 
 any tenable plans for her future. 
 
XIV 
 Hn iperil in tbc IRutns 
 
 On a sunny afternoon Dorothy and Washaka set 
 out in their canoe. They meant to paddle but a 
 short distance; but Washaka was venturesome, and 
 Dorothy's heart was Hghter than usual; so they 
 went on heedlessly, until Dorothy suddenly ex- 
 claimed, in her broken French, " Washaka, what 
 shore is this? We have come far. We must re- 
 turn." 
 
 Washaka laughed. " We go on shore, walk but 
 a little way, and find St. Ignace. What say you? 
 My desire is to behold it. I make fast the canoe 
 by yonder tree. The walk is not long. Your 
 strength is more with you of late. If you weary, 
 lean on me." 
 
 Dorothy shuddered. She did not wish to see the 
 place of horrors. But Washaka was determined. 
 " Come; if you come not, I leave you here, and go 
 alone. I fear nothing. Do you say you return with 
 the canoe? What of that? I walk. That walk, a 
 few miles, what is it? But you, you fear to be 
 alone. You cannot use the paddle to return so far. 
 
 no 
 
IFn petti In tbe IRutns 1 1 1 
 
 Your arm has not the strength. Come with me. 
 What fear you? " 
 
 Dorothy hesitated, and Washaka, laughing 
 scornfully, sprang ashore, almost upsetting the 
 light canoe. She began to run up the bank. Wa- 
 shaka was right; Dorothy was afraid to be left 
 alone. " Washaka, Washaka," she cried, " come 
 to me. I go with you." 
 
 Washaka returned, caught the canoe, and drew 
 it ashore. 
 
 The two set out together; but long before they 
 reached the ruins Dorothy was very weary. Her 
 steps lagged, and Washaka had little patience with 
 weakness. The Huron girl was swift and strong; 
 she had often walked from one mission to another, 
 but to drag her companion, who appeared quite 
 exhausted, back to the canoe would be no easy mat- 
 ter. Besides, she had made up her mind to see the 
 ruins. 
 
 When they at last arrived in sight of the charred 
 dwellings, Dorothy begged to be allowed to remain 
 outside of the enclosure, which was blackened and 
 broken. 
 
 But Washaka insisted that she would not return 
 that way. She would walk through the ruined 
 village, and take a shorter cut to the water. 
 
 So Dorothy followed, in helpless submission. 
 The sights she saw made her sick with horror. But 
 Washaka shrugged her shoulders. 
 
1 1 2 XTbe IRomance of a Jesuit /iDlsslon 
 
 " What matters it now? They were baptized, 
 all of them. Do not the priests tell us that they 
 who have been baptized may pass through the fires 
 of the enemy and be happy and safe forevermore? " 
 
 Washaka lingered, examining the ruins, the 
 charred remains of some who had been her friends, 
 with a curiosity and an absence of sensitiveness that 
 Dorothy could not comprehend, though she had 
 seen many exhibitions of stolidity on the part of the 
 Huron women. She tried to avoid the revolting 
 scenes as far as possible. 
 
 When Washaka was ready to go the sun had 
 dropped behind the pines, and though Dorothy 
 had rested on a log, she felt that it would be almost 
 impossible for her to walk to the river. 
 
 Washaka was alarmed when she realized that 
 darkness would soon come on. Their absence 
 would be noticed, and they would surely be repri- 
 manded on their return. '' Come," she said, pulling 
 on Dorothy's arm, " you can walk if you will. You 
 must haste, or I leave you alone." 
 
 Dorothy was so anxious that she did not attempt 
 to argue with her unreasonable companion, but did 
 her best to keep pace with her quick steps. But 
 the effort was useless. She was too weak. 
 
 " I cannot, I cannot, Washaka," she said, stop- 
 ping abruptly, and sinking wearily to the ground. 
 " My head is dizzy. My heart beats fast. I cannot 
 breathe. I must, I must, rest." 
 
ITu ipettl In tbe IRutns 113 
 
 '' Rest, then," said Washaka, angrily; " rest all 
 night if you will, but I go on; and the Iroquois 
 may come and carry you away if they yet linger 
 near." 
 
 She ran off, as she had run up the bank; but 
 Dorothy could not follow. She clasped her arms 
 round a slender tree and leaned her swimming head 
 against it. In a brief unconsciousness she forgot 
 her fears. 
 
 But Washaka knew that she dare not return to 
 the paUsades without her companion. She re- 
 turned, and found that Dorothy had slipped from 
 the log and was lying on the ground in a half faint- 
 ing condition; she realized at last that the white 
 stranger was physically incapable of further effort. 
 
 They had had nothing to eat since noon; per- 
 haps she could find some food in the ruins. She 
 stooped over the fainting girl. " Dorothy, rouse," 
 she cried. " I leave you but a few moments, and 
 seek bread for you to eat. Fear not ; I will return." 
 
 She ran quickly to St. Ignace, and peered about 
 in the gathering darkness. Presently she saw a 
 bag on the ground. It had probably been dropped 
 by one of the Iroquois in the retreat. It contained 
 some dried venison and a few cakes of pounded 
 maize. It was not very appetizing, and Dorothy 
 was fastidious; but she would eat to gain strength. 
 After further search, she found an earthen vessel, 
 which she filled with water from a spring. She had 
 
114 Ube IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 hoped to discover a rug or blanket, in which she 
 might wrap her shivering companion, for the spring 
 night was cold; but she could see nothing of the 
 kind. Dorothy was warmly clad, but she appeared 
 to be chilled. 
 
 When she returned, Dorothy was still lying on 
 the ground. 
 
 " Drink, Dorothy, drink," she said, stooping 
 over her. 
 
 As Dorothy did not move, she sat down beside 
 her, raised her head and held the water to her lips. 
 
 Dorothy drank a little, and revived so that she 
 sat up wearily. 
 
 Washaka propped her against the log, and gave 
 her a bit of venison and a hard maize cake. Had 
 Dorothy seen the dirty bag, perhaps she would 
 have refused it; she tried to eat it, but it was too 
 dry and hard. Then Washaka soaked a cake in 
 water, and put it into her mouth, bit by bit. 
 
 After eating, she felt better, and said she would 
 try to walk. 
 
 They rose and went a few yards, when they heard 
 a crackling of branches at some distance behind 
 them. Washaka put her arm round Dorothy and 
 peered back. She saw a dark figure that stooped 
 when she turned. Had it been a friend from the 
 fort, he would have hastened on or called to her. 
 Her quick instinct told her it was an enemy. Per- 
 haps Iroquois spies were still in the neighborhood. 
 
ITn peril in tbe mxins 115 
 
 They were not far from the deep ravine near St. 
 Ignace. The Huron girl knew the place well. She 
 had lived for a time at St. Ignace, and she and her 
 friends had played their Indian form of the game 
 of hide and seek. She could find a hiding-place in 
 the dark where perhaps even the keenest Iro- 
 quois could not follow. 
 
 It went through her mind in a flash. " Dorothy," 
 she whispered hoarsely; " we must run, run. It is 
 for our lives." 
 
 She put her arm around Dorothy's waist again, 
 and half dragged her. But she felt they were not 
 running fast enough. She heard the footsteps be- 
 hind them. They might make more speed if they 
 were separated. '' Dorothy," she gasped, " I must 
 let go. You hinder me. Keep close to me. Run 
 for your life. We shall escape." 
 
 Fear lent Dorothy strength, and she followed 
 her companion swiftly down the steep ravine; too 
 swiftly, for she tripped and fell, and rolled almost 
 to the bottom. But ^he picked herself up and, 
 unmindful of bruises, pressed on. 
 
 Washaka caught her hand, and pulled her, 
 " Come, there is a place to hide, a hollow tree. 
 There is room for you alone. Do not move; make 
 not a sound. For myself, I find another place. 
 Wait where I leave you till I come for you. If you 
 stir, you are lost." 
 
 Dorothy obeyed. The tree was one of a group, 
 
ii6 zbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDlssion 
 
 and if Washaka had not known it well she could not 
 have found it in the darkness. There was no sound 
 from their pursuer. Perhaps he had feared to vent- 
 ure down the ravine. For aught he knew, other 
 Hurons might be there. 
 
 Washaka crawled into a hollow beneath some 
 logs. Dorothy crouched; she had not strength to 
 stand upright; the space was small, and she was 
 seized with dread lest she should be pinned there. 
 After awhile she heard voices and footsteps. Per- 
 haps the man had gone back for his friends. The 
 voices were low; but when two men passed close 
 beside the group of trees where she was concealed, 
 she knew by their speech that they were Indians, 
 but not Hurons. She feared the beating of her 
 heart, her breathing, might betray her; but her 
 hiding-place escaped their vigilance, and they went 
 on. After awhile they returned. This time they 
 had a light, a smoking torch of wood. Dorothy 
 was cold with dread. She knew too well of the keen 
 sight, the quick perception, of these savages. The 
 ravine was rocky here; they might not see foot- 
 prints; but they would surely notice that the 
 branches had been moved. She could see the light 
 of the torch on their dark, eager faces; but the 
 trunks of the other trees concealed her. The men 
 passed on, and apparently went to search in other 
 directions. 
 
 Washaka did not come to her. The Huron girl 
 
Hn peril in tbe IRuins 117 
 
 feared that silence was intended to deceive them, 
 and that the men might be watching in the neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 When an hour had passed without a sound from 
 their pursuers, she crept from her hiding-place and 
 soug'ht Dorothy. She called her softly, but heard 
 no answer. Then she forced her way in between 
 the thickly growing trees — she had wondered in 
 other days how they had found nurture in that in- 
 hospitable ground — and looked into the hollow; 
 but Dorothy was not there. 
 
 Was it possible that she had been discovered 
 and carried away without a sound? 
 
 " Dorothy, Dorothy," she cried, forgetting cau- 
 tion in her alarm. 
 
 She was relieved by hearing Dorothy's voice, and 
 presently the girl crawled from beneath a heap of 
 brushwood. 
 
 '' I had to move, Washaka," she explained. 
 " There seemed no air to breathe. I felt I was 
 buried alive. It was terrible. I think had I stayed 
 there, I should have died. When the men had 
 gone, when all was quiet, I crept out." 
 
 Washaka did not scold, as Dorothy had expected 
 she would. '* We must haste," she said. " They 
 went to the south. It may be we can reach the 
 river, and find our canoe." 
 
 They went through the ravine to the north for 
 some distance, moving as svv^iftly as they could, and 
 
II 8 txbe IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 listening keenly; but no one appeared to be in 
 pursuit. 
 
 When they left the ravine, they had not far to 
 go to find the river, and presently, to their great 
 joy, they saw their canoe, fastened to the overhang- 
 ing tree, as they had left it. 
 
 It was a peaceful night. The wind sighed gently 
 through the forest, and the stars shone in a clear 
 sky. 
 
 They began to be more hopeful. Washaka pad- 
 dled swiftly, and Dorothy rested. 
 
 They wondered why they met no one of their 
 own people. Surely their absence had been dis- 
 covered, and men were in search for them. 
 
XV 
 
 3Batrc^ ®ut 
 
 When they left the river, they were nearer the 
 fort than the paHsades. As they were sure their 
 absence must have been reported to the Fathers, 
 and that they could not in any case escape censure, 
 they determined to go boldly to the gate and an- 
 nounce their return. 
 
 Washaka judged from the position of the stars 
 that it was about midnight; but, even for that 
 hour, the place was strangely dark and silent. A 
 horror of some calamity seized them. Yet had 
 there been a battle with the Iroquois, there would 
 have been some trace of it in the neighborhood. 
 The only signs of fight they had seen were those 
 left from the late skirmishes, with which Washaka 
 had quickly become familiarized. 
 
 " Let us go on to the palisades," said Washaka. 
 " Strange it seems, yet something has happened 
 so they have not missed us." 
 
 They kept close to the walls till they reached a 
 corner where they found a path to the neighboring 
 enclosure. They walked quickly across the open 
 
 119 
 
1 20 ubc IRomance of a Jesuit /BMsston 
 
 space, seeing no one, hearing nothing, hoping and 
 dreading. 
 
 To their surprise, the gate stood open! 
 
 The place appeared to be deserted. There was 
 not a light in the hospital windows; there was no 
 smoke from any chimney. Washaka went to the 
 lodge that was usually occupied by several families. 
 The door was ajar; the lodge was empty. 
 
 " O, Washaka, what has happened? " asked 
 Dorothy. 
 
 " What know I? " replied Washaka. " We look, 
 may be we find." 
 
 But every lodge that they passed appeared 
 equally desolate. Presently they arrived at Kish- 
 ik's house. The doors and windows were barred; 
 there was not a glimmer of lamp or fire within. 
 They knocked loudly; but there was no answer. 
 
 Washaka pointed to the open door of a neigh- 
 boring lodge. *' Come," she said, '' we make the 
 door fast, we find some blankets, we rest till morn- 
 ing." 
 
 They did not know what danger lurked near. 
 But Dorothy was so weary that she was apathetic, 
 and she follov/ed the Indian girl. 
 
 They groped along the walls, and when their 
 eyes became accustomed to the darkness, they saw 
 a heap in the corner, which they supposed to be 
 some fur rugs. 
 
 Had Dorothy been less exhausted, she would not 
 
Barreb ^ut 121 
 
 have dared to creep about in the darkness in the 
 face of the unaccountable desertion of the lodges. 
 But she held Washaka's hand, and went on. 
 
 Washaka stooped to feel the dark heap, but 
 started back in affright. She had placed her hand 
 on a man's face. Terrified though she was, she did 
 not scream. Without a word, she clutched Dor- 
 othy's hand and pulled her out. 
 
 Dorothy understood the movement, and knew 
 well that Washaka's action betokened danger. 
 
 Washaka divined that the man had not been 
 asleep. He had almost held his breath till their 
 approach. His stillness had a purpose. 
 
 Before they reached the door, he had risen and 
 was following them. 
 
 Fast as their feet could fly they went over the 
 ground till they reached the gate. He seemed be- 
 wildered, and they gained on him. 
 
 When they arrived at the gate, they were several 
 yards in advance. 
 
 "Quick, Dorothy!" cried Washaka, breath- 
 lessly, " we will bar it." 
 
 With all their strength they pushed it in, and 
 Washaka fastened the outer bolt. It had been ar- 
 ranged so it could be fastened from without as well 
 as from within. The outer bolt was a secret device, 
 not readily discoverable by strangers. In times of 
 danger a guard from the fort fastened it after the 
 inhabitants had retired. 
 
122 xLbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 The man gave a howl of rage, and the girls sped 
 on to the fort. But presently they heard a strange, 
 blood-curdling laugh. They turned, and saw their 
 pursuer not many yards behind them. They had 
 fastened the gate securely, and the palisade wall 
 was high. But he had evidently found some way 
 to climb it, or had wedged himself through some 
 opening of which they were not aware. 
 
 In their hurried glance, they saw a wild-looking 
 creature, almost naked, his tangled black hair cov- 
 ering him to the waist. He was gesticulating 
 wildly, and making unintelligible sounds. As they 
 ran, the girls began to shout and shriek in appeal 
 to the inmates of the fort. 
 
 " Let us in, let us in. Open to us, open, open. 
 It is Dorothy! It is Washaka! " 
 
 But the man gained on them. 
 
 " Nialona! Kishik! O, Father, Father, open to 
 us! Let us in! " 
 
 Dorothy's abundant red-gold hair had escaped 
 from its combs, and was floating behind her as she 
 ran. They had just reached the gate, when the 
 savage made a grasp for the hair. Dorothy felt a 
 sharp pain at the roots. She believed he meant to 
 tear it out, and half turned to him, holding up her 
 hands imploringly. 
 
 But he was laughing and jabbering; he let the 
 golden tress fall over his arm, and patted it with 
 one hand; even by night he could see that it was 
 fair. 
 
3BatteD ©ut 123 
 
 The gate swung back. The girls and their pur- 
 suer had been seen from the watch-tower. 
 
 A crowd of men had been roused by the cries, 
 and had rushed to the gate. Dorothy fell almost 
 fainting at Father Ragueneau's feet, and Washaka 
 was so spent that but for the strong arm of a trader 
 she would have fallen. The wild creature had 
 rushed in after them, and the sword of a soldier was 
 lifted to strike, when the blow was arrested by 
 Father Bressani's hand. 
 
 " Harm not the man," he commanded. " He is 
 but a poor, mad creature. Some trouble has crazed 
 his brain." 
 
 The wild eyes looked from one to another. 
 
 " Victor Caradeuc and Jules Venette," said the 
 Superior, in a low voice, *' lead him away; watch 
 and guard him, lest he harm anything; but use no 
 violence." 
 
 The creature fought and struggled when they 
 laid hands on him, and howled so dismally that, un- 
 mindful of the Superior's orders, his guards opened 
 the gate, and thrust him out, when he at once 
 darted across the clearing. 
 
 One of the Hurons said he was an insane man 
 who had wandered about the country for years. 
 No one knew how he lived, but he was harmless. 
 The Fathers knew that among the Indians insanity 
 is supposed to be endowed v/ith supernatural pow- 
 ers; so this man, who was looked upon as an oki^ 
 
1 24 ubc IRomance of a Jesuit /iDission 
 
 had not been molested by any tribe. The Hurons 
 believed he would bring good luck to the fort, and 
 two ran after him to try to persuade him to return. 
 But he fled swiftly; he had taken fright when the 
 Frenchmen seized him. His pursuers returned, 
 brought out some provisions from a lodge in the 
 fort, and laid them on the ground outside the walls, 
 motioning to the madman that he might eat and 
 no one would harm him. 
 
 One of the priests had hfted Dorothy from the 
 ground, and was leading her toward the lodge 
 where Kishik and Nialona were, when Raoul 
 Hauteroche approached. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Dorothee is too ill to walk. 
 Father," he said; "with your permission, I will 
 carry her." 
 
 " You have a strong arm, Raoul," replied the 
 priest. 
 
 Hauteroche chose to look on this as a permis- 
 sion, and lifted Dorothy in his arms. She was so 
 weak that she made no resistance; and her head 
 fell on his shoulder. 
 
 Washaka followed closely, bitterly jealous and 
 angry. Raoul had taken advantage of every op- 
 portunity to pay her attention, and she admired 
 the handsome and bold young trader. 
 
 The priest had turned back for a moment, and 
 Raoul bent his head and laid his bearded cheek 
 against Dorothy's. She shuddered and drew awa3^ 
 
JBatreb ©ut 125 
 
 " How dare you? '' she said. " I will walk. Take 
 your arms from me. Put me on the ground." 
 
 " Nay, nay," he said, softly. '' I meant no harm. 
 Your breathing was so low I feared you had 
 swooned again. I did but stoop to see." 
 
 Dorothy knew that he lied. But she was silent, 
 and endured the clasp of his arms till she reached 
 the lodge. She did not want to do anything to 
 excite Washaka's jealous suspicions. 
 
 When Washaka knocked, Nialona opened the 
 door. She had been lying down, but had not un- 
 dressed. Dorothy had dreaded meeting her. Both 
 of the girls knew she would reproach them. But 
 the Superior and Father Bressani had followed 
 closely to hear their story, and Victor Caradeuc was 
 at hand, pleased to find excuse to see Nialona; so 
 she cried only, " What has happened? O, the ter- 
 rible hours we have passed, not knowing where you 
 were! " 
 
 " Many are in search of you," said the Superior, 
 " great though the peril is, for the Iroquois are 
 near." 
 
 Washaka told her story briefly, omitting all 
 reference to her part in insisting that Dorothy 
 should go with her; and Dorothy was silent. 
 
 When the girls had left the palisades, they had 
 said they were going to the woods on the west to 
 gather flowers, and the search had been made in 
 that direction. Late in the afternoon, alarming 
 
126 XTbe IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDission 
 
 reports of the neighborhood of a body of Iroquois 
 had led the Fathers to order the inhabitants of the 
 palisades to take refuge in the fort. Nialona had 
 been anxious about Dorothy's long absence, but 
 in the hurry of moving Kishik and the household 
 goods to Sainte Marie she had neglected to men- 
 tion it. Then she and some of the boys had begun 
 to search in the neighborhood; but every one had 
 been ordered to return to the fort, and remain 
 there. 
 
 By that time it was dusk, and she sent word to 
 the Superior. Rene le Breton and a number of 
 men set out at once, but found no trace of the 
 wanderers. They had returned to the fort several 
 times to inquire if any tidings had arrived, and had 
 then set forth again. They had not been seen in 
 the neighborhood for more than an hour, and their 
 friends had become anxious, fearing they might 
 have fallen into some Iroquois trap. The inmates 
 of the fort had kept very quiet, with a desire to 
 deceive the Iroquois into a belief that no special 
 watch had been set. 
 
 '•' You have done very wrong," said the Superior, 
 addressing his remarks to Dorothy. " You have 
 caused us terrible anxiety, and risked the lives of 
 some of our bravest men, for whom we are now in 
 grave fear. But you are ill and weary. Rest now 
 if you can, and to-morrow we will talk of your dis- 
 obedience." 
 
:fi3arteb (S^ut 127 
 
 Dorothy held up her hands imploringly, and then 
 broke into violent sobbing. 
 
 Bressani looked pained. " Ah, you are very 
 young yet, and the young will be thoughtless. You 
 will remember the consequences of your folly, and 
 will not give us such trouble again. Do not weep 
 so, child. The good Father is not angry. He 
 meant only to warn you." 
 
 " But Monsieur le Breton and the men with him 
 may come to harm.'* 
 
 " They cannot be harmed unless the good God 
 permits it," replied Bressani. " Pray for them, my 
 child, as we have all prayed, that it be His holy 
 will to bring them back in safety." 
 
 Hauteroche scowled darkly. Dorothy's anxiety 
 for Rene le Breton was not agreeable to him. 
 
 Presently a shout was heard. The priests and 
 Hauteroche hastened from the lodge, and the 
 others waited anxiously for news. Nialona went 
 to the door and listened. She thought the search- 
 ers had returned. 
 
 " Washaka will remain in this lodge to-night," 
 she said, coldly. " Dorothy, go to your bed. We 
 will follow soon. You have already kept us waiting 
 long." 
 
 Dorothy was willing to obey, and be out of reach 
 of Nialona's reproaches. But presently there was 
 a knock at the door, and Bressani came in. 
 
 " Be comforted, my child," he said, kindly, to 
 
128 zrbe TRomance ot a Jesuit /iDission 
 
 Dorothy, who had just risen and prepared to follow 
 Nialona's instructions. " Our friends are safe. 
 Fret no more; but sleep well. You have suffered. 
 No one will say a word of blame to you further." 
 
 He looked at Nialona as he spoke. He was aware 
 of her domineering ways. Then he went out, and 
 Nialona remained sullenly silent. 
 
XVI 
 H ff east ot tbe Dea^ 
 
 Fears of another Iroquois attack passed away for 
 the time. The scouts sought in vain for further 
 signs of the enemy; and the inhabitants of the 
 palisades returned once more to their dwelhngs. 
 Preparations for departure went on ; the daily tasks, 
 the daily teaching, also went on with little inter- 
 ruption, until some of the people left the place to 
 take part in a strange ceremony. 
 
 On a dark night, in a clearing, and under the 
 shadow of the forest, numberless fires blazed. A 
 multitude of people stood round a deep pit, some 
 of them upon a scaffold, others below it, and flung 
 the remains of their dead, in shapeless rolls, or 
 effigies, adorned with beads and feathers, into the 
 place of sepulture, where stood men, with long 
 poles, arranging the bones and skeletons in their 
 places. And from that great multitude there went 
 up continually most dreary and discordant cries. 
 
 At intervals of from seven to twelve years, each 
 
 of the four nations of the Huron Confederacy had 
 
 been accustomed to collect the skeletons of its dead, 
 
 129 
 
I30 'C:De IRomance of a Jesuit /OMsston 
 
 and deposit them in a place of sepulture common 
 to all. Some of the bodies had lain on scaffolds for 
 years. In a few cases, they had been buried in the 
 earth. 
 
 Now, When villages were destroyed and tribes 
 were scattered, the people could not come together 
 as of old for the last rites for their kindred; but it 
 was abhorrent to them to leave the bodies without 
 proper burial. They resolved that before abandon- 
 ing their country for the new settlement at Ahoen- 
 doe, they would bring together the skeletons which 
 had so long awaited sepulture, and those Which lay 
 on the fields of recent battle, and hold their solemn 
 Feast of the Dead. As far as possible the Jesuits 
 had buried the bodies of their converts with the 
 rites of their Church; but many who had asked the 
 aid of the missionaries for their establishment at 
 Ahoendoe were not converts, and practised their 
 pagan ceremonies. 
 
 In the spring of 1636, Brebeuf and his associates 
 had seen the weird death feast at the town of Os- 
 sossane, and regarded the display of mortality as 
 so edifying that they summoned their French at- 
 tendants to contemplate and profit by it. For a 
 similar reason, when a Feast of the Dead was to be 
 held within easy distance of Sainte Marie, the 
 Fathers desired that not only the Frenchmen from 
 the fort, but also some of the inhabitants of the 
 palisades should attend it. Dorothy, Nialona, and 
 
H ffeast ot tbe Deab 131 
 
 Washaka went with the party, under t*he care of a 
 Huron woman who had married one of the French 
 traders. 
 
 From scaffolds and graves where they had lain 
 for years, from the forests and the battle-fields, 
 corpses and bones were gathered. Men appointed 
 for the purpose removed the coverings and ar- 
 ranged the remains in rows. These were sur- 
 rounded by friends and relatives, who wept and 
 howled. Then each family claimed its own, re- 
 moved the flesh from the bones, tenderly caressed 
 them, and wrapped them in skins with pendants of 
 fur. The remains were removed to one of the 
 largest houses, and hung to the cross-poles which 
 supported the roof. A chief addressed the assem- 
 bly, and squaws distributed food. 
 
 The corpses of those who had died recently were 
 then laid on litters, and the bundles of bones were 
 slung on the shoulders of relatives. They believed 
 that these relics possessed feeling and conscious- 
 ness, and while the procession made its way along 
 the forest pathway voices were raised in dreary 
 wails, for the comfort of the conscious remains. At 
 the same time, similar processions were coming 
 from other directions toward the ossuary. 
 
 The pit was in a large clearing, and had been dug 
 in light soil. The preparations had necessarily been 
 more hasty than usual. Around the deep pit stood 
 a high and strong scaffolding, with many upright 
 
132 Zbc iRomance of a Jesuit /iDtsslon 
 
 poles and cross poles between, on which would be 
 hung- the funeral gifts and the remains. 
 
 When the chiefs gave the word to prepare for 
 the ceremony, the bundles were opened for the last 
 time, amid expressions of affection and lamenta- 
 tion. Presently the bones were taken up again, 
 the processions moved in order toward the pit, and 
 each went to the spot assigned to it. The funeral 
 gifts, some of which were furs of great value, were 
 displayed while the relics were resting on the 
 ground. After a time, fires were lighted, the gifts 
 were repacked, and the bones taken up by their 
 bearers. At a signal, these bearers rushed toward 
 the scaffold, scaled it by rude ladders, and hung 
 their gifts with the relics on the poles. Chiefs, 
 standing on the scaffold, addressed the crowd 
 while a number of men were lining the pit with 
 robes of beaver. Copper kettles, purposely dam- 
 aged by having large holes knocked in the bottom 
 with tomahawks, were placed in the middle. Then, 
 here and there, copper and glass beads, wampum, 
 pipes and pottery, copper and stone axes, and va- 
 rious utensils of Huron households, were scattered. 
 The bodies of those who had recently died were 
 broug^ht to the edge of the pit and thrown in, and 
 the Indians w'ho stood in the gruesome cavern ar- 
 ranged them in order. 
 
 There was a horrible fascination in the scene for 
 Nialona and the Huron women; but to Dorothy 
 
H ffeast ot tbe H)eaD 133 
 
 the spectacle was so hideous that she longed to 
 escape to the forest, and close her ears to the cries 
 and her eyes to the ghastliness. 
 
 *' No, Dorothy," said Nialona; "you must not 
 go. Do you not remember we are here by com- 
 mand of the Superior? Dorothy, you seek to put 
 from you every thought of death. You fear to die. 
 What wonder? Who would not dread to die with- 
 out absolution, which you refuse? Look, Dorothy; 
 turn not away, but look. Those flames, the deep 
 pit, the dark forms, should bring to your soul the 
 thought of the fires of hell — ^the fires that burn 
 forever. Dorothy, you must think. If you think 
 not, repent not; if you refuse to confess your sins, 
 you will some day be flung to the everlasting fire, 
 as those bodies are flung into the pit; and then you 
 will find there is no escape." 
 
 Nialona stood, with her hand outstretched, 
 pointing, with forcible gestures, to the pit, and 
 then, as it were, to Dorot'hy's soul. The Huron 
 girl, often deeply stirred by human jealousies and 
 human passions, was, in her way, a religious en- 
 thusiast. The child of a superstitious race, her zeal 
 was fanatical at times, and she pursued Dorothy 
 and her Huron sisters with appeals to repent and 
 profess the true faith. 
 
 Warnings to turn to a new Hfe and escape the 
 everlasting fires came to Dorothy's ears with a 
 familiar sound; but in other days they had never 
 
134 Ube iRomance of a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 been emphasized by such a vivid object lesson. 
 Could her Puritan guardians have heard Nialona's 
 exhortation, they would probably have regarded 
 the Huron girl as an emissary of Satan, seeking to 
 lure a soul to endless perdition. 
 
 Dorothy, white and sick with horror, clapped her 
 hands over her ears. 
 
 Nialona, bent on applying her lesson, seized the 
 hands and pulled them down. " Dorothy, Dor- 
 othy," she shouted, for the din had increased, " it 
 is true; if you shut your ears to the truth, you will 
 die in your sins. You will be tormented forever." 
 
 A't that moment Dorothy looked up, and, across 
 the flaming fires and the hideous pit, saw Leon de 
 Charolais. With a body of Hurons who had fled 
 to the Tobacco Nation, he had come to the death 
 feast. Surrounded by the dark-skinned men, his 
 tall, slight figure and fairer face were easily dis- 
 cernible. For the moment, Dorothy forgot Nia- 
 lona's pleas and all the horror of the scene. He 
 was looking at her; they might meet; yet he was 
 far off, and there was a great crowd between them. 
 It would be impossible for her to speak with him 
 now; but the several processions would not return 
 to their forest camps or their scattered homes until 
 the next day; surely, they could not be so near 
 and be obliged to part without a word. 
 
 But the Superior was standing not far from Dor- 
 othy. He was near enough to hear Nialona's 
 
H If east ot tbe DeaD 135 
 
 words, though she was not aware of it. He noticed 
 Dorothy's star^t of surprise, the direction in which 
 she turned her head; ^he followed her glance, and 
 saw De Charolais. 
 
 A few moments later, Madame Couture, the 
 Indian woman in whose care the girls had come to 
 the place, touched Dorothy's arm. The Superior 
 had sent word that she must go at once with her 
 guardian to their camp, and remain there until the 
 departure the following morning. 
 
 Rebellion was in Dorothy's heart, but she knew 
 it would be useless. She turned from Madame 
 Couture for a last look at Leon. Unmindful that 
 the Superior was almost beside him, she made a sad 
 little gesture of farewell with her hand, shook her 
 head slowly, and turned away. 
 
 " Leon de Charolais, why are you here? " asked 
 Father Ragueneau, in a tone that sent the blood to 
 Leon's cheek. 
 
 " I came, Father, by command of Father Garnier. 
 The men with me would not consent to forego pay- 
 ing the last respect to their dead. By Father Gar- 
 nier's wish, I accompanied them. I bear a letter 
 for you; but we were late in arriving; up to this 
 moment I have had no opportunity to present it." 
 
 Ragueneau took the letter, which was written on 
 birch bark, and the contents assured him that the 
 young man had spoken the truth. Moreover, he 
 could have had no reason to think that Dorothy 
 
13^ Ubc "Komancc ot a Jesuit /BMssion 
 
 would attend the ceremony. She had not been in- 
 formed of it until within a few hours of the time 
 when the party set out from Sainte Marie. Even 
 had she been able to elude the keen, suspicious eyes 
 of Nialona — more vigilant than before since the 
 wandering- of Dorothy and Washaka — had she been 
 able to write a letter on birch bark and deliver it 
 to a messenger, such messenger, travelling on foot 
 through the forest, must have 'had at least a two 
 days' journey before he could reach St. Matthias. 
 The evidence proved that De Charolais could not 
 have been aware that he would see the girl. 
 
 " Father Gamier has done well, my son," he said, 
 mildly. " No other man could have been spared 
 from the mission at this time. You will bear a few 
 lines from me to St. Matthias in answer to this good 
 letter." 
 
 Dorothy was kept under vigilant guard; and be- 
 fore she was permitted to leave Madame Couture's 
 camp in the morning the men from St. Matthias 
 had set out on their return journey. 
 
XVII 
 Zbc Departure from Satnte /»arfe 
 
 Preparations for departure from the fort were 
 hastened. The missionaries superintended the 
 construction of a vessel to carry some of their 
 stores. A large raft was also built. They had to 
 remove the pictures, vestments, sacred vessels, and 
 images from their church; furniture, weapons, and 
 ammunition, tools, goods for barter with Indians, 
 cattle, swine, and poultry. Moreover, they had a 
 large stock of corn, in part the produce of their own 
 fields, and in part purchased from the Hurons in 
 years of plenty. 
 
 Several days before they and the soldiers and 
 traders abandoned the fort, they sent out the party 
 from the palisades, accompanied by a few French- 
 men and a strong guard of Huron men. 
 
 On a large raft were placed light furniture, pro- 
 visions, and clothing. Some members of the party 
 travelled on the raft ; but the greater number made 
 the journey in canoes. Kishik mourned because 
 she had to leave her comfortable lodge. Her feel- 
 ing Vv'as shared by the old people; they wanted rest 
 
 137 
 
13^ ^be IRomance of a Jesuit /»tssion 
 
 and peace, but a long life of drudgery had brought 
 many of them to a sluggish acceptance of any con- 
 dition of life that came to them. 
 
 On a June morning the fleet of canoes set off. 
 The young people were in high spirits; they en- 
 joyed change and the suspension of daily, irksome 
 tasks. 
 
 In a large canoe with Kishik and her girls went 
 Monsieur and Madame Couture and their three 
 young children. The women, with the exception 
 of Kishik, took turns in paddling. The canoes kept 
 as near together as possible; and from time to 
 time, as they sped on their way, the young people 
 sang in chorus the hymns of their church or some 
 of the Huron songs. To all appearance, the Iro- 
 quois had temporarily abandoned their marauding 
 parties on the main shore; so the young Hurons 
 had no fear of attracting unwelcome attention by 
 their song. 
 
 Toward the end of the first day's journey, the 
 canoes began to wind in and out amid the numer- 
 ous rocky islands of the bay. Some of these islands 
 are little more than points of rock above the water; 
 others rear 'high their bald, white crests; but on 
 many a summit trees that have sprung from the 
 crevices wave luxuriant foliage. Pine and red cedar 
 clamber up the slopes; black cherries, raspberries, 
 and huckleberries are abundant in their season. 
 
 The sun had dropped behind a peak, and the tints 
 
departure from Salute /iDarte 139 
 
 in the west warned the voyagers that they must 
 find a resting-place for the night. 
 
 They came at last to a comparatively large island 
 where a deep, wooded ravine incHned gently to the 
 water's edge, and a broad, shelving rock made land- 
 ing easy. A spring of clear water rippled down 
 the high, rocky walls and joined a stream that had 
 worn a way through the ravine, and they went 
 babbling together to the bay. 
 
 A bell-like sound warned them that swarms of 
 mosquitoes would meet them on their landing. The 
 Indians had little fear of them, but for Dorothy's 
 sake they promised to drive them away with 
 smudges. 
 
 Before long, hastily erected bark tents were scat- 
 tered about the ravine, smoke was curling up from 
 a brushwood fire, and the cooks were preparing for 
 supper the black bass and muskallonge that had 
 been caught by the way. 
 
 After their long day on the water, the voyagers 
 w^re sleepy and tired, and went early to rest on 
 their beds of balsam or cedar boughs. Dorothy 
 was restless and could not sleep. She lay near the 
 open entrance of her tent, looking up at the stars. 
 The tent was close, the air without was cool and 
 sweet. As quietly as possible, so she should not 
 disturb the other inmates, she put on her dress and 
 moccasins. She intended to walk to the shore; 
 but she saw the French and Indian guards lying 
 
I40 Ubc IRomance of a Jesuit /llMssion 
 
 there, and feared to disturb their Hght slumbers. 
 She looked above, where the limestone rock gUs- 
 tened in the moonlight. It was so peaceful, so pure; 
 it seemed to beckon her troubled spirit to come and 
 share its calm. 
 
 She clambered up on hands and knees, for the 
 rock was very steep and slippery from the dew. 
 Here and there, where great tufts of moss grew, 
 she rested for a few moments, and then w^ent on her 
 way. Once she would have fallen had she not clung 
 to a shrub that sprang from a crevice. She came 
 unawares on the brink of a great chasm. Some 
 mig-'hty convulsion of nature had rent the rock 
 asunder. Far beneath, at the foot of the precipice, 
 the dark water flowed. Her foot sUpped; she felt 
 herself falling; but she caught a branch of a tree 
 that grew at the very edge of the chasm; and, for 
 a moment, clinging to it, swung above the fright- 
 ful abyss. The tree ^^^s but a slender one. Had 
 she been heavier, it would have broken with her 
 weight. As it was, it bent and swayed. Her heart 
 beat fast, she was dizzy with dread. Her feet were 
 swinging in the air. With desperate courage, she 
 moved, hand below hand, until she reached the 
 trunk of the tree, drew herself close to it, and then 
 climbed up again until she could place her feet on 
 the rock. 
 
 She m.oved from the edge of the chasm, and lay 
 for awhile, sick with horror at the thought of the 
 
S)epatture from Salute /iDarie 141 
 
 fate she had escaped. She had believed that she 
 wished to die; she was thankful now that the life 
 blood yet flowed in her veins. After all, hope had 
 not wholly left her; life might yet hold some sweet- 
 ness for her, though she had drunk bitter draughts 
 from its cup. 
 
 She sat up presently, and the majestic soHtude 
 calmed her. The silence was unbroken, save by the 
 rustling of the leaves and the plash of waves on the 
 shore. 
 
 Then her ear caught the sound of some one clam- 
 bering up the rock. She crept under a heavy bush, 
 and peered through the low-hanging branches. It 
 might be an enemy. A head appeared above a jut- 
 ting rock, and Dorothy beheld the ever-watchful 
 Nialona. 
 
 She left her retreat, and cried, " O, Nialona, why 
 come you here? " 
 
 " To me belongs that question," repUed Nialona, 
 indignantly. " Why have you done this, and 
 brought fear to the heart of every one? " 
 
 ^' I could not sleep. I wanted to be alone. I 
 meant no wrong. In a Httle time, I would have 
 returned." 
 
 '' And who could know that? I awoke; I found 
 your place empty. I aroused others to help me to 
 seek you." 
 
 " But, Nialona, the poor v/omen, the children; 
 they were so weary; their sleep should not be 
 broken." 
 
142 Uhc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 " Dorothy, think you I am a madwoman who 
 would rouse every one? When I found you had 
 fled, I soug'ht only the aid of the men on the shore." 
 
 Nialona's tone was the dictatorial one she had 
 for some time assumed toward Dorothy. Though 
 she had not been taken into the Superior's con- 
 fidence, she was aware that he entertained some 
 suspicions regarding the stranger. He had placed 
 her in a position of guard and authority over her 
 guest. She had also been the instructor and guide 
 of her Huron sisters. She believed that the Fathers 
 looked upon her as their confidante and a model to 
 which the other women in the palisades should 
 conform. She naturally magnified her own virtues 
 and importance. Besides, she had her own charge 
 against Dorothy. Before the arrival of the white 
 girl, the young men, Frenchmen as well as Indians, 
 had paid her flattering attentions. She was hand- 
 some, and civilization had developed her native 
 beauty. The young Indians perceived her superior- 
 ity to her untutored kinswomen, and the French- 
 men found more interest in her companionship than 
 in that of the other Huron girls. With the excep- 
 tion of Was'haka and Panasawa, who had been 
 under instruction for several years, even the con- 
 verts of the mission were not far removed from 
 savagery. Since Dorothy had been with them Nia- 
 lona had been comparatively neglected. Though 
 the Fathers had made stringent rules, and had 
 
Departure from Satnte /iDarle 143 
 
 finally forbidden the young Frenchmen to enter 
 the palisades, the direction of their eyes in the 
 church, and the eagerness with which they sought 
 opportunity to say a word to Dorothy after the 
 services, or when they accompanied the girls as 
 guards on any excursions, kept jealousy burning 
 in the Indian heart. While she had rejoiced in her 
 queendom, s'he had treated some of the men dis- 
 dainfully. But she had shown favor to one man, 
 and when, soon after Dorothy's arrival, she per- 
 ceived that he was growing indifferent to her, she 
 was filled with bitterness. She believed that Dor- 
 othy had used every art to win the young men, for 
 Victor Caradeuc had not been the only one who 
 had shown himself fickle. Had not Leon de Charo- 
 lais, who was pledged to the Church, been lured 
 from his duty by the false stranger? Had not Raoul 
 Hauteroche forsaken Washaka? Dorothy had pre- 
 tended to dislike and avoid Hauteroche; but Nia- 
 lona believed it was only pretence, and that, in her 
 own way, she must have encouraged him. For 
 weeks s'he had cherished these feelings against the 
 white girl, and made Doro'thy aware of her attitude 
 by many an ill-natured speech; and Dorothy had 
 been greatly relieved by the announcement that 
 Caradeuc had not been appointed to assist in guard- 
 ing the party to Isle St. Joseph. 
 
 " Dorothy, you must return at once," said Nia- 
 lona. " The men are weary, yet they will seek you 
 
144 Ube IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtssion 
 
 by land and water; for who could know if you had 
 paddled away? " 
 
 Nialona's manner was most irritating; but Dor- 
 othy controlled her anger. She knew she had given 
 trouble, and was sorry for it. 
 
 *' Yes, Nialona, I will go with you at once," she 
 said, as amiably as she could. 
 
 They were about to begin the descent, when 
 Rene le Breton's dark head appeared above a point 
 of rock. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Dorothee," he exclaimed, joy- 
 fully, "you are safe! But what alarm you have 
 caused us! " 
 
 " O, I grieve, I am sorry," said Dorothy, peni- 
 tently. 
 
 The young man made the ascent quickly, and in 
 a few moments stood beside the girls. 
 
 " Fair maiden," he said, looking at Dorothy with 
 an admiration which Nialona resented, '' we have 
 been roused from our slumbers, and have received 
 many bruises from these rocks in your service. In 
 return, grant us a favor; inform us why you roam 
 thus at midnight." 
 
 " I — I desired to meditate in quiet." 
 
 " To meditate! Ah, and your thoughts were of 
 lofty things, therefore you sought this height. 
 Well, the good Fathers, were they here, would have 
 no word of blame for you; for do they not con- 
 tinually urge us to seek the grace that comes from 
 
Departure from Salute /iDarte 145 
 
 solitary meditation? Yet, when you wis'h to sit 
 apart, at the midnight hour, by the lig^ht of the 
 moon, it will be well to inform us of your purpose, 
 and so spare us some anxious moments." 
 
 " I will bear it in mind, Monsieur le Breton. I 
 have said, I am grieved for my fault. But how 
 knew I that any one would be roused? Yet many 
 times have I caused sorrow to others by reason of 
 my lack of thought." 
 
 " Ah, do not accuse yourself. You came here to 
 sit alone with your thoughts, and yet you tell us 
 you have lack of thought." 
 
 " Come," said Nialona, severely, " why waste 
 time? Others are still seeking, we know not 
 where." She felt impatient with Dorothy's labored 
 attempts to reply in French to Le Breton's foolish 
 speeches. 
 
 " Let us tarry a while," said Rene. " I must see 
 this deep abyss. On one of the islands of this bay 
 there yawns a chasm that bears the name, * The 
 Lovers' Leap.' Tradition relates that the lover of 
 a Huron girl had forsaken her, and in her despair 
 she paddled off alone in her canoe, and sought death 
 on the water. But the water spirits refused to grant 
 her desire. Many times she cast herself down, seek- 
 ing to sink to the bed of the lake; but they bore up 
 her body, and she floated on the surface in their 
 arms; in the wildest storms her canoe rode the 
 waves in safety. One day she landed on an island 
 
146 TLbc IRomancc of a Jcsuft /DMsston 
 
 — this island, it must be — she came to a mighty 
 chasm, and a voice from the water beneath seemed 
 to call her to death. Her spirit answered the call; 
 she was ready to fling herself from the brink, when 
 she heard a footstep on the rock, and, looking back, 
 saw the form of a man who had loved her for many 
 years; but for him she cared nothing. He had 
 sought her untiringly. He did not see the chasm, 
 and uttered a cry of joy. But her answer was not 
 given to him, but to the cry of the death spirit in 
 the water below. He sprang to her; but she cast 
 herself down, and he followed her to death." 
 
 Rene restrained a smile at Dorothy's serious face. 
 She looked down the precipice, and shuddered. 
 
 " The story goes, that in the world of spirits she 
 recognized the devotion of her true lover. Yet her 
 phantom canoe is often seen winding in and out of 
 the channels between these islands, and his is always 
 in pursuit. The false lover and the girl who had 
 stolen him away had no peace. Many troubles be- 
 fell them. They were haunted by visions of the 
 phantom canoe, and of the body of the girl floating 
 out from the water of the chasm to the bay. When 
 the false lover went a-fishing at night, by the light 
 of his torch he saw reflected back from the water 
 the eyes of the dead woman." 
 
 " It was the justice of heaven that he should be 
 tormented," said Nialona, viciously. " And the 
 girl, so false, so treacherous, it was right that her 
 heart should find no happiness." 
 
Bcpartixre from Salute /iDarte 147 
 
 She gave a glance at Dorothy, which she did' 
 not wish Rene to observe. But his eyes were quick, 
 and he perceived at once that there was trouble 
 between the two, though he was unaware of the 
 cause of Nialona's jealousy. As 'he had his own 
 share of masculine vanity, he believed he had 
 aroused her ill-feeling by his manner toward Dor- 
 othy, and told himself that he must be very discreet. 
 
 " No eyes of the living beheld the death of the 
 faithful girl and her true lover," he said, addressing 
 himself to Nialona; ** and no one can tell how that 
 part of the story became known. It may be the 
 two revealed it when they paddled in their phantom 
 canoes; or it may be she came from the spirit land 
 to whisper it in dreams to the faithless one. It 
 must be that the man who was so true was of our 
 race. Would any Huron so love a girl that he 
 would die for her? ** 
 
 At that moment Monsieur Couture and an Ind- 
 ian appeared. 
 
 " Why have you done this? " he asked, roughly, 
 looking at Dorothy with angry eyes. He had been 
 roused from his much-needed rest; and he had 
 been very anxious, because the Superior had espe- 
 cially placed Dorothy under his care. 
 
 " I — could not sleep," faltered the girl. " I am 
 sorry." 
 
 " You give too much trouble. I shall be thank- 
 ful, Father Ragueneau will be thankful, when you 
 
H^ Ube IRomance ot a Jesuit ilDfsston 
 
 can be sent to Quebec and put in the charge of 
 some strict woman who will know how to manage 
 you." 
 
 Dorothy's lip quivered, and, involuntarily, her 
 eyes sought Rene's protection. 
 
 What chivalrous youth would not return a re- 
 sponsive glance if appealed to by eyes so beautiful? 
 
 Rene was an exemplar of chivalry, and, notwith- 
 standing -his light tone when talking of affairs of 
 the heart, he was susceptible and romantic. 
 
 When he left France to live in the wilderness he 
 believed that his heart had been wounded beyond 
 healing; for a lovely woman had rejected his ad- 
 dresses and given her affections to another. 
 
 He had not expected that his w^ork in the mission 
 would cure the wounds; he had hoped, at the most, 
 that work and time would in some degree assuage 
 their aching. 
 
 Two years had passed, and though he bore in his 
 heart his unrequited affection, and assumed — when 
 he thought of it — a pensive air that was very be- 
 coming, the wounds were undoubtedly in process 
 of healing. 
 
 At times, after he had visited Kishik's lodge with 
 the object of cheering Nialona, who was homesick 
 for France, he had considered the possibility — as 
 a sort of revenge for the wrongs civilization had 
 wrought him — of following the example of Mon- 
 sieur Couture and other Frenchmen and wedding 
 
2)epattute trom Satnte /iDarte 149 
 
 an Indian girl. It would entail some sacrifices, but 
 he might find a solace in making Nialona happy. 
 
 After Dorothy's arrival he put this consideration 
 aside. He could do so without dishonor. He had 
 made no declaration to Nialona, and it had become 
 plain to him that she preferred another. 
 
 His sympathetic heart had been touched by the 
 pathos of poor Dorothy's face and the trials of her 
 condition. She was placed under a constant sur- 
 veillance which must be hard to bear. He surmised 
 that it was in part the outcome of the devotion of 
 Leon de Charolais, which had been observed and 
 commented upon by the young soldiers and traders. 
 But now, when Leon was safely out of the way, 
 why should the Superior's face grow so stern when 
 he spoke of Dorothy? He had heard it suggested 
 that the Fathers suspected there was a mystery, a 
 sorrowful secret, in her past, but that no one knew 
 more about her life than she had confided to Leon, 
 and that was little. A secret sorrow made her the 
 more interesting, and no one who looked into her 
 face of almost child-like innocence and purity could 
 believe that she was concealing any wrong deed of 
 her own. He had been annoyed by Hauteroche's 
 flippant tone when he spoke of her, and had re- 
 garded himself as her defender. 
 
 Now the quivering lip and tear-dimmed eyes 
 called for his good offices. He gave her a protective 
 and sympathetic glance, and turned to Couture. 
 
ISO XTbe IRomance ot a Jesuit flDisston 
 
 " My good friend," said he, " Mademoiselle Dor- 
 othee should be commended, not censured. She 
 climbed to this height with much difficulty, as we 
 can all testify, for solitary meditation. The Fathers 
 themselves could not have chosen a place more fit- 
 ting. And look, are we not well repaid for follow- 
 ing her upward to this scene of wondrous beauty? 
 Behold it: in the distance, the dark forest-clad 
 shores of the mainland and a gUmpse of the moonlit 
 waters of the bay; far and near, for miles around 
 us, see the islands, set hke jewels, rimmed with the 
 sparkling silver of the crested waves; mark the 
 varied shapes, the many colors. Were it an hour 
 of sunlight, the fruit of yonder tree would be ruby 
 drops against the white stone, touched with a re- 
 flection of emerald from the deep water of the 
 ravine below. Your dreams, my friend, should be 
 the sweeter for remembrance of the scene. And 
 now let us descend to the fragrant valley." 
 
 Monsieur Couture smiled. He understood the 
 purpose of the young man's ramblings, and Dor- 
 othy rewarded Rene by a grateful glance. 
 
 At that moment his unrequited affection was not 
 a noticeable burden. 
 
XVIII 
 
 ®n tbe IfBle St» Josepb* iRen^ Seefta Dots* 
 otbp'6 Conti^ence 
 
 The voyagers found their second day's travel 
 wearisome. The wind had dropped, there was 
 hardly a ripple on the water, and the glare of the 
 sun was almost intolerable. The novelty had 
 passed, and the little ones were restless and irri- 
 table. But when the sun had gone down, and a 
 cool breeze swept over the bay, when they could 
 look at the dark, varied line of the shore without 
 aching eyes, they would willingly have remained 
 longer on the water. They were near enough to 
 the mainland to hear the clear cry of the whip-poor- 
 will, but there might be a risk of encounter with 
 some lurking Iroquois; so they set up their tents 
 for the night on a small island. 
 
 On the evening of the third day they arrived at 
 Isle St. Joseph, near the entrance of Matchedash 
 Bay. There were three islands near together; the 
 largest, the future home of the mission, was six or 
 
 151 
 
152 Ubc IRomance of a 3cBxMt /IDtsston 
 
 eight miles wide, and densely covered with the 
 primeval forest.* 
 
 They found about three hundred Huron famiUes 
 already established in the woods. They had erected 
 wigwams and sheds of bark, liad made some rough 
 clearings and planted a little corn. But they had 
 all lost heart. They felt they were a doomed peo- 
 ple, and they lounged in the forest, woful and de- 
 spondent. They were half famished, too, for they 
 had not brought sufficient provisions with them, 
 and did not fish and hunt energetically enough to 
 renew their supplies. 
 
 The arrival of the party from the palisades roused 
 them. A large number of them had never seen 
 Dorothy, and she was an object of much curiosity 
 and interest to them. They built their fires, and 
 hung their kettles, each on a tripod of poles, to give 
 the new comers a welcome. They were a hospita- 
 ble people; they gave generously from their small 
 stores, and when the visitors had satisfied their 
 hunger the men helped them to erect their tem- 
 porary wigwams. 
 
 A bark lodge was put up for Kishik and her girls; 
 Washaka had been for some time a member of Kish- 
 ik's household. The Hurons would have built the 
 lodge in the midst of their hastily erected village, 
 
 * These islands are now known as Faith, Hope, and Chanty 
 Charity is also called Christian Island. 
 
Hsle St 5osepb iS3 
 
 but Nialona persuaded them to set it up in a grove 
 at a little distance. The disorder and uncleanHness 
 of the village would have been almost as intolerable 
 to her as to Dorothy. But, in spite of the precau- 
 tion of setting it apart, their lodge was continually 
 overrun by idle squaws and unruly children. The or- 
 phan children from the paUsades broke bounds and 
 became nearly as unmanageable as their new asso- 
 ciates. The girls who had taught in the school tried 
 to gather the young savages in a large grove and 
 give them some instruction. But neither threat 
 nor commendation availed, and they were com- 
 pelled to resort to rewards or bribes, promising 
 two or three beads, a trinket, or a lump of maple 
 sugar to those who sat quietly on the ground, 
 learned a few words of a hymn or prayer, or stood 
 up in good order to go through a drill. But this 
 was also a failure, for those who had received re- 
 wards were pounced on by the others, and a general 
 struggle ensued. So, until the arrival of the mis- 
 sionaries, the vouno: teachers limited their efforts 
 to the instruction of the children of their own 
 party. 
 
 But, notwithstanding difficulties, their first days 
 on the island were pleasant ones. The weather was 
 delightful, and they could escape from the Indian 
 village and wander in the woods. No Iroquois had 
 been seen anywhere in the neighborhood; guards 
 were constantly on the lookout for strange canoes, 
 
154 Ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDlsston 
 
 so the girls were free to ramble far from the tents. 
 They gathered flowers, fished in the streams, found 
 the eggs of wild fowl near the shores, sat in the 
 woods plaiting baskets and other household arti- 
 cles from strips of bark, bathed in a shallow cove, 
 or paddled in their canoes within safe distance from 
 the island. A Uttle later in the season there would 
 be an abundant supply of berries, and there was 
 difficulty in restraining the children from eating 
 the green ones. With the assistance of the Indian 
 boys they fenced plots of ground for their gardens 
 and poultry yards. Some of their poultry had been 
 brought on the large raft, and the missionaries 
 would bring the rest. 
 
 In the days before the arrival of the Fathers, 
 Dorothy saw for the first time many of the peculiar 
 rites of the heathen Indians, who, unrestrained by 
 the presence of the priests, gave themselves up 
 to their superstitions. 
 
 A warrior had dreamed that he would die if the 
 evil spirits were not propitiated by a feast, and 
 though provisions were scarce his comrades felt 
 bound to comply with his request. A party of 
 hunters had come in with a supply of game, and the 
 fishermen had also been busy. The invited guests 
 were obliged to eat all that was set before them, 
 regardless of their subsequent discomfort. To re- 
 fuse would not only be a grave oflfence, but would 
 imperil the life of their brother. The Jesuits gave 
 
lisle St 306epb 155 
 
 to such feasts the name " Festins a manger tout." 
 The guests generally dreaded them, but dared not 
 decline. 
 
 The warrior in whose honor the feast was given 
 did not die, but many of the feasters were seriously 
 ill from the effects of the gorge following their 
 enforced abstinence. Incantations, magic songs, 
 and frightful noise, produced by whooping and 
 beating with sticks on dry sheets of bark and on 
 drums, were unavailing to exorcise the demon of 
 disease; so the grand festival of the Ononhara, or 
 Dream Feast, was held. At midnight all the pagans 
 in the village and a large number who had called 
 themselves Christians — men, women, and children 
 — assembled in a clearing just outside the village, 
 and there affected to have lost their senses. Some 
 of the actors had little clothing, but were paint- 
 ed in various colors; others were extravagantly 
 decked with beads, furs, and feathers. Presently 
 the crowd separated, and in bands, in couples, or 
 singly, darted from house to house, shrieking and 
 howling, dancing and raving, some throwing fire- 
 brands, others discharging the contents of their 
 water-buckets over any one they met. In a day or 
 two afterward the sick men, who had had time to 
 overcome the effects of their gluttony, began to 
 mend, and their recovery was attributed to these 
 orgies. 
 
 The little company of Christians began to look 
 
i5<^ v:\yc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsaton 
 
 with anxiety for the arrival of the Fathers, with 
 their Frenchmen, for they feared that some cere- 
 mony of the pagans might be attended with dan- 
 gerous results. 
 
 Rene le Breton and another Frenchman set up 
 their tent not far from Kishik's lodge, and were on 
 the watch for any outbreak. 
 
 The capacity of guardian was acceptable to Rene, 
 and he thought it entitled him to take counsel with 
 his wards. 
 
 At the close of a warm June day he called at the 
 lodge, and found Dorothy sitting on a log before 
 the entrance, trying to get a breath of cool air. 
 
 " O, Mademoiselle Dorothee," he pleaded, " on 
 the water the breeze is refreshing. It will honor 
 me if you come with me in my canoe." 
 
 " I thank you," said Dorothy, with a Httle sigh; 
 *' you are kind. But — have you not heard that the 
 Superior has forbidden me to accompany the young 
 men on the water, to receive visits from them? " 
 
 " It is folly! " said Rene, indignantly. " Are you 
 a child that they should treat you so? Yet — you 
 speak wisely — the orders of Father Ragueneau 
 must be obeyed." 
 
 " It grieves me. Monsieur le Breton. My wish 
 is to go with you. Your kindness has comforted 
 me. You have helped me — to — put away, for a 
 little time, the sad thoughts." 
 
 Rene flushed with pleasure ; his voice was tremu- 
 
Hsle St 5oscpb 157 
 
 lous and tender when he asked: " Have I indeed 
 comforted you? And, tell me, trust me, what are 
 the sad thoughts I have helped you to forget? " 
 
 The deep blue eyes turned on him took a softer 
 light, and Dorothy answered: " You have com- 
 forted me in this; others, not all, but many, have 
 distrusted me. I have perceived it, ah, so often; 
 sometimes by the word spoken, sometimes by the 
 look alone. It has not been so with you. At all 
 times you have given to me your respect, your 
 true kindness. My own heart knows how deeply 
 it is grateful." 
 
 Rene's chivalric frame thrilled — a beautiful girl 
 had given him the place of champion and consoler. 
 At that moment his unrequited affection was not 
 discernible. A day or two before this meeting he 
 had argued with himself that to cherish a grief over 
 the inevitable was unmanly and unphilosophical; 
 had resolved that he would not continue to indulge 
 in such weakness, whatever the effort might cost 
 him; and had then proceeded to pat himself gently 
 for his heroic self-conquest. 
 
 " Ah," he said, looking down at Dorothy with 
 devotion in his eyes, " they who mistrust you must 
 be blind indeed." 
 
 Dorothy sighed deeply. " But I am. unable to 
 tell them what they ask, and the good Fathers 
 believe that in my silence I conceal some evil I have 
 done. That is hard to bear, yet I cannot speak. 
 
15S Xlbe IRomance of a 3c6utt /iDisston 
 
 I have indeed endeavored to please them, to obey 
 every rule; and thus it is, Monsieur Rene, though 
 I greatly desire to converse with you, I may not 
 disobey the order of the Superior, and I must beg 
 you now to leave me." 
 
 The young man's countenance fell. Doubtless 
 the Fathers showed discretion in prohibiting the 
 visits of some men. But it was monstrous that he, 
 Rene le Breton, should be deprived of liberty to 
 do as he chose in this matter. 
 
 His silence disturbed Dorothy. She feared she 
 had offended him. 
 
 " O, believe me, I grieve to tell you this," she 
 said, with much concern. " I would that you 
 might come often and converse with me, that I 
 might ask counsel of you, as of a brother. Ah, if 
 I had ever had a brother " 
 
 She broke off and covered her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 Rene did not desire to be accepted in that re- 
 lationship, but it would serve to begin with; so 
 he said, tenderly, '' Trust me as you would trust 
 a brother. Sister Dorothee, dear little Sister 
 Dorothee." 
 
 She looked up with a smile, though there were 
 tears in her sweet eyes. '' Yes, I trust you as a 
 brother, and I permit you to address me by that 
 name. Brother Rene." 
 
 The watchful Nialona appeared at that moment 
 
•ffsle St 506epb 159 
 
 and looked at the pair suspiciously. Two days 
 passed before Rene had another opportunity for 
 conversation with his new sister. Then, to his 
 great satisfaction, he found her wandering in the 
 woods alone. 
 
 " Why so serious, my sister Dorothee? '* he 
 asked. " Tell your brother of what you were think- 
 ing so deeply." 
 
 " I was thinking of — a day in England." 
 
 " And your thoughts have made you sad. Why 
 will you not share them with me, and so lighten 
 your burden? " 
 
 "Ah, no, I cannot, I cannot; it is not for my 
 adopted brother to share that." 
 
 He bent his head low, and said softly: " Look 
 into my face and tell me, will you not one day share 
 the secret burden with one whose right it will be 
 to bear it — one nearer, dearer, than a brother? " 
 
 She looked startled, and drew herself away. " I 
 — do not understand." 
 
 " Sweet sister Dorothee, some day you will trust, 
 you will tell all to — your husband? " 
 
 He had had no intention of going so far. When 
 he had tried to analyze his feelings in the matter he 
 had discovered that his broken heart was mending, 
 had, indeed, so far recovered that it was capable of 
 receiving another love; but it could never love as 
 it had loved once, that was out of the question. 
 Moreover, under present circumstances, he could 
 
i6o ubc IRomance ot a 5esutt /iDtssiort 
 
 not ask Dorothy to marry him. Chivalrous as he 
 was, he had remembered that family considerations 
 should deter him from committing himself rashly 
 to any pledge to one who had a mystery in her 
 past. His own words somewhat startled him. 
 
 But Dorothy's answer was far more disturbing. 
 " My — husband," she faltered. " O — there is not 
 need — to tell /iim — /le — knows." 
 
 For some moments Rene felt stunned and unable 
 to reply. 
 
 " Great Heaven! " he cried, presently. " Surely 
 — surely you — you — child that you are — cannot be 
 a married woman. Tell me — Dorothee, tell me — 
 it is not true." 
 
 At that moment Rene would have cheerfully 
 thrown every family objection, every worldly con- 
 sideration, with the remains of his first love, to the 
 bottom of Lake Huron, or any other burial place, 
 for an assurance that no other man had a right to 
 call Dorothy his own. 
 
 "A married woman," she answered; ''no, no, 
 not that; and now, never, never, shall I be." 
 
 Rene's mind was relieved. But, with his relief, 
 his family considerations returned, bearing some 
 caution with them. 
 
 " Sister Dorothee, you are very young. Why do 
 you speak so? Your mind will change. Who can 
 doubt that you will marry? " 
 
 " Ah, no, never, never." 
 
ITsle St 3osepb i6i 
 
 " But why? Look at me, tell me truly, what 
 reason have you to speak thus? Some day your 
 heart will learn to love, and then '' 
 
 She dropped her eyes and bent her head. She 
 was troubled and half afraid. This young man's 
 words and tone were not those of a brother. He 
 must make no mistake. 
 
 " O, brother Rene, it is true I am young; yet I 
 know whereof I speak. Marriage is not for me — 
 love is but for once — and for all time." 
 
 Once more the family considerations, the well- 
 weighed obstacles, were mentally consigned by the 
 young man to any place deep enough to hold them; 
 the agonies of unrequited affection were upon him 
 in new form. But some hope Hghted the gloom. 
 It seemed plain from what she had said that mar- 
 riage with one she loved was impossible; there 
 could be no dishonor in an effort to take the place 
 of a suitor whose case was hopeless. A girl so 
 lovely should not be permitted to pine and waste 
 her young life thus. He could argue from experi- 
 ence. To love but once, to love for all eternity 
 was a beautiful and ennobling ideal; one sang the 
 songs of such love, one read of it in books; but 
 in Hfe, who could find it? In his youthful inex- 
 perience he had believed in it. But now, how was 
 it? Had he not loved most deeply, most truly, 
 and lived to learn that one could love deeply, truly, 
 again? Yet he flattered himself that he was a man 
 
1 62 zbc IRomance ot a Scenit /BMsston 
 
 of more than ordinary constancy; so he bade him- 
 self be of good cheer. 
 
 He walked beside Dorothy for some time in 
 silence. He would not distress her by any denial 
 of the virtue of constancy. But he gave several 
 judicious sighs and looked pensive. 
 
 " Brother Rene," she said presently, " I may 
 trust you. I beseech you, repeat to no one a word 
 that I have spoken." 
 
 " You may indeed trust me, little sister Doro- 
 thee; not one word shall ever be told to mortal 
 ears." 
 
 He wished to hear more, but she would not con- 
 tinue the subject. She turned toward the village, 
 and would talk of nothing but the difficulties in 
 managing the young Indians and of domestic 
 affairs. 
 
 When Rene was alone he recalled the jesting of 
 the young men on the devotion of De Charolais. 
 The missionaries had said nothing on the subject, 
 but it was commonly believed that Leon had been 
 sent away on that account. Was it possible that 
 Dorothy referred to a hopeless love for him? In 
 that case he would do her a service if he could win 
 her heart. True, De Charolais was not a priest, 
 he had not yet taken any irrevocable vows to the 
 Church; yet Rene had gathered that he felt him- 
 self bound by some promise that he deemed irre- 
 vocable to remain steadfastly in the course he had 
 
ITBle St Josepb 163 
 
 begun, and for which he had evidently no inclina- 
 tion. Leon was firm and persistent. If he had 
 given a promise he would not break it, therefore 
 Dorothy's marriage with him was out of the ques- 
 tion. Rene heartily pitied him, for he believed 
 that he loved the girl and had been parted from 
 her by the Superior. Le Breton had heard that he 
 would not even be permitted to visit the new set- 
 tlement on the island. Under the circumstances, 
 as any bond between De Charolais and Dorothy, if 
 such existed, would far better for the sake of both 
 be broken, Rene felt that his duty and his inclina- 
 tions were at liberty to embrace each other. 
 
 But for the time he had no opportunity to 
 prosecute his suit further. That evening the Jesuit 
 Fathers, with a number of soldiers, traders, and 
 laborers, landed on the island. They had stripped 
 Sainte Marie of everything that could be moved. 
 Then, lest it should harbor the Iroquois, they had 
 set it on fire, and in an hour the results of years of 
 toil were consumed. Near sunset, on the four- 
 teenth of June, they had descended to the mouth 
 of the Wye and boarded their raft. Though their 
 destination was not far, their cumbrous craft had 
 moved so slowly over the water that they had been 
 several days on the journey. 
 
 The Fathers at once sought to bring order out 
 of the general confusion. Their arrival inspirited 
 the despondent Hurons. Though they had been 
 
1 64 Ubc IRomance ot a 3esutt /IDlsslon 
 
 weakened by lack of good food, they set to work 
 to hew and burn down a portion of the forest, to 
 buikl substantial bark houses, and plant palisades. 
 The priests chose a favorable spot, and began to 
 clear the ground and mark lines for a fort. To this 
 place also they gave the name Sainte Marie. 
 
 But the energies of Rene le Breton were turned 
 in other directions. When the Superior heard Nia- 
 lona's account of the young man's attentions to 
 Dorothy he grew uneasy. Under some circum- 
 stances he would have rejoiced in Dorothy's mar- 
 riage with a worthy man, and, as far as she was 
 concerned, it would relieve the priests of much re- 
 sponsibility. But her determined silence had cre- 
 ated much suspicion; should Rene go to France 
 from the mission with a bride whose history might 
 bring reproach on the Le Breton name the family 
 would be justly indignant. They would be far less 
 averse to his marriage with an Indian girl. The 
 Indians v/ere lords of the forest. Moreover, an 
 Indian v/ife would have no undesirable relatives in 
 the neighborhood of France; England was not at 
 such convenient distance. His marriage with an 
 English girl would not be acceptable to his family; 
 she was a heretic, and Rene's people were upholders 
 of the Faith. If she loved him she might be led to 
 renounce her heresies, but the other objection 
 would remain. Rene was of age. He could marry 
 if he chose. But the Superior felt himiself in duty 
 
Hsle St 5osepb i^S 
 
 bound to prevent any undesirable alliance. He di- 
 rected Le Breton to accompany Hauteroche and a 
 party of Hurons, with proposals, to the Neutral 
 Nation. The expedition involved danger, and 
 Rene could not decHne an honorable mission. He 
 had a picturesque and melancholy parting with 
 Dorothy, and the Superior's mind was set at rest, 
 in that direction at least, for some months. 
 
 Meanwhile the Frenchmen worked energetically. 
 Before winter, a square bastioned fort of solid 
 masonry, with walls twelve feet high, rose in the 
 forest; it was surrounded by a deep ditch. Near 
 at hand there were detached redoubts, where 
 French musketeers could aid in defending the Hu- 
 ron village. Within the fort were built a small 
 chapel and houses for lodging."^ 
 
 The vigilance of the soldiers preserved the island 
 from any Iroquois attack through the summer; but 
 
 ♦ A well, and the ruins of this fOrt may still be seen on the 
 southeastern shore of the island, a hundred feet from the water. 
 In 1848, a steel mill for making wafers for the Host was found 
 in the fort, and was removed to an English museum. Some 
 time ago, delegates from the Canadian Institute made an in- 
 spection of Christian Island . The ruined walls were distinctly 
 traced. Water-washed stones and crumbling mortar rose two 
 or three feet above the level, and were partly overgrown with 
 vegetation. The relics of the wooden bastions at the corners 
 of the palisades were also traceable. These remains, and 
 those of the old fort on the Wye, are in conformity with the 
 descriptions in the narratives and letters of the priests. 
 
1 66 zbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 Iroquois scalping parties began to range the neigh- 
 boring shores, killed some stragglers, and kept the 
 islanders in alarm. 
 
XIX 
 
 XLbc Ifnsolencc ot Ibautcrocbe 
 
 The frosts of late September had touched the 
 trees and tinted the island with many colors. At 
 a distance the deep green of the cedars appeared 
 almost black in contrast with the brilliance of the 
 hardwoods, the golden flame and crimson of the 
 maples — most beautiful of autumn trees — the red 
 brown of the oaks and the yellow of the beeches. 
 The underbrush and creeping vines, the fallen and 
 mouldering trees, decked with mosses, lichens, and 
 young ferns, were as exquisite in their varied hues 
 as the canopies above. 
 
 On one of these autumn days Dorothy had wan- 
 dered to an isolated valley, where she stood looking 
 into a deep pool whose surface, undisturbed by a 
 ripple, reflected the woodland beauty. 
 
 The stillness was broken by the crackling of 
 branches. She looked in the direction of the sound 
 and saw Raoul Hauteroche making his way toward 
 her. She had not heard of his return from the ex- 
 pedition to the Neutral Nation. She would have 
 been better pleased if he had remained with that 
 people. But there was one satisfaction: no doubt 
 
 167 
 
1 68 zbc IRomance of a Sesutt /iDisBton 
 
 Rene le Breton had returned also, and she would 
 be glad to see her adopted brother. 
 
 Hauteroche's party had arrived at the fort early 
 in the morning, and when he had delivered his 
 messages, and could steal away without attracting 
 attention, he started for Kishik's lodge. He had 
 determined to be the first to meet Dorothy, for the 
 Superior had detained Le Breton. 
 
 Poor Washaka had been made happy for a time 
 by the affected cordiality of his greeting, but she 
 soon perceived his indifference to any information 
 that did not relate to Dorothy. Presently, when 
 he discovered that she was not in the lodge, he rose 
 to go, saying that he must return to the fort. 
 
 *' It may be," he said, lightly, " that the Superior 
 will send me in command of a party that will bear 
 messages to the English settlements. Should that 
 be so I would carry tidings to the friends of Made- 
 moiselle Dorothee. Where may I find her, to speak 
 with her concerning this? " 
 
 " How know I? " asked Washaka, coldly. " She 
 wanders away, alone." 
 
 Hauteroche affected indifference. " It matters 
 little. Father Ragueneau will instruct me where 
 I may find her people and of the message I shall 
 bear. I will now return to the fort. The men have 
 wrought diligently since we left. The walls have 
 risen already to a fair height." 
 
 He observed the disappointment in Washaka's 
 
XLbc irnsolence ot ibauterocbe 169 
 
 face, and made some flattering remarks that re- 
 stored her good-humor. 
 
 But she distrusted him. When he went away 
 she watched him through a crevice in the lodge 
 wall, and presently saw him leave the path for the 
 fort and walk in the direction of the valley. Dor- 
 othy had discovered it soon after her arrival on the 
 island, and he knew it was her favorite haunt. 
 
 Jealous misery came upon Washaka; as soon as 
 he had gone so far that she could follow him with- 
 out discovery she went after him with stealthy 
 steps. 
 
 Before she reached the entrance to the valley 
 she turned aside from the path and went to the top 
 of the steep hill. From that height, and hidden by 
 the heavy foliage, she looked down. 
 
 Ah, she had divined truly! Dorothy stood by 
 the pool; and presently she saw Raoul hastening 
 toward her with eager face. 
 
 At that moment there was murder in Washaka's 
 heart. A warrior of her tribe would not have 
 longed more vengefully to stand by the dead body 
 of his enemy than she, in her jealous fury, longed 
 to see the EngUsh girl's false face white in death, 
 to see the light of Ufe darkened in those hateful 
 blue eyes. Ah, the treacherous Dorothy! Had 
 she not pretended to scorn the Indian girl who had 
 stolen the lover of her friend? — Dorothy had told 
 Washaka Rene's story of the Lovers' Leap. Yet 
 
I70 ^bc IRomance of a Jesuit /IDission 
 
 her own deceitful heart had plotted against those 
 who had befriended her. So poor Washaka, with 
 her slighted love moaning and the desire of venge- 
 ance clamoring within her, peered from her height 
 with miserable eyes. 
 
 When Dorothy saw Hauteroche her face flushed, 
 and he took it as a sign that, notwithstanding her 
 former disdainful attitude, she was pleased to see 
 him. He believed that she, like all women as he 
 understood them, was fickle and unstable. He had 
 resented her treatment of him, it rankled in his 
 mind; but he was not the less anxious to gain her 
 favor. 
 
 Dorothy met him with as much civility as she 
 found possible, but her manner was reserved and 
 cold, and he resorted to a plan to rouse her from 
 her indifference. 
 
 " I visited St. Matthias not long since," he said, 
 and looked at her keenly. 
 
 Her manner changed; she asked, with much in- 
 terest, *' Did you spend much time there? " 
 
 " I saw Leon de Charolais many times," he an- 
 swered, and watched the effect of his words. 
 
 Washaka rose and moved along stealthily, for 
 Hauteroche and Dorothy had left the pool and 
 were wandering to the heart of the deeply wooded 
 valley. She saw Dorothy's face upturned and 
 Raoul bending his head toward her. But, with 
 keenest listening, she could not hear a word. 
 
Ubc fnsolence ot Ibauterocbe 171 
 
 " De Charolais has changed. He is thin, he looks 
 older/' 
 
 " Ah, is it that he labors with too much dili- 
 gence? " 
 
 " It may be, though it was well known he had 
 no love for hard work when he lived at Sainte 
 Marie." 
 
 " Is it that the mission is not healthful? Do 
 fevers and agues lie in the marshes? Were the 
 Superior informed, it may be he would remove 
 him." 
 
 " The ground is high, no marsh is near to send 
 forth agues and fevers, yet the Superior has re- 
 moved him." 
 
 " Tell me, where is he now? " 
 
 " He is on his way to join some Hurons on the 
 North Shore. They are now encamped on an isl- 
 and in the bay." 
 
 " And — when he is so near — he will — surely, he 
 will — come here? " 
 
 Hauteroche laughed. " Do you indeed believe 
 the Superior will permit that? Father Ragueneau 
 may not be so wise in the wisdom of the world as 
 others whom we know, but he is not blind." 
 
 " Monsieur Hauteroche, I do not understand. 
 Your words are as riddles." 
 
 " And why should I not speak in riddles to one 
 who is herself a riddle that the wisest of the Fathers 
 has been unable to read? Must I speak more 
 
1 72 xrbe IRomance of a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 plainly, with words that you cannot fail to under- 
 stand? " 
 
 *' No, no," she cried, shrinking from him. " The 
 hour is late. I must haste to Nialona. The Su- 
 perior would be displeased if " 
 
 " Ha, ha," he laughed, rudely. " Little care you, 
 fair maid, for the Superior's commands." 
 
 She turned from him and tried to escape, but he 
 caught her hands and held them fast. 
 
 Washaka, on the height above, flung herself, face 
 forward, on the ground. 
 
 '' Monsieur Hauteroche, release me, set me free," 
 she cried, and tried desperately to wrench her hands 
 from him. 
 
 " Not yet," he said, '' not till you tell me, Dor- 
 othy, why you treat me with so little kindness." 
 
 " Are you a coward," she cried, '' that you hold 
 a defenceless girl against her will? " 
 
 An evil look shot from Raoul's eyes. " Such 
 words come well from you to me," he said, and his 
 grip on her hand was cruel. " My family is one of 
 the oldest in France; all may read its records and 
 learn that not one of our house has ever borne that 
 brand. But of you, who knows anything? You 
 dare not reveal your name. Your life holds a secret 
 so dark that you will not bring it to the light. 
 Scorn should speak from other lips than yours." 
 
 Dorothy, still struggling to free herself, began 
 to sob. 
 
Ube irneolence ot Ifoauterocbe 173 
 
 " Ah, do not weep," he said, turning from rage 
 to a softness that was repellent to her. '' You 
 angered me, I spoke in haste. Listen to me, Dor- 
 othy. Why do you repulse me when I would be 
 kind to you? Why do you waste your Hfe, your 
 loveliness, in fruitless mourning for one whom you 
 will never see again? But I " 
 
 " Never see him again! How is it possible that 
 you can know? Is the ear of God turned from me 
 that He should not hear my prayers? If it please 
 Him, He will. He can, bring us together. If it be 
 His will to keep us asunder till our lives end, then I 
 live alone, I sufifer alone, as true to him as I know 
 he is true to me." 
 
 " Ah, fair maid, you have made your confession, 
 and what will Father Ragueneau say when he hears 
 of it? You would better pray Heaven to avert his 
 displeasure. It would be of a piece with your pray- 
 ers for a benediction on a sinful love." 
 
 " A sinful love ! You know not what you say. 
 It is sacred. It is hallowed." 
 
 " Ha, ha! A sacred love! Pardon my merri- 
 ment, your words provoke it. Is it the priestly 
 vocation that sanctifies it? " 
 
 " Monsieur Hauteroche, I say again, I do not 
 understand you." 
 
 '' You do not understand! Yet your mind has 
 never been slow to comprehend. When I tell 
 Father Ragueneau what you have admitted he will 
 understand." 
 
174 XTbe IRomance of a Jesuit /IDisaion 
 
 " Tell him what you will, but set me free. I de- 
 mand it!" 
 
 " Yes, I will set you free," he said, changing his 
 tone, and drawing her to him. " You shall be free 
 if you grant me one little favor. Give me but one 
 kiss, and it will seal my lips. I will not tell Father 
 Ragueneau." 
 
 He bent his head lower, as if to take what he 
 asked, and in doing so loosened the grasp of his 
 hand. Suddenly, in the strength of her scorn and 
 terror, Dorothy wrenched herself from him and, 
 fast as her feet would carry her, sped through the 
 valley and up the hillside. The hill was steep and 
 thickly wooded, and she crept through places where 
 Raoul's larger frame could not easily follow. From 
 the summit she looked down and saw him standing 
 in a cleared spot of the valley. 
 
 " Monsieur Raoul Hauteroche," she cried, *' tell 
 the Superior what you will. I have said no word 
 of which I am ashamed. And tell him my last word 
 to you. It is this: Raoul Hauteroche, unmanly 
 man, I despise you; I despise you; I despise you! " 
 
XX 
 
 TOasbafta /iDaftes tbe Cbat^e ot XTteacbet^ 
 
 Hauteroche had some fear that Dorothy might 
 seek an interview with the Superior, and beHeved 
 that his own safety lay in preparing Father Rague- 
 neau to discredit her story; so he lost no time in 
 hastening to the fort with his information. Dor- 
 othy's words and action had stung his vanity, and, 
 smarting from the sting, he strode across the valley 
 as if he were escaping from something that he 
 feared. 
 
 When Dorothy had made sure that he would not 
 attempt to follow her she threw herself on the 
 ground and sobbed aloud in her hurt at the indig- 
 nity that had been offered her. She rubbed her 
 delicate hand on the ground, as if to cleanse it from 
 what she felt to be the contamination of his touch. 
 It was time to go back to the lodge to help Nialona 
 with the supper, but she forgot that, forgot every- 
 thing but her misery. 
 
 After awhile she rose, walked to a stream that 
 ran down the hillside, and washed her swollen eyes. 
 
 175 
 
i;^ Ubc IRomance ct a Result /iDlssion 
 
 Some time before Dorothy's escape from her 
 tormentor Washaka had heard Nialona calling and 
 had answered the summons. 
 
 When Dorothy arrived at the lodge Nialona was 
 roasting ears of corn in the coals, and Washaka w^as 
 moving about in a bewildered way, as if to help her, 
 but really accompHshing little. 
 
 " Nialona, I am sorry, again I have arrived late 
 when I should have been here to help you," said 
 Dorothy, penitently. 
 
 " I ask not help from you," said Nialona, coldly. 
 Then she added, " Go, go away with Wasliaka. 
 Always I must work, work, for how do you aid me? 
 You wander far, you forget there is work to do. 
 And Washaka, she is as a child, without under- 
 standing. See, she has burned the cakes so they 
 are black. Who would eat them? " 
 
 Dorothy perceived that Washaka was unhappy, 
 but s'he did not connect her distressed appearance 
 with Hauteroche. 
 
 *' Washaka, come with me," she said. 
 
 Washaka could hardly endure Dorothy's pres- 
 ence, but she had something to say; so she turned 
 and walked on sullenly, refusing to speak till they 
 were far from the lodge. 
 
 " Washaka, what is it? " asked Dorothy, pausing 
 in her walk. " Why do you show me such anger? " 
 
 " I answer not. You know." 
 
 " I do not know. I have not harmed you. For 
 what reason do you treat me thus? " 
 
Masbafta Cbatoes Zvcacbcv^ 177 
 
 " It is for me to ask, Why do you treat me thus? 
 You came to our lodge, you were sick, you were 
 without a friend. With Nialona I nursed you b}'- 
 day and by night. I remembered not When I was 
 weary. I gave you of my clothes, my food. I was 
 to you as a sister. And you, what have you done? 
 You have been as a thief. You have taken for your- 
 self that which was mine." 
 
 Dorothy turned pale, then flushed angrily. She 
 had no idea to What Washaka referred. '' A thief! 
 Venture never again to repeat that word. Never 
 have I taken What v/as yours. You have said you 
 were my sister. Would a sister follow my steps as 
 a spy? Would a sister seek to draw from me the 
 thoughts I would hide in my own heart and carry 
 my words to others? When I awoke on my sick 
 bed, when I learned how you had nursed me, how 
 the roof of Kishik had sheltered me, I desired to 
 help you, to love you. I have helped. I have 
 worked for you, for Kishik, for Nialona. But to 
 love you ! How could I love one who listened, who 
 watched, who repeated, distrusting always? I have 
 tried to bear it, to show no anger; but many times 
 have I longed to hide myself from your eyes, from 
 the eyes of Nialona, in the water, deep down, or in 
 the grave. Yet have I never betrayed you, never 
 have I said to any one a word that Vv^ould do you 
 harm." 
 
 Dorothy paused, and Washaka burst out: '' You 
 
i;^ Ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /IDiaston 
 
 say you have stolen nothing. You say you have 
 never l^etrayed me. Your word is false. I saw you, 
 I saw your eyes, the eyes of the traitor, looking 
 into his not an hour past. I lay upon the hill when 
 you stood in the valley." 
 
 " You saw Monsieur Hauteroche. It is well. 
 You have seen with your own eyes that he is false. 
 And did you not see how I sought to escape 
 him? Did you not know that I hated the touch of 
 his hand, the words of his lips? Washaka, I have 
 done you no wrong." 
 
 She laid her hand on Washaka's arm, but the 
 Indian girl flung it ofi. " Touch me not. Take 
 yourself far from me. I would my eyes might never 
 look on you again." 
 
XXI 
 Hn lEscape an^ a /IDeetfna 
 
 Dorothy stood where Washaka had left her. 
 She knew neither where to go nor what to do, 
 Washaka wished she might never see her again. 
 Hauteroche had gone to make accusations against 
 her, and the Superior would believe him. She 
 shrank from meeting Hauteroche again, yet she 
 might be unable to avoid it. What could she do to 
 guard herself? What place of rest was there for 
 her? 
 
 Her eyes turned to a little cove where her canoe 
 was stowed. A thought flashed through her mind, 
 and without deliberation she put it into action. 
 She ran to the cove, drew out her canoe, and pad- 
 dled swiftly away. There were few Indians on that 
 side of the island, and, unless she should meet some 
 fishermen in their canoes, s'he might be out of sight 
 before any one missed her. Washaka would not 
 call attention to her absence. Nialona would sur- 
 mise that Washaka had quarrelled with her, and 
 would say nothing. There was little punctuality or 
 order at this time in the Indian village, and that 
 was in favor of her escape. Her one thought was 
 
 179 
 
i8o zbc iRomance of a JesiUt /iDlsston 
 
 to speed away on the water, somewhere, anywhere, 
 from her misery. She felt shelterless and friendless, 
 and all else was vague. She was not seeking death, 
 though she did not want Hfe. She knew not what 
 she sought. 
 
 But out of the chaos a thought took shape. 
 Hauteroche had said that De Charolais was on one 
 of the islands. She knew neither the distance nor 
 the direction, but there was a possibility of reach- 
 ing him. 
 
 The water was rough; the wind drove her canoe 
 on without effort on her part. In the distance and 
 the fading light the island was a faint line against 
 the water, and it would soon be undiscernible. Be- 
 fore long she knew that she could not go back. It 
 would be impossible to paddle her light canoe 
 against that heavy sea. Her dress was wet, for 
 the waves had many times dashed above the edge 
 of the frail vessel. It might be sw^amped or over- 
 turned. She was in danger, but she felt no fear. 
 
 Darkness had come on, and the island had been 
 invisible for some time, when she saw something 
 gaining on her. At first it had been a mere dark 
 speck on the waves, but it grew in size as it ap- 
 proached her. Perhaps it was an Iroquois. Though 
 she had been apathetic, that thought startled her. 
 Presently, through the darkness, she made out the 
 form of a canoe, but she did not know whether its 
 occupant was a white man or an Indian. Terror 
 
Hn i£0cape anb a /iDcettno i8i 
 
 seized her. Some one was in pursuit, and she was 
 powerless. 
 
 A man shouted in Huron, " Who goes there? " 
 She thought it was not the voice of an Indian, but, 
 in the roar of the waves, she was uncertain and 
 made no answer. 
 
 The boatman came nearer. He repeated his 
 question in French, and she knew the voice of Leon 
 de Charolais. 
 
 '' It is I," she cried. '' It is I, Dorothy! '' 
 
 She was in danger; perhaps both were in danger. 
 There was no time for explanations. 
 
 '' I will pass you," he cried, " and throw a rope 
 to you. If you catch it I will try to guide you be- 
 yond the rocks. We are almost upon them.'' 
 
 Had the water been less rough he would have 
 paddled close to her and caught her canoe, but the 
 risk of running into it obliged him to try to keep 
 to one side and at a little distance. As he passed 
 he threw a rope of thongs to the girl, but it fell 
 within a few inches of her boat; in her effort to 
 reach out and grasp it she nearly upset her tottling 
 vessel. 
 
 '' Do not try to catch it," he cried presently. 
 " Watch for the rocks. We are among them, and 
 some do not rise above the water. Do not fear. 
 I will bring my canoe near you, and by some means 
 you shall be safely landed on that island. See, we 
 are near it, and the water is less deep here." 
 
1 82 XTbe IRomance ot a Jesuit Mission 
 
 The island was near; but, so far as Dorothy could 
 see, there was an almost precipitous descent of rock 
 into the water. 
 
 " There is low land on the other side," said De 
 Charolais. " If it is possible, keep your canoe at a 
 distance and round the point." 
 
 But the waves drove the canoes toward the reef, 
 and there were rocks on every side. 
 
 Dorothy's vessel more than once grazed on a 
 rock, but at last they passed the reef and were with- 
 in sight of the beach. 
 
 Suddenly Dorothy cried out, " My canoe is fast 
 on the rock! I cannot move it! " 
 
 " Do not move. Sit still. I will come to your 
 aid." 
 
 " The canoe is broken. The water pours in." 
 
 " Qing to the rock." 
 
 " I will try." 
 
 " Hold fast. I will land my canoe on the beach 
 and swim to you. Do not lose courage. There is 
 Httle danger now." 
 
 To Dorothy, clinging to the point of rock, while 
 her canoe seemed to be sinking away from her, min- 
 utes lengthened to hours, though only a short time 
 passed before De Charolais reached her. 
 
 The rock was only a few yards from the shore; 
 and when the young man had landed his canoe 
 safely and thrown off his coat, he discovered that 
 the water was shallow enough to permit him to 
 
Un lEscape anD a /iDeettna 1^3 
 
 wade out and carry the girl ashore. As her strength 
 was almost spent it was the safer way, and it saved 
 her feet, clad only in Hght moccasins, from the 
 sharp stones. 
 
 His attention was so fixed on walking steadily 
 over the treacherous, rocky bottom with his pre- 
 cious burden that he did not utter a word from the 
 time when he rescued her from her perilous place 
 until he set her in safety on the beach. When he 
 had recovered his breath, his first words were, 
 " Your clothing drips with water. I will haste to 
 build a fire. Ah, here is a blanket rug in my canoe. 
 I brought it lest I should have to spend the night 
 on one of these islands. From it we can make a 
 garment for you. See, I will cut slits in it with my 
 knife for your arms, then you will fasten it so it may 
 serve you until your outer dress is dry. Wring the 
 water from it while I gather wood for a fire.'* 
 
 In truth, he was embarrassed and dreaded the 
 explanation of her unlooked-for appearance. She, 
 too, was glad to defer it, and when she had envel- 
 oped herself in the large rug, and wrung the water 
 from her dripping garments, she wondered how she 
 should begin her story. She had fastened her new 
 costume at the waist with a piece of rope of skin 
 that Leon had laid beside it, and pinned it here and 
 there with bone pins that the Huron boys had 
 manufactured, when the young man returned. 
 
 " I have built a fire," he said; " it will presently 
 
1 84 Ube IRomance ot a Jesuit /IDisston 
 
 burn brightly. I will hang your gov/n upon a tree, 
 and ere long it will be dry. Are you chilled? " 
 
 "No, I thank you; I feel no discomfort. But 
 you, you are cold." 
 
 " No, my coat is almost dry, and I have been 
 many times obliged to pass hours with damp cloth- 
 ing. I shall suffer no harm." 
 
 Dorothy walked beside him in silence, and he 
 said, presently, '' I was on my way to your island 
 to see Father Ragueneau. It was necessary. But 
 the high wind came up, and I was obliged to turn 
 back. I had been provident; I have a baked fish 
 and ears of corn with me. In a Httle time there 
 will be coals sufficient to roast the corn. Are you 
 hungry? Have you eaten supper? " 
 
 " No, I have taken no food since noonday." 
 
 " Have you, then, been so long on the water? " 
 
 " I left the island in the afternoon, when the sun 
 was sinking." 
 
 " Why did you do so? Did you not knov/ the 
 danger in that Hght canoe on such a sea? " 
 
 They had come up to the fire. The pine logs 
 and branches were blazing high, and he saw her 
 distressed expression. 
 
 " I — was in misery — it could not be borne. To 
 stay there — ah — it was not possible. To return — 
 it cannot be — nevermore can I live there again." 
 
 Her eyes were cast down. She could not see the 
 perplexity in his white face, but his silence re- 
 proached her. 
 
Hn Escape auD a /iDeetfn^ 185 
 
 " Wait — wait but a little while. I am very weary. 
 I am full of sorrow. I — will tell you my reason. 
 You will understand." 
 
 He turned from her, and hung her dress on a 
 neighboring tree. 
 
 " You are weary indeed," he said, gently, " and 
 well nigh exhausted by lack of food. I will roast 
 the ears of corn, and you will sit by the fire and dry 
 your moccasins." 
 
 While he roasted the corn, and she drew near the 
 fire to dry the clothing that she had not removed, 
 she prepared pieces of bark to serve as plates, and 
 he told her of his adventures when he had been lost 
 in the woods. He talked rapidly and with anima- 
 tion; but each surmised the anxiety of the other, 
 and many thoughts were in their minds while the 
 narrative went on. 
 
 While they ate, laughing because they had to 
 pick up the fish with their fingers, Dorothy told 
 of the journey from Sainte Marie to Isle St. Joseph. 
 Neither referred to the horrors that had preceded 
 that leave-taking. 
 
 When they had eaten their meal, De Charolais 
 rose and looked out on the water. " The waves are 
 less high," he said, with his face turned from her. 
 " The wind is falling. In an hour we may venture 
 out again." 
 
 Her voice was low when she answered, " O, I 
 cannot, I cannot return. You will go with Hurons 
 
1 86 XTbe Romance of a Sesuft /iDiasion 
 
 to the North Shore. With one of their women I 
 may find refuge." 
 
 He shook his head. " No, no, that is not pos- 
 sible. Trust me, tell me why you dread to return. 
 Fear nothing. Tell me all." 
 
 She hid her face in her hands and made no 
 answer. 
 
 " Whether you tell me or not," he said, firmly, 
 " I must take you to the island. It is the only way. 
 Nowhere else could I find a safe place for you." 
 
 Dorothy felt the change in him. In manner, as 
 well as in appearance, he was older than when she 
 parted from him in the spring. 
 
 " It is not that I do not trust you," she answered, 
 leaning her face on her hands and looking into his 
 eyes with a confidence in him that made it difficult 
 for him to maintain his assumed composure. 
 '' When I left the island I knew that hereafter it 
 could not be a home for me. I knew not whither 
 I might drift, but when I was on the water I re- 
 membered that you were near. I hoped, I prayed, 
 that with you I might find refuge." 
 
 He strove almost desperately for the outward 
 calm, but his face flushed at her words. " Why did 
 you seek me? " was the question of his mind, but 
 he did not utter it aloud. He said only, " How did 
 you know I was near? " 
 
 " Monsieur — Raoul Hauteroche told me." 
 
 She almost hissed out his name. 
 
Hn Escape ant) a /IDcettno 1S7 
 
 " You do not like Monsieur Hauteroche? *' 
 " I despise him. I have informed him of that. 
 He is not a man of honor. I — it is hard for me to 
 say it — yet I must tell you. Then you will under- 
 stand why I will not return." 
 
 " Did he dare to treat you rudely? " 
 She dropped her eyes, and a blush covered the 
 fair face. ''' Yes, he was rude indeed. I was alone 
 in the valley when he came to my side. Many 
 months had passed since I had seen him, yet I could 
 not receive him with friendship. He put to me 
 many questions, to which I answered little. Yet 
 by threats that he would inform the Superior of 
 what I had said he sought to terrify me so I should 
 promise what he wished." 
 
 '' The villain! " De Charolais drew himself up. 
 His face was white. His eyes dilated. " Tell me — 
 Dorothy — you — promised him nothing." 
 
 " No, rather would I have died. But he seized 
 me roughly. I struggled to be free; but many 
 moments — to me they were as hours — passed be- 
 fore I shook off his hateful grasp and ran as if for 
 my life. I tried to put away the remembrance of 
 the touch of his hand. I rubbed mine upon the grass. 
 In the canoe I dipped it in the water. But yet I 
 feel it." She gave a little shudder, then went on: 
 " On the first day When I saw that man, before he 
 had spoken a word with me, I shrank from him. 
 Think you that some one, some guardian spirit, 
 
1 88 ube IRomance ot a Jesuit jflDtsston 
 
 one it may be who was with us on earth and loved 
 us, watches ever near and tells us — in what way we 
 cannot understand — whom we may trust and 
 whom to fear? " 
 
 ''The thought is beautiful; it is comforting," 
 said De Charolais. '' Tell me, did some spirit guide 
 bid you trust me? " 
 
 She looked into his face, her lips quivered, and 
 her eyes filled with tears. " No, no. I came to you, 
 I trusted you — because — " She turned away her 
 head, and broke oiif her sentence with a sob. 
 
 When she spoke again, she did not raise her eyes. 
 " I have not told you all. I watched from the hill, 
 and saw Monsieur Hauteroche walk in the direc- 
 tion of the fort. I had said nothing of which I 
 was ashamed. But how could I know what tale he 
 might fabricate, to which the Superior would listen, 
 believing all? I returned to our lodge, and there I 
 found Washaka. She had seen us in the valley, 
 and she did not know that his presence was hateful 
 to me. She called me by names that were hard to 
 bear. She said I was a thief, a traitor. I tell you 
 this, for you know, every one in the palisades knew, 
 that Monsieur Hauteroche once courted her; and 
 then — he forsook her. Why should she pine for 
 him, weak and false as he is? He did not love her. 
 Love does not change thus." 
 
 She looked at him intently. Her expression was 
 an interrogation? 
 
an j£0cape auD a /IDeetina 189 
 
 He spoke words that he regretted when they had 
 passed his Hps. His voice was low. '' What has 
 taught you that love does not change? " 
 
 She clasped her hands, and looked into his eyes. 
 " If love is true, it is for all time. It comes, I know 
 not how; but when it has come it remains. And 
 love has power, and many things that seem as bar- 
 riers, strong, unyielding, will in time be broken 
 down, or love will overpass them." 
 
 In her earnestness, she had risen, and drawn 
 nearer to him. Her eyes glowed, her lips were 
 parted; her face was touched with a beauty that 
 De Charolais had not seen in it before. 
 
 He had risen with her. The color flushed his 
 worn face, and his love filled his eyes as he looked 
 down at her. 
 
 Why could he not take her in his arms and tell 
 her that love meant that, meant more, perhaps, 
 to him? 
 
 Why had they been so thrown together? He had 
 given his word to the dead, and had held his prom- 
 ise sacred. But, despite his faithfulness, despite his 
 work and striving, their courses had been shaped 
 so they should meet. He had thought he had con- 
 quered; but now 
 
 He stood before her almost motionless, though 
 feeling surged within him, and for moments the 
 silence was unbroken. Then, something in his face 
 startled her from her spell. She grew pale, drew 
 back, and dropped her band^. 
 
190 Ube IRomance ot a Sesuit Mission 
 
 He, too, stepped back, and stood with down- 
 cast eyes. '' I will cross the point, and see if 
 the storm has abated," he said, striving to speak 
 calmly. '* Lie by the fire; try to get a little rest. I 
 will keep watch by the shore." 
 
 " I thank you," she said, and her voice was very 
 low. *' I will try to rest." 
 
XXII 
 
 Uempteb in tbe MilDerness 
 
 The storm clouds had passed. The white rock 
 ghstened under a clear sky. The starlight was 
 tossed in points of brilliance from the waves. There 
 had been a heavy dew and the rock was slippery; 
 but presently De Charolais found a flat place, from 
 which he could watch the beach where they had 
 landed; but out of sight of Dorothy and so far 
 away that he would not disturb her by his footsteps. 
 
 He paced back and forth, unable at first to think 
 clearly. 
 
 After awhile, out of the tumult of his thoughts, 
 came the warning that the force of the wind was 
 abating, that he must watch it, that, as soon as he 
 could prudently venture on the water, he must take 
 her back to St. Joseph, however unwilling she might 
 be. He believed that she wanted to stay with him, 
 never to leave him again. But he was convinced 
 that she was a pure and innocent girl, ignorant of 
 evil, without comprehension of the false position in 
 which her action had placed her. She dreaded to 
 return to the reproach and suspicion awaiting her; 
 
 and his strength yearned over her weakness; he 
 
 191 
 
192 XTbe IRomance of a Jesuit /iDission 
 
 pitied and longed to shield her. Yet if he could 
 take her back soon, and prove that she had con- 
 sented to return, if he could help her to explain the 
 cause of her rash venture, she would be protected 
 from Hauteroche, and would perhaps be pardoned 
 for her recklessness. He must take her to St. 
 Joseph before morning, if possible; not only to re- 
 lieve the anxiety of her guardians, but for her own 
 sake. The Superior might refuse to believe his 
 statement, might fasten unjust suspicion on both; 
 but he must not shrink; he must help her not to 
 shrink through fear of that. His part was to coun- 
 sel and persuade her to take the one right course. 
 
 Then his heart's longing cried: " She loves me. 
 She will love no other. By a mysterious power be- 
 yond ourselves we have been brought together, and, 
 though we be thrust apart again, the tie cannot be 
 broken. With me, she might be happy; she would 
 be loved and cherished. Separated, kept far from 
 me, she will be miserable, suspected, misunder- 
 stood." 
 
 But what would his pleas avail? The Superior 
 would refuse to marry them, though he had taken 
 no vows to the Church. He knew how it would be. 
 He would take her to the fort, and in the morning's 
 dawn he Vv^ould be banished, and, in all probability, 
 could never look on her face again. 
 
 Other thoughts came. Doubtless, there were al- 
 ready fears that she had perished. The searchers 
 
Uempte^ in tbe Mtlbetness 193 
 
 must have discovered that she had set out in her 
 canoe; they must know that on the wild water, in 
 her frail craft, she could have Uttle chance of escap- 
 ing death by drowning. It was beheved that he 
 was many miles farther down the bay with his 
 Hurons. It had been arranged that Hauteroche 
 should return to him with a message from Father 
 Ragueneau; but an emergency had made it neces- 
 sary that he should see the Superior himself, despite 
 orders to the contrary. Therefore, a meeting be- 
 tween him and Dorothy would not be suspected. 
 Why should he force her back to her misery? In that 
 wilderness he might keep her near him, loved, pro- 
 tected, cherished, and undiscovered. Why should 
 he thrust away the joy held out to them by the in- 
 visible hand? 
 
 He had by nature a dash and fire, a love of ad- 
 venture, that had led him to reckless daring in his 
 boyhood; and he had with much difficulty re- 
 strained this spirit since his connection with the 
 Society of Jesus. The very peril and adventure of 
 such a Hfe would add to its zest. He sat on the 
 rock, possessed, for a little time, by this new 
 thought. For many months his life had been but 
 a daily record of monotonous, uncongenial tasks, 
 and stern repression of himself. He had given him- 
 self little leisure for thought, for thought drove 
 him to despondency or mental rebellion. Doubt- 
 less his companions in the mission had their dark 
 
194 XTbe IRomance ot a Jesuit /HMsston 
 
 hours. Noel Chabanel, scholarly and refined, de- 
 tested the Indian life; but when the thought came 
 to him that he should procure a release from the 
 work that he abhorred, and return to congenial 
 employment in France, he beheved the suggestion 
 to be a temptation of the devil, and bound himself 
 by a vow to remain in the Huron country until 
 his death. But Chabanel's spiritual fervor lighted 
 the darkness for him. De Charolais had no such 
 light. And when he lost his hold of the will 
 by which he had held his nature in check, long- 
 repressed nature for a time had the mastery; all his 
 high resolves appeared lost in a delirious ecstacy. 
 In imagination, he again bore the girl from the 
 rock, and thrilled to the touch of the clinging arms 
 about his neck. He saw the beautiful eyes looking 
 into his, heard the music of the voice that told him 
 how she trusted him. The light of life, of love, 
 had come to him. Henceforth it would illumine 
 the darkness of the wilderness. Ah, he would will- 
 ingly and joyfully bear his wearisome toil day by 
 day, knowing that at its close he should feel the 
 touc^h of the soft hand, delight his eyes with her 
 beauty, his ears with her words! He would go to 
 her presently, take her in his arms, and tell her 
 that, won by her love and trust, he had resolved 
 to love and protect her evermore; that he would 
 never again permit her to be misunderstood or 
 harshly dealt with; that he would take her to a 
 
TTemptcb in tbe Mil^etne63 195 
 
 haven of safety, and hide her from her pursuers. 
 The wind was going down, and they must seek the 
 mainland. He knew a place where she could re- 
 main undiscovered and safe until Hauteroche had 
 brought him the message from the Superior. He 
 would have to leave her alone for a few hours, 
 while he waited with his Hurons on their island for 
 the orders; but she was brave; she would trust him, 
 knowing that he would return to her. Then he 
 would disguise her in the costume of a French boy — 
 these Hurons with him had never seen her — and she 
 would accompany his party on the northward way. 
 If it were done, it must be done quickly. He must 
 rise and go to her. " Mademoiselle Dorothy," he 
 would say, " the night goes swiftly. I have re- 
 turned for you. We must set out at once." And 
 she would start and tremble, believing that he in- 
 tended to compel her to return to St. Joseph, 
 where she would be met by reproach, and placed 
 under continual guard. She would shrink from 
 him, but he would put his arms about her, and say, 
 tenderly, " Fear nothing, my Hfe, my love; I know 
 at last that the precious gift you have offered me 
 is mine to cherish, not to put away. My heart is 
 true to you as yours to me; for I never loved woman 
 before, and you I loved from the first moment when 
 I saw you. What you have said is true — love 
 comes, we know not how; but when it comes, it is 
 for all time."^ And she would rest her trusting 
 
196 ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 head on his breast, and look on him with her gen- 
 tle, guileless eyes. He saw before him the beautiful 
 face, more exquisitely beautiful because it was so 
 innocent and pure. Ah, innocent and pure! He 
 could not have loved an evil-minded woman. Yet 
 what crime against her trusting innocence did he 
 propose? 
 
 The sin in its blackness was revealed to him, and 
 he tried to turn his eyes from the revelation. He 
 argued with himself that men bound by vows, most 
 sacred vows, men of position and power, had lived, 
 were living, holding a White shield before the world, 
 while the under side was darkened by the reflection 
 of secret sin. And he knew that the shield was 
 deeper tinged when it reflected the guilt of one who 
 had vowed himself to be a teacher of others. For 
 the thoughts of the heart are the realities, and, 
 whether men will or no, their inward truth or un- 
 truth sends forth its pure or poisonous atmos- 
 phere. A man professing a high calling and living 
 in concealed iniquity is an emissary of the evil one 
 for the destruction of souls. Were he to do this 
 deed, he would destroy not only the pure soul of 
 the girl, but even the savages about him would feel 
 his influence for ill. Heretofore, he had tried to be 
 honest and faithful in the life that had been im- 
 posed on him. He had sought to elevate the stand- 
 ard of morals among his Indians, and had had some 
 success. Could he ever dare to try again? 
 
trempteb in tF)e Mtl^etne0S 197 
 
 His thoughts went back to his parting with Jean 
 de Brebeuf. He saw again the martyred priest; the 
 man who had suffered and kept himself pure. They 
 stood together on the road to St. Louis; he heard 
 again the earnest voice pleading with him to cut 
 off the right hand, pluck out the right eye, to re- 
 sist temptation manfully. He had given his prom- 
 ise to one who knew, with prophetic instinct, that 
 it would soon be a promnse to be held doubly 
 sacred because given to the dead. He had honestly 
 tried to keep it, to thrust his temptation from him. 
 But never before had it come to him as it had come 
 now. How could he, how could he, put from him, 
 now and forever, the love, the joy, that filled him 
 and encompassed him, bewildering his brain with 
 dehcious madness? 
 
 " I trust you, my son." The words seemed to be 
 spoken aloud beside him — the words of the man 
 who had loved him, and who had given up his own 
 life in loyalty to his faith. But other words, too, 
 seemed to be spoken aloud to him, words in a girl's 
 sweet voice, — words of love and pleading. Again 
 he felt the touch of her hand upon him — the soft 
 touch, with its strange, terrible strength to hold 
 him to her, to restrain him from putting her away. 
 
 With the groan of a tortured spirit, he thrust 
 the vision from him, and threw himself face down- 
 ward on the rock. He cried for help to Heaven, 
 and his voice seemed to go out into fathomless 
 
198 Ube IRomancc ot a Scsutt /iDlsslon 
 
 space, to a region of emptiness, where there was no 
 ear to hear. He was sinking, sinking, calling for a 
 hand to stretch forth and save him; but there was 
 no such hand. His face touched the dew-wet rocks, 
 his ears heard the sighing of the wind and dash of 
 the waves; and, louder than these, they heard the 
 siren voice, luring him to sin. These things he 
 knew; these were realities. But the everlasting 
 arms, the listening ear, the answering voice, of the 
 omniscient, ever-present God, were but fables — 
 fables formed from fancy, or fear, in the heart of 
 man. For now, in the hour of his trial, when he ap- 
 pealed to the heart of the Father to sustain His 
 child. His weak and tempted child, that heart gave 
 no response. As well might he have appealed to a 
 stone, and he cried in his despair, " There is no 
 God!" Mistrusted by his fellows, his will failing 
 him — his strong, manly will in which 'he had been 
 confident — without faith, it was useless, useless, to 
 keep up the fight; and, presently, he would yield. 
 Then for a time he lay on the rock, and let his 
 thoughts throng on him as they would, without 
 effort to put them away. 
 
 But, following his cry of despair, he seemed to 
 hear another cry — the cry that went out from the 
 darkness on Calvary — that cry that has at times 
 brought the Man Divine nearer than any other to 
 the despairing heart — the cry of the human, yet 
 divine, " My God, My God, why hast Thou for- 
 saken me? " 
 
XTempte^ in tbe XRHU^erness 199 
 
 The thought of the lonely man of Nazareth, the 
 man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, came to 
 the lonely, despairing man, as it never had come to 
 him — nay, never could have come to him — before. 
 Surely, that old, wonderful story must be true. 
 Could any fabrication so meet the needs of man? In 
 that Man Divine, manhood had been consecrated 
 and uplifted, that manhood through all ages might 
 be purified and uplifted, too. He had passed 
 through temptation, agony, and despair, and had 
 come forth victorious, giving to other tempted, 
 despairing men the assurance, " Lo, I am with you 
 alway, even unto the end of the world.'' 
 
 But the young man's faith was weak, and doubts 
 and questionings beset him again. He lay on the 
 rock, and pressed his head against the hard stone, 
 as if he could thus still the tormenting voices. 
 Presently it seemed to him that he was no longer 
 alone. The spirit of Jean de Brebeuf was with him, 
 to comfort and sustain him, as at their last meeting 
 he had promised he would be, if permitted by 
 Heaven. Leon had smiled at the stories of spirit 
 visitants, of voices from the invisible, in which 
 some of his companions so devoutly believed. It 
 may be it was because his nerves were in a super- 
 sensitive condition, his imagination disordered, his 
 reason no longer capable of separating the real 
 from the unreal; but it served. Brebeuf, his friend, 
 was beside him, and he told him his story, as to the 
 
200 xTbe IRomance of a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 living man, besought him to pray with him, and for 
 him, to Heaven, that he might have strength to 
 conquer. 
 
 He rose at length, with resolve, from the spot 
 where he had cast himself in weakness and despair. 
 Temptation beset him still; but he felt in himself 
 the power to overcome it. The pain of severing 
 with his own hand the tie that had drawn Doro- 
 thy to him seemed as sharp as it had been at any 
 moment of his trial; but he knew that he would do 
 it. She would turn her appealing eyes to him, and 
 plead piteously and vainly. It were easier to pierce 
 her heart of flesh and dull the light of her eyes for- 
 ever than so to wound her spirit; yet he must do the 
 harder thing. She would misunderstand, believe 
 that he was cruel, that he did not love her; and he 
 must bear it. 
 
 He would not go to her until he felt assured it 
 would be safe to venture again on the water. Then 
 he rose, and trod the rock firmly till he reached the 
 place where he had left her. 
 
XXIII 
 Dorotb^'s ContesBlon 
 
 Dorothy had seen in Leon's eyes an expression 
 that she had never observed in them before; and 
 when he had left her, and she sat by the fire, a reali- 
 zation of its meaning came to her. Hauteroche 
 had insinuated; others had dropped hints; but she 
 had not understood. She had associated De 
 Charolais with the priesthood, and no thought of 
 him as a lover had ever occurred to her. She had 
 overheard a conversation between Caradeuc and 
 Nialona, when Caradeuc had said that Leon might 
 obtain a dispensation, leave the Society, and marry, 
 if he chose. Nialona had answered indignantly; 
 but Dorothy had not understood that the discus- 
 sion had any reference to herself. Now she recalled 
 words regarding the reasons for Leon's banish- 
 ment. She understood his embarrassment in her 
 presence, in her announcement that she had sought 
 him. Her face burned, she dropped her head in 
 her hands, and wondered what she ought to do. 
 
 Presently she rose, took her dress from the tree 
 on which it hung, and held it so close to the fire 
 that it would have burned had it not been damp. 
 
202 ube IRomance ot a 5e5uit /iDisston 
 
 After awhile, though it was far from dry, she put it 
 on. Then she sat, looking into the fire and think- 
 ing, until, spite of anxious thought, her head 
 drooped and she dozed. 
 
 When Leon returned, he found her sleeping. 
 As she lay near the fire, her head resting on her 
 arm, she looked so pathetically young, so childlike, 
 that he dreaded to awake her, to give his hard sen- 
 tence. He wondered if he could command his 
 voice, his eyes, so they should not betray his secret 
 — if he had not already betrayed it. 
 
 As he watched her, he remembered that she had 
 said that Hauteroche was not a man of honor; yet 
 he, the man she had trusted as a friend, had medi- 
 tated a deeper wrong against her. 
 
 She smiled in her sleep, her lips parted, and she 
 murmured something he could not hear; but there 
 was a joy on her face he had never seen on it in its 
 waking time. 
 
 He must rouse her. To watch her thus would 
 unman him. 
 
 '' Dorothy, Mademoiselle Dorothy," he called; 
 " wake, it is time to rise." 
 
 She sat up, gazed about her, and looked bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 " Ah," she said presently, " I had forgotten this 
 island. I was far away." 
 
 She had not been dreaming of him! 
 
 " I was sorry to disturb you, for I know well you 
 
Dototbg's (Ionte00ton 203 
 
 need more rest," he said, commanding his voice as 
 well as he could. ''But — the wind has gone down, 
 and — we may venture to set forth. You may rest 
 in the canoe. It is large. I will spread the rug so 
 it will be a soft couch." 
 
 He had feared she would make a pitiful plea; but 
 she did not say a word; her face flushed and paled; 
 he thought she would sob presently; it would be 
 harder to resist the appeal of her tears than of her 
 words. 
 
 He tried to justify himself. " Do not think I 
 have no pity for you," he said brokenly. " Ah, I 
 know your Hfe is lonely; that you have many hard 
 things to bear. Yet, knowing all, I must take you 
 back. Some day, When you are older, you will 
 know I had to do it for your sake. But, though 
 Father Ragueneau is quiet and appears stern, he 
 has a kind heart. I believe he will not reproach 
 you. And, most surely, he will protect you; do not 
 fear that Hauteroche will dare to vex you again." 
 
 She answered quietly, " You are right. I — knew 
 not what I did. I will go back, I will bear what- 
 ever may come." 
 
 Her calmness surprised him; she appeared to 
 have grown older since he had awaked her. 
 
 " I will make ready the canoe. Then do you fol- 
 low me to the beach." 
 
 " No, stay but a little time; I will tell you all." 
 
 " Not now," he said, nervously, fearing to listen 
 
204 Ubc IRoinance ot a Jesuit /iDisslon 
 
 to her heart's confession. '' We must make no 
 delay. When we have returned I will hear." 
 
 " The Superior will not suffer me to speak with 
 you." 
 
 " On the water, as we journey back," he sug- 
 gested. While he paddled the canoe, and in the 
 darkness, 'he might listen to a part of her story, 
 might prevent her making any admissions that in 
 later years she would regret. Yet would it not be 
 sweet to hear from her guileless lips her words of 
 love for him? His manliness forbade. He would 
 protect her against herself. 
 
 She insisted, " Neither on the island nor on the 
 water; but here. It is right that I should tell you. 
 It is your right to know the truth. I trust you. I 
 will tell you of my past life. Promise me but one 
 thing, promise that you will never speak of it to any 
 one on earth." 
 
 He was not a priest to hear confessions; yet he 
 believed he was justified in giving the promise. 
 He was confident that her story could reveal noth- 
 ing that would compromise her. 
 
 " I promise," he said. " You may trust me. 
 Without your permission I will never repeat it." 
 
 " Sit there," she said, pointing to a log by the 
 fire, at a Httle distance. She had assumed direc- 
 tion, though hitherto she had appealed to him to 
 tell her what she should do. 
 
 When they were seated, she was silent for a few 
 
a)orotbv'6 Contesston 205 
 
 moments, and her face was very pale when she be- 
 gan her story. 
 
 " I told you that when the Indians attacked us 
 I was separated from my companions and lost in 
 the forest. That was true, but it was not all the 
 truth. In the fright and confusion I escaped from 
 those who called themselves my guardians. So 
 desperate was I, that though I knev/ I might fall 
 into the hands of the Indians, that wild beasts 
 might devour me, or that I might perish from hun- 
 ger and cold, I would have welcomed death; though 
 I was afraid, O, terribly afraid! " She paused and 
 gave a little shudder. " I had one hope, the hope 
 that a w'hite settlement was at hand. You know 
 that hope was not in vain, and how I found my 
 refuge. 
 
 ''I have told you that those in whose care I had 
 been placed had no love for me, that they were 
 stern and hard. But — there was one v/ith them, a 
 man of more than middle age, one w^io was like- 
 v/ise stern of visage. I think not that he — loved 
 me; yet — he desired to make me his wife." 
 
 She stopped and bent her head; her face was suf- 
 fused with color. " I tell you this because I will 
 tell you all, though I would fain forget it. He had 
 spoken to those who called themselves my guar- 
 dians, and they would not heed my pleas. He was 
 unmoved when I told him I loved him not; my 
 guardians were unmoved ; they repeated that when 
 
2o6 xibe iRomance ot a Jesuit /HMssion 
 
 we should arrive at a settlement and find a minis- 
 ter, I must be wedded to him. When it was possi- 
 ble, I avoided his presence; but, together in the 
 wilderness as we were, it was not always possible; 
 yet if he dared to lay his hand on mine, I drew it 
 away in anger; then came there on his face a grim 
 smile that filled me with dread, and he said, ' Do as 
 you will now, but my time will come; \Vhen you are 
 my wife, you must obey.' So when word came that 
 we approached some settlement of white people, I 
 fell into despair; one hope only came to me, per- 
 chance the strangers would protect me; but how 
 knew I what tale they would tell of me; so the 
 minister would be persuaded to wed me to that 
 man whether I would or no. I fled. Were it in 
 your power, would you give me to their hands 
 again? " 
 
 " Far be it from me! I would protect you against 
 them all." 
 
 " Ah, well I know you would. But — the Superi- 
 or, he would believe that duty called him to seek 
 the man, and give me up; therefore I have told him 
 nothing. He knows not where to seek my guard- 
 ians. At Sainte Marie, I was often in terror lest 
 they discover me; but I have ceased to fear it. I 
 know not what has been their fate. I trust they 
 escaped the Indians, and found the country of the 
 English." 
 
 " You might safely have told the Superior. He 
 
2)orotbi^'0 Conteselon 207 
 
 would not permit you to be made a wife against 
 your will, if be could protect you. In his eyes, it 
 would be a sin." 
 
 She shook her head. " I dare not tell him." 
 
 She did not speak again, and Leon asked, " Shall 
 we set forth now? " 
 
 *'I have not told you all. I loved not that stern 
 elderly man; yet had he been young and comely, I 
 had no love to give him. In England, cruel hands 
 divided me from one who had all my heart ; and so 
 long as I live he will have my heart, though I never 
 behold him again." 
 
 She dropped her eyes, but they seemed irresisti- 
 bly drawn to Leon, and she looked up. 
 
 His face was ghastly white and drawn. " What 
 is it? " she cried. Then she would have recalled the 
 words, for she understood that she had wounded 
 him sorely. 
 
 " Leon, my Brother Leon," she said, with a sob 
 in her voice, " I tell you because as a brother you 
 are dear to me, as a brother I trust you." 
 
 He did not answer. He appeared stunned, and 
 she went on, hardly knowing what to say. " Mon- 
 sieur Rene le Breton begged me to look on him as 
 a brother, and I consented. Yet he is not as you 
 are. He is but a frivolous youth. I have told him 
 nothing. But to you, my Brother Leon, I lay 
 bare my heart." 
 
 He forced himself to reply, " Tell me all. Why 
 did they part you? " 
 
2o8 ubc IRomance of a Jesuit /BMsslon 
 
 " I will go back to days of my childhood. I 
 lived in a pleasant house, in the midst of a sweet 
 garden. I was a happy child, and they whom I 
 called father and mother reared me with such ten- 
 der care I knew not that they had no living child. 
 In a graveyard near by was a marble that bore the 
 name of their infant daughter. I thought of her as 
 my sister. My mother told me I had come to her 
 after EHzabeth died. One day my father — I can 
 call him by no other name — was brought home to 
 us hurt unto death. He lived but a few hours, and 
 before the morning light my mother had followed 
 him. They who came to our home said it was well 
 that she was with him. But how could I say those 
 words? I had loved them, and I was desolate. 
 
 " His sister came. I had called her Aunt Ellen; 
 but it had seemed to me at all times she did not love 
 me. She wept for him, but she said no words of ten- 
 derness to me. If I wept, if I clung to the still 
 forms of those whom I had lost, it angered her; she 
 sent me away, or said strange words of me that I 
 did not then understand. 
 
 '' On the day when they were laid to rest I was 
 bidden to a room where I found some grave men 
 assembled, and my Aunt Ellen was with them. 
 Then they told me that no will of my father's could 
 be found, that my aunt had inherited everything; 
 that I had nothing of my own; but that in her good- 
 ness she would provide for me; that she would send 
 
Dototbi^'6 (Ionte60fon 209 
 
 me to a school. And, indeed, it pleased me better 
 to know that I should not live with her. Then the 
 thought came to me that I, my father's own child, 
 was nearer to him even than his sister. Why should 
 she possess everything? And I put the question 
 in words. 
 
 " Then my aunt answered, sternly, ' You were no 
 child of his nor of hers, yet they reared you and 
 gave you of the best. Is this your gratitude that 
 you reproach them because they have left you no 
 fortune? ' 
 
 " I could not speak, but I looked at the grave 
 men, and they confirmed her words. They said 
 doubtless my father had not foreseen that his Hfe 
 would be thus taken from him, or he would have 
 made provision for me, and that his worthy sister, 
 knowing this, would have a care that I should lack 
 nothing, though I had no lawful claim upon her. 
 She cried out that I should at the least give her a 
 word of thanks. I could not speak that which I 
 felt not, and my lips were dumb. 
 
 " I looked from one to another, and their eyes 
 would not meet mine. It may be that they grieved 
 for me. I saw a tear on the face of one who sat 
 near to m.e, and I heard his words, spoken low, 
 * Alas, poor maiden, a grievous cross indeed hath 
 been laid upon thee.' 
 
 " There came to my memory words and looks of 
 which I had thought little while my father and 
 
2IO xrbe IRomance of a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 mother lived; 1 recalled a day when Aunt Ellen had 
 seemed to reprove my mother, and had said in my 
 hearing, ' You fail, Elizabeth, in your duty. In a 
 day to come, mark me well, the child will hear the 
 truth from other lips.' 
 
 " The place to which they gave the name of school 
 deserved not to be so called. The teacher in whose 
 care I was placed but seldom taught me a lesson. 
 In the house with us lived but one old woman ser- 
 vant and a girl of my own age. She was said to be a 
 pupil with me, and we spent much time together. 
 She talked to me of lovers, of fine dresses, and of 
 many things of which I was ignorant. My mother 
 had educated me at home, I had associated little 
 with others of my years; and, in truth, as Emily 
 told me, I knew nothing of the world. Our teacher 
 knew little of the books we read — we had but few 
 — or of our conversation; our table was scantily 
 spread, and our clothing was neglected; but she 
 never spoke to us harshly, and for that I was thank- 
 ful. My mother's words had been so mild that I 
 greatly dreaded a harsh tongue. We spent much 
 time in the fields that lay about the house, and had 
 it not been that I longed continually for my par- 
 ents, my life had not been unhappy." 
 
 She stopped abruptly. She had not intended to 
 give so many details; but her perception of Leon's 
 distress at the mention of her lover induced her to 
 defer a return to the subject. Presently she at- 
 tacked it boldly. 
 
2)orotb^*6 (Xontesston 2 1 1 
 
 " Then came that one on whose face I had looked 
 but once ere I loved him. I saw him many times; 
 he lived near by; and soon he told me of his love for 
 me; and I was comforted in my loneHness. Yet in 
 this we both did wrong; our meetings were by 
 stealth; I said no word to my teacher. I told her 
 no falsehood; I only held my peace, iiut for that sin 
 I have many times gone on my knees in penitence. 
 When my mother lived, I hid nothing from her. 
 There came a day when I was summoned to the 
 house, and in the sitting-room I found my teacher, 
 and he whom I loved was there, and beside him 
 were two strangers, whom I afterward discov- 
 ered to be his parents, and his face was pale and 
 sad. 
 
 " My teacher upbraided me bitterly. She said I 
 had lied and deceived her, and that she had had no 
 part in our meetings, and was guilty of no wrong. 
 But he came to my side, and said the wrong, if 
 wrong there were, was wholly his own; that he had 
 urged me to keep silence when I would have 
 spoken. And that was true; but never would I 
 have said it. Then came in my aunt hurriedly. 
 They had sent for her, and she had set forth in 
 haste. And she upbraided me bitterly, for she said 
 I had caused her name to be connected with my ill 
 doings, of which she had no knowledge. She said 
 I was no kith nor kin of hers. And she spoke evil 
 words of the mother who gave me birth, and of 
 
212 zbc IRomance of a Seeutt /IDIssion 
 
 whom I had known nothing. But I learned after- 
 ward that neither knew she anything; for I had 
 been laid at the door of the parents who reared me, 
 with a sum of money and goodly clothing; and with 
 no word save this, written in a line hand, * Her 
 name is Dorothy/ And thereafter no search had re- 
 vealed anything concerning her. With all my heart 
 I believe that she was a true and saintly woman, 
 led by sore extremity to abandon her child, and 
 that death took her away ere she could seek me 
 again. Thus, too, does Godfrey believe, for he as- 
 sured me of it with tender v/ords. When my aunt 
 spoke thus, I would 'have fallen in a swoon had not 
 Godfrey caught me in his arms; and thereafter he 
 stood with his arm about me, as if to shield me. 
 His parents appealed to my aunt to remove me far, 
 and spare them the grief and shame of beholding 
 their son united in marriage to one whose birth 
 would bring a scandal on their house. And she 
 answered that they need not fear, she would remove 
 me far, indeed. They said he lacked some months 
 of his coming of age, and must obey their will. 
 They would have taken him away, and my heart 
 was like to break. But he turned to his mother, 
 and pitifully besought her to give him the grace of 
 a few words with me alone; and to that she con- 
 sented. We went apart to a room adjoining, and 
 he held me in his arms, and pressed kisses on my 
 face, and vowed that until death he would be true 
 
2>ototb^*0 ContesBton 213 
 
 to me, that he would seek me the world over, and 
 never would he be forced to wed another; and that, 
 too, I promised him. The time was but short until 
 his mother entered and summoned him; then with 
 a groan that, as it were, rent his heart, he left me, 
 and I fell to the ground as one dead." 
 
 She broke ofif, hid her face in her hands again, 
 and shook as if with sobbing; but her eyes were dry. 
 When she raised her head, Leon sat, white and still. 
 She began to speak rapidly. " There is Uttle more 
 to tell. My aunt took me away, and placed me on 
 that day with those who carried me across the sea. 
 I pleaded with her not to put the sea between us, 
 but she would not heed. The rest you know." 
 
 Yet Leon made no answer. 
 
 " Leon, Brother Leon," she cried, piteously, 
 " have you, too, turned from me? I love to call you 
 Brother Leon. In name, as in other things, you 
 remind me of him. His name was Godfrey Lyon 
 Dermount, and I called him ' Lion,' because he was 
 strong and brave. That was always my name for 
 him. Brother Leon, I have done many thoughtless 
 acts; but grievously have I sorrowed for them all. 
 Think not evil of me. I have meant no wrong." 
 
 " No, Httle Sister Dorothy, I have not turned 
 from you; nor will I so long as I live. You have 
 called me brother and friend, and that will I be to 
 you always. And now let us haste to the island, 
 for the night goes fast." 
 
214 Zbc IRomance of a Jesuit /BMsslon 
 
 " And you have promised you will keep what I 
 have given you within your own heart. You will 
 repeat no word of it to the Superior." 
 
 " Not one word, except you permit me; yet it 
 were better for you to trust him." 
 
 "Ah, no, I cannot, I cannot; to no heart but 
 yours, my Brother Leon, could I have laid bare my 
 own." 
 
 As they went to the boat, he asked her, " And 
 your own name, what is it? " 
 
 " Have you forgotten that I have no name? The 
 name I bore, the name of those whom I had called 
 my father and mother, I may not disclose, even to 
 you, for on the day when my Aunt Ellen gave me 
 into the hands of those who took me from my own 
 land, she forced me to take a solemn vow that I 
 would not so much as mention that name, nor ever 
 permit myself to be called by it, so greatly she 
 feared, thus she told me, that I might again bring 
 discredit upon her. She made me take also a vow 
 of silence concerning all my history, and until this 
 moment I have kept it. To no ear but yours, my 
 Brother Leon, have I told it, and to you it is in 
 sacred confidence. I had not meant to disclose it, 
 even to you; iDUt " 
 
 He had stooped to lay the rug for her in the boat. 
 He was glad that his face was turned from her, 
 that she should not see the color that rushed over 
 it. 
 
Dorotb^'s Contesslon 215 
 
 He understood why she had told him, had broken 
 her word because she had read his love for her, 
 and would not deceive him. 
 
 '' They called me Dorothy Mill," she said; " but 
 it was not pleasing to me; it was not my own; until 
 I learn what name is mine by right, I will be known 
 only as Dorothy." 
 
XXIV 
 
 TLbc IReturn ot tbe Man^erers 
 
 They spoke few words on their homeward way. 
 Dorothy lay in the canoe on the rug that Leon had 
 arranged for her, and when he had passed the dan- 
 gerous channels, he paddled on, and let his gloomy 
 thoughts have their way. His love was selfish yet. 
 Until he knew her story, the bitterness of parting 
 had been softened by the beHef that she loved him; 
 a sweet grief indeed compared with his desolate- 
 ness when he heard that another had her heart. In 
 this thought all others were lost for the time; the 
 Superior might accuse him of disobedience, of de- 
 ception, might refuse to Hsten to his explanation; 
 he cared not. 
 
 It was long past midnight when they drew near, 
 but lights were gleaming through the trees; peo- 
 ple were moving about, apparently in search of 
 Dorothy. 
 
 Leon heard the sound of a paddle, and a canoe 
 came round a point of land. In the darkness, he 
 did not recognize the boatman, but when they were 
 in sight Hauteroche cried, " Who goes there? " 
 
 216 
 
Ube IReturn ot tbe Man^erets 217 
 
 " It is I, Raoul Hauteroche," answered Leon 
 haughtily. 
 
 " Have you seen aught of Mademoiselle Doro- 
 thy? " 
 
 '' Mademoiselle Dorothy is here and safe. We 
 seek the Superior. Where may we find him? " 
 
 '' Mademoiselle Dorothy returns with you, and 
 you seek the Superior," retorted Hauteroche in- 
 solently. '' It were better for you to hide from him, 
 for you will get but a sorry reception." 
 
 " I have no cause to hide, Raoul Hauteroche, but 
 I doubt not you will find reason to avoid his pres- 
 ence when he has heard what I have to relate of 
 you." 
 
 When he had spoken the words, he regretted 
 his thoughtlessness; what he had said might serve 
 to bring Hauteroche's wrath on Dorothy, who 
 neither moved nor spoke. 
 
 Other canoes came up, and Rene le Breton cried, 
 ** Have you brought word of her? " 
 
 " She has returned with the worthy Leon de 
 Charolais," jeered Hauteroche. 
 
 Le Breton paddled quickly up. " Is she living? 
 Is she safe? " he asked anxiously. 
 
 Dorothy sat up. " Yes, Monsieur le Breton, I 
 am safe; I am unharmed, save for the waves that 
 dashed over my canoe; yet I should have perished 
 had not — " she was about to say " Brother Leon," 
 but hesitated. Then she remembered that the 
 
2i8 XTbe IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 Hurons and the boys always addressed him as 
 Brother Leon de Charolais, and she went on, " I 
 should indeed have perished on the water had not 
 Brother Leon de Charolais come to my rescue." 
 
 '* And how came it that the worthy Brother 
 Leon de Charolais was so near? " demanded Haute- 
 roche. 
 
 '' I was on my way hither with tidings for the 
 Superior," said Leon, addressing Rene. " It was 
 dark, the wind was high, and the water was rough; 
 then I saw a canoe tossed upon the waves, and in 
 answer to my cry, I heard the voice of Mademoiselle 
 Dorothy." 
 
 " Ah, Mademoiselle Dorothy," said Rene, with 
 gentle reproach, '' why did you venture forth when 
 the water was rough and the storm at hand? We 
 have been in sore distress for your sake." 
 
 '' I have done wrong," said Dorothy meekly. 
 " Indeed, I grieve deeply. Alas, how often I have 
 caused sorrow to those who have been good to 
 me!" 
 
 " Ah, do not reproach yourself. We rejoice now 
 that you have returned to us." 
 
 Unmindful that the canoe was unsteady, Doro- 
 thy leaned over the side and said, in a low voice, 
 " Brother Rene, will the Superior greet me with 
 unusual sternness? Is he angered beyond forgive- 
 ness? " 
 
 " No, no, do not fear. He shall not upbraid you. 
 
XTbe IRetutn of tbe TKHanbctets 219 
 
 We will all speak in your defence. And, indeed, he 
 will greet you with joy, for he has feared for your 
 life." 
 
 Leon caught her arm, " Have a care. Mademoi- 
 selle Dorothy. The vessel is but light, and readily 
 overturned." 
 
 She balanced herself in the centre, and said no 
 more until they reached the land. 
 
 Rene's shout, " We have found her; she is safe," 
 had been carried to the fort, and Fathers Rague- 
 neau, Bressani, and their colleagues, hastened to 
 the shore. They had searched with the others, and 
 had retired to the residence for prayer. 
 
 Leon and Dorothy had landed, and were sur- 
 rounded by an excited group when the Fathers ap- 
 proached. The circle was aglow with torches, so 
 they saw plainly the young man and the girl; but 
 the voices were indistinguishable in the hubbub of 
 words. 
 
 The Superior's face grew sterner when he saw 
 De Charolais. He had believed that the young 
 man was many miles away. 
 
 Before he addressed a word to Dorothy, he said 
 coldly, " And is it thus that you obey my com- 
 mands, Leon? " 
 
 " Reverend Father," replied the young man, 
 " an emergency arose among our people which 
 made immediate consultation with you desirable. 
 Under circumstances so unforeseen, I believed that 
 
2 20 ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 you would pardon my apparent disregard of your 
 directions so soon as you should have heard my 
 reasons." 
 
 " And how comes it that you return here with 
 Mademoiselle Dorothy? " 
 
 " I believe truly that by the guidance of Heaven 
 I found her, when, in the storm, she was in peril of 
 death. By your permission. Reverend Father, I 
 will accompany you to the resiaence, and there tell 
 you all." 
 
 '' Be it so," said Ragueneau. 
 
 He turned, and began to walk toward the fort, 
 and Leon followed with Dorothy. " Do not fear," 
 he said, in a low voice, to the trembling girl; " when 
 I have told him all, he will not be angry with you." 
 
 Ragueneau had rejoiced when he heard of Doro- 
 thy's safety, and was ready to forgive her for her 
 recklessness. But when he saw her with Leon, he 
 was sorely perplexed, and did not address a word 
 to her. 
 
 Dorothy had thought of many things while she 
 rested in the canoe. Leon's distress at the recital 
 of her love story had confirmed the thought that 
 had startled her when they stood by the fire. She 
 remembered how often, at the palisades, she had 
 begged him to come soon again, how she had told 
 him that his presence comforted her, that she was 
 lonely without him. She had been so absorbed by 
 the remembrance of her ovm sorrovv^ that she had 
 
Zbc IReturn ot tbe Man^erets 221 
 
 been blind to many things. She had thought it 
 was his pity for her that led him to speak to her in 
 tones so different from those he used in his words 
 to Nialona; that his emotion w'hen parting from 
 her was due to the same cause; but she knew better 
 now. She had been brought up apart from the 
 world, and was childlike in many things, older than 
 her years in others. She had something to tell 
 Leon, something that would perhaps justify her if 
 he thought she had willingly deceived him. 
 
 As they walked behind the Superior and Bres- 
 sani, she said very low, " Brother Leon." 
 
 " What is it, my Sister Dorothy? " 
 
 " I — desire to tell you — on the first day when I 
 saw you, when you came to me to speak in English, 
 I perceived in you a resemblance to — my Godfrey, 
 so that — from the beginning — ^^before I had many 
 words with you — I put my trust in you for his sake 
 — always you seemed nearer to me than any other. 
 I — knew you were good and true, as he is." 
 
 Leon had slackened his steps, so the Fathers 
 should not hear. But he did not answer. 
 
 " You — are taller than he," she went on, hesitat- 
 ingly, " though he is of goodly height. And I 
 doubt not that some would say that your features 
 are more comely ; yet he is fair to look upon. How- 
 ever that may be, his heart is noble, and well I know 
 that yours is noble, too." 
 
 Still he said no word, and she feared she had 
 hurt him. 
 
2 22 ube IRomance ot a 5esutt /BMsston 
 
 " Brother Leon — if — at any time I have spoken 
 words, done any acts, that have given you pain, I 
 am grieved; I repent it sorely. It has not been 
 with intention. Your kindness to me has been 
 great; but " 
 
 '' Do not grieve, my Sister Dorothy, I know well 
 the goodness of your heart " 
 
 The Superior turned, and motioned to Leon to 
 hasten. When the two reached him, he directed 
 Leon to walk beside Bressani, while he accom- 
 panied Dorothy. But he did not speak to her until 
 they arrived at the residence, which stood within 
 the unfinished walls of the fort. 
 
 He led the way to a small room, which had been 
 set apart for the use of the priests from the mission 
 to the Tobacco Nation, in case they should be able 
 to visit the island. So far it had been unoccupied. 
 He pointed to a hard bed, and said to Dorothy, 
 '' The hour is late, and rest is needful; remain here 
 for the night. In the morning, I will tell you 
 further." 
 
 " Will you not order also some refreshment for 
 the young girl? " said Bressani. 
 
 The Superior looked at Dorothy's white face, 
 and answered, " Bring her a portion of the 
 strengthening cordial from our store, with bread 
 and meat, if our larder is not empty of meat." 
 
 " I thank you, I want nothing," said Dorothy 
 feebly. 
 
Zbc IReturn of tbe Mant)erers 223 
 
 But presently Father Bressani returned with a 
 hot cordial in a silver cup — a much-prized vessel, 
 and some cakes of corn. The larder contained no 
 meat. 
 
 Ragueneau had gone out with Leon. Bressani 
 looked with pity on the fragile girl, and said, " Eat 
 my daughter, and then sleep. Yet, ere I leave you, 
 if you have aught on your mind that troubles you, 
 tell it to me, and so find rest. When you left us in 
 the storm, what purpose had you, and whom did 
 you seek? " 
 
 " I sought no one. Father. I but " 
 
 She was very weak; she trembled, and her face 
 quivered, as if she were on the point of tears. 
 
 " Have I at any time said to you a harsh word, 
 my daughter, that you fear me?" asked Bressani 
 softly. 
 
 She looked into his face, rugged, yet gentle. 
 He bore scars on his face and hands from tortures 
 that he had received from the Indians. He had not 
 the grand physique of Brebeuf, yet in some ways he 
 resembled him. 
 
 '' Father, I sought but to flee from my misery. I 
 set forth, knowing not whither I went; and it may 
 be the good Father in Heaven guided me to that 
 place on the waters where I was met by the Brother 
 Leon de Charolais. To him I have spoken of the 
 trouble that drove me from this island; he has my 
 permission to relate it to the Superior. Pray ask 
 me not further, Father; he will tell you all." 
 
224 Ubc IRomancc ot a Sesutt /iDisston 
 
 " Rest then, my daughter, and — trust us. We 
 wish you naught but good." 
 
 When he had gone, Dorothy drank the cordial, 
 and ate a portion of the cake, and felt much re- 
 vived. She thought she could not sleep; but pres- 
 ently her head drooped, and she lay on the bed, and 
 slept soundly. 
 
 The sun was high when the sound of footsteps 
 roused her. She sat up, and saw Madame Couture. 
 
 " I come for you," said the Indian woman. 
 *' From this time you live in my house. So says 
 the good Father." 
 
 Dorothy had not undressed. She rose, and tried 
 to fasten her tumbled hair, and followed Madame 
 Couture from the room. 
 
 In an adjoining room the Superior awaited her. 
 
 " Your home will be with Madame Couture," he 
 said, and Dorothy thought there was unusual gen- 
 tleness in his manner. "With her, you will be pro- 
 tected, and she will treat you with kindness. But, 
 ere you go, you must give me your promise that 
 you will never again venture on the water, or wan- 
 der away alone, far from Madame Couture's lodge. 
 You have more than once been the cause of grave 
 anxiety to us all." 
 
 " I promise, Father," said Dorothy meekly. 
 
 Then she followed Madame Couture, and, as she 
 went, looked in vain for a gHmpse of Leon. 
 
XXV 
 Departure of Xeon auD BresBant tor Quebec 
 
 When Leon found himself alone with the Supe- 
 rior, he explained his motives in seeking Isle St. 
 Joseph, his meeting with Dorothy, how they had 
 taken refuge on the rocky island, and the reasons 
 she had given him for setting out in the storm. He 
 told his story so frankly, and the Superior's rigid 
 questioning and cross-examination were so ineffec- 
 tive in finding any flaw in the evidence that he was 
 convinced of the truth of the young man's words. 
 In reply to Leon's question, What should be done 
 for Dorothy's protection against Hauteroohe's ad- 
 vances, Ragueneau replied that with Madame Cou- 
 ture she would not be subjected to the jealousies 
 of the Huron girls, and that Hauteroche should 
 leave the island within a few hours in charge of 
 some Hurons, on an expedition which would not 
 return for several months at least. If he should 
 deny the accusation, the Superior would obtain a 
 statement from Dorothy on the subject. 
 
 Bressani had come in, and his eyes were fixed on 
 Leon when the Superior put the question: "Tell 
 
 225 
 
226 ube IRomance of a 5esutt /iDtsston 
 
 me truly, Leon de Charolais, as it were in the sa- 
 credness of the confessional, have you at any time 
 spoken word of love to this maiden? " 
 
 Leon's face grew pale, and he hesitated a mo- 
 ment before he answered, " Father, I have not." 
 
 Ragueneau was disturbed. The young man's 
 hesitation seemed suspicious. 
 
 " Have you by any action, any look or sign, given 
 her cause to believe that you loved her? " 
 
 The blood rushed to Leon's face, and again he 
 hesitated. When he answered, his voice was low, 
 '' Father, if word, deed, or look of mine has con- 
 veyed to her that beUef, it has been, on my part, 
 without intention. Of this I may assure you: 
 from her manner toward me, I am convinced that, 
 while she has a regard for me, a feeling of kind- 
 ness — I judge so from many words she has spoken 
 — she has never thought of me as a lover." 
 
 " How could you know this had you not spoken 
 to her of love? " 
 
 " I have felt assured of it, yet, I repeat with all 
 sacredness, as I were in the confessional, without 
 word of love spoken to her. She is as a child in her 
 innocence; she cannot hide her heart." 
 
 " Yet you have let your heart wander from the 
 Church to which you are pledged, and have given 
 it to this maiden." 
 
 Leon bent his head in his hands. When he raised 
 it, he did not look up. " It went from me, 
 
S)epatture ot %€on an^ Bressant 227 
 
 whether I would or no. I have sought, God knows 
 how earnestly, to be faithful to my vow to my 
 mother, and the pledge I gave to another, on the 
 eve of my departure from the mission. 
 
 " It is true, my heart has gone out to her, whether 
 I would or no; but of that, as I have said, I have 
 never uttered word to her, though Heaven knows 
 I have been sorely tempted. I tell you this for her 
 sake, that you may know she is innocent and true." 
 
 Bressani's eyes filled with tears. Perhaps, who 
 knows, some memory of his young life was stirred. 
 
 " Reverend Father," he said presently, " a word 
 with you alone." 
 
 The two priests retired, and conversed for some 
 time. When they returned Leon sat where they 
 had left him, his head resting on his arms upon the 
 table. 
 
 He started and raised himself when he heard 
 their approaching footsteps; but not before they 
 had perceived his attitude of dejection. 
 
 " De Charolai's," said the Superior, with unusual 
 gentleness, " at noon Father Bressani, with a com- 
 pany of Hurons, sets out to seek Quebec, there to 
 obtain, if possible, reinforcements for our mission. 
 It is necessary that some one go from Quebec to 
 the Superior General for instructions. It has been 
 decided that you accompany the party to Quebec; 
 thence, if deemed advisable, you may be sent to the 
 General. Monsieur le Breton will carry my mes- 
 
2 28 ube IRomance of a 5e5utt /iDtsBton 
 
 sages to your men. You may rest now. All nec- 
 essary preparations for your journey will be made 
 for you." 
 
 Leon appeared dazed by the sudden announce- 
 ment. " But how is it possible to prepare in such 
 brief time for a journey so difficult? " 
 
 " Everything is already in order for my depart- 
 ure," said Bressani. " The few things of which 
 you 'have need can soon be made ready. Take now 
 your needed rest; do not leave your room until 
 you are roused to partake of refreshments before 
 setting forth. We will then journey till we reach 
 our halting place for the night." 
 
 Leon obeyed almost mechanically. He was 
 weary, body and mind, and spite of troubled 
 thoughts of Dorothy he fell into a deep sleep, from 
 which he was roused but a short time before a 
 hurried departure. He had no opportunity to send 
 her a message; he could not even catch a glimpse 
 of her face. Many Huron women stood on the 
 bank when the fieet of canoes set out; but she was 
 not with them. He knew she had been kept in 
 Madame Couture's lodge, and would not be per- 
 mitted to leave it until he was far on his way. He 
 watched the island until it was but a dim line on 
 the waters; then, with heavy heart and stifled moan, 
 paddled away with his companions. 
 
XXVI 
 H Drears XKatntet 
 
 As she had been directed, Madame Couture kept 
 a watchful eye on her charge, and it was not until 
 Monsieur Couture arrived at the lodge in the even- 
 ing that she heard that De Charolais had accom- 
 panied Father Bressani's party to Quebec. 
 
 '* To Quebec! " cried the girl. " So far, and the 
 way so full of peril! And when will they return? " 
 
 " Who knows? " replied Monsieur Couture curt- 
 ly. He was a practical man, who had little sympa- 
 thy with sentiment. He, with others, had suspi- 
 cions of the reasons why Leon had been sent off, 
 and he believed that the rough travel of the wil- 
 derness would soon lead him to forget his fancy for 
 the maiden. A boy's fancy. Couture called it; for 
 he was many years older than Leon. He had al- 
 ways looked on Dorothy as a most troublesome 
 young person, and was not well pleased by her in- 
 troduction to his household. But the request of 
 Father Ragueneau was regarded as the equivalent 
 of a command that must not be disobeyed. 
 
 Madame Couture had been married for several 
 years, and was much farther advanced in civiliza- 
 
 229 
 
230 xrbe IRomance of a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 tion than the majority of her Huron sisters on the 
 island. She had a family of young children, and 
 Dorothy was expected to assist her in the care of 
 them. The priests said it was desirable that she 
 should be occupied, though they cautioned the In- 
 dian woman to remember that the young girl was 
 deUcate. Madame Couture was not unkind, but 
 her perceptions were somewhat dull; she had been 
 accustomed to a life of drudgery, and had little idea 
 of the Hmits of her young assistant's strength. 
 
 The missionaries were anxious that she should 
 be happy and well cared for; but the many needs of 
 their large flock demanded all the time they had to 
 give, and they seldom saw her except at the daily 
 brief service in the chapel, which she was obliged to 
 attend with Madame Couture. 
 
 The Couture house was on the side of the island 
 opposite that of the Huron village, but was near 
 enough to the fort to be within easy reach in case 
 of attack. Madame Couture's aged mother lived 
 wdth her, and one or the other watched Dorothy 
 almost continually. They observed the Superior's 
 instruction literally, and went beyond his inten- 
 tions. She was rarely left alone for a moment, lest 
 she should attempt to escape or do herself some 
 harm. Their supervision had not the jealous and 
 suspicious watchfulness that Nialona had exer- 
 cised, but it was exceedingly irksome. 
 
 In the late autumn, many Hurons who had sub- 
 
a Dtcari? Ximinter 231 
 
 sisted miserably in the northern forests and islands, 
 joined their countrymen at St. Joseph, until several 
 thousand were gathered under the protection of 
 the missionaries. They were housed in large lodges 
 of bark and saplings, after the Huron fashion, each 
 house containing eight or ten famiHes. Widows 
 without children and children without parents 
 were there; and of these broken families many 
 were almost perishing from famine. Few had 
 strength to labor, and scarcely any had made provi- 
 sion for the winter. The priests had done what 
 they could to meet the necessity. They had sent 
 men to buy smoked fish from the northern Algon- 
 quins, and employed Indians to gather acorns in 
 the woods. They had collected several hundred 
 bushels, and ate this food boiled with ashes, to di- 
 minish its bitterness, or pounded and mixed with 
 corn. 
 
 As winter advanced, the people in the Huron 
 village died by scores. The priests and their men 
 buried the bodies, and the Indians, gnawed by 
 famine, dug them from the earth or the snow and 
 fed on them. Then pestilence appeared, and nearly 
 half of those who had sought refuge on the island 
 died from famine or disease. 
 
 Meanwhile, spite of intense cold and deep snow, 
 there was continual fear of an Iroquois attack, and 
 from sunset to daybreak the French sentries walked 
 their rounds. 
 
232 Ubc IRomancc of a Jesuit /BMsston 
 
 The priests rose before dawn, and spent the time 
 until sunrise in their private devotions. Then the 
 bell of their chapel rang, and the Indians came in 
 crowds. The little chapel was not nearly large 
 enough to accommodate all at once; so, after each 
 service — a mass, followed by a prayer and a few 
 words of exhortation — the hearers dispersed to 
 make room for others, and the chapel was filled ten 
 or twelve times until all had had their turn. Nearly 
 all on the island now professed Christianity. While 
 the services were going on, other priests were hear- 
 ing confessions, or giving advice and encourage- 
 ment in private. At 9 o'clock the Indians returned 
 to the village, and the priests soon followed. Their 
 cassocks were all worn out, and they dressed chiefly 
 in skins. They visited the Indian houses, and gave 
 to those who were in most urgent need small scraps 
 of hide, each stamped with a particular mark. The 
 recipients afterward presented these leather tickets 
 at the fort and received a few acorns, a little boiled 
 maize, or a piece of smoked fish, according to the 
 stamp that their ticket bore. Two hours before 
 sunset, the bell of the chapel rang again for ser- 
 vices. 
 
 At one time, the superstitious Indians had been 
 in great fear of the pictures and images of the 
 Jesuits. They had believed the litanies were incan- 
 tations, and, during an epidemic, declared that the 
 clock gave the stroke of death; so that the Fathers, 
 
H Dreary mintct 233 
 
 to calm their fears, were obliged to stop its strik- 
 ing. A picture of the Last Judgment had been an 
 especial object of dread, they thinking the dragons 
 and serpents represented thereon were the demons 
 of the pest. But these fears no longer troubled 
 them. They had perfect confidence in their in- 
 structors. 
 
 Kishik died suddenly early in the winter. Doro- 
 thy had not seen her for some time, for Nialona and 
 Washaka appeared to be so embittered against her 
 that she avoided them; besides, she had little oppor- 
 tunity to visit any one. She went with Madame 
 Couture to the chapel, and saw the body of her 
 old friend in its rough coffin. Thoug'h Kishik had 
 often grumbled on account of the trouble Doro- 
 thy's long illness had given, she had been kind in 
 her way, and Dorothy had been attached to her. 
 But she shed no tears. In the earlier days of her 
 separation from Godfrey, before and after her ar- 
 rival at Sainte Marie, she had passed through many 
 perils, events had crowded one upon another, and 
 excitement had to some extent sustained her. But 
 for months she had been practically without com- 
 panionship, the daily life had been a round of mo- 
 notonous work; the only news had been the tale of 
 the fast decreasing population on the island. At 
 first, her heart had been deeply stirred by pity, but 
 now she hardly felt that emotion. She partook of 
 the general apathy and hopelessness, and accepted 
 
234 Ubc IRomance of a Jesuit /iDission 
 
 with indifference the events of life as they came to 
 her. 
 
 The daily services in the chapel were welcomed 
 by her, though she continued to reject the appeals 
 of the missionaries regarding her spiritual state. 
 Their faith was not that of the only mother she had 
 known; it was not the faith of her Godfrey. Yet 
 when she marvelled at their serenity amid privation 
 and disaster, the thought came to her that could 
 she share their trust, she, too, might be sustained 
 and cheered. She would have been glad, too, to re- 
 lieve their anxiety; she knew they feared that 
 should she die now her soul must die eternally; 
 yet, to their urging she repHed gently that she 
 could not do as they wished. 
 
 The Couture family had not been permitted to 
 suffer from insufficient food. Maize and smoked 
 fish were supplied from the fort. The fare was 
 coarse, and seldom varied, but it was seldom 
 stinted. Though bands of Iroquois roamed on the 
 mainland, parties of Huron had ventured on the 
 winter hunt. From time to time they returned 
 with venison and game, and a portion was always 
 sent to the Couture house, on Dorothy's account. 
 The Fathers were powerless to prevent the starva- 
 tion of large numbers of Indians; but this one white 
 girl, who had been so strangely sent to them, must 
 be cared for. Yet, frail as she had always been since 
 she had come to them, they saw that she was fail- 
 
a Dreary Mtntet 235 
 
 ing. She had of necessity to endure physical dis- 
 comfort for which she was less fitted than any 
 other islander. The Indians had been born to it, 
 and the Frenchmen were hardy. Snow drifted 
 through the crevices of the bark lodge. Provisions 
 froze hard. Boiled maize left from supper had to 
 be thawed for breakfast, and frozen meat or fish 
 must needs be chopped with an axe. But wretched 
 Indian women were eating the inner bark of trees 
 to still the pangs of hunger, and the white girl 
 would gladly have shared her portion with them. 
 
XXVII 
 
 JSrotber IRene 
 
 Late in the winter, Rene le Breton returned to 
 the island after an absence of several months. His 
 first sight of Dorothy was in the chapel. Her head 
 was bowed, and she did not appear to notice any- 
 thing. Dejection was apparent in every line of 
 face and figure. Her eyes were dull, her skin was 
 sallow, there was no youthful softness in the hollow 
 cheeks. Even her hair had lost its brightness, and 
 was harsh and dry. When she lifted her head and 
 saw Rene, she gave a little start; her face lighted 
 for a moment, but quickly lapsed into apathy. 
 
 Rene had no opportunity to speak to her when 
 the services were over. She followed Madame Cou- 
 ture and her children, and had left the church be- 
 fore he could break away from the greetings of 
 some old comrades. In the afternoon, he spoke to 
 the Superior. 
 
 " Father, you see Mademoiselle Dorothy daily, 
 and it may be you do not perceive the change in 
 her; I, returning after long absence, see that she is 
 not alone wasting bodily, but that there is some 
 disease of the mind." 
 
 236 
 
JStotber IRene' 237 
 
 " Nay, my son, we have observed the change; it 
 has deeply troubled us. We have done what we 
 could for her bodily health; but we know well that 
 there is a sickness of soul that we cannot touch, for 
 she has refused continually to confide to us the 
 cause. We fear that this persistent refusal hides 
 some wrong-doing in her past. We have pleaded 
 with her most gently; but she will tell us nothing." 
 
 Rene was silent. He knew that the Superior's 
 grave air always gave Dorothy the impression that 
 he was displeased with her. 
 
 Ragueneau went on, " We desire to make her 
 life more tolerable. She has been delicately nurt- 
 ured; were it possible we would shield her from 
 hardship; but that cannot be. She is surrounded 
 by famine and despair, and she must bear her part. 
 Monsieur Couture tells us that she does the work 
 assigned to her, is never wilful, but that her words 
 are few; that she appears to live in a world apart 
 from this place; that her one desire is to be alone." 
 
 '' Father, permit me to visit her. She has a 
 friendship for me. It may be in my power to cheer 
 her." 
 
 Father Ragueneau hesitated. He remembered 
 his former anxiety regarding Dorothy's fascina- 
 tions. But, after some consideration, he gave per- 
 mission. 
 
 In the evening Le Breton arrived at the lodge 
 with a gift of venison for Madame Couture. She 
 
238 xrbe IRomance ot a Jesuit /IDtsslon 
 
 had gone to the Indian village, her aged mother 
 was dozing in the next room, and the children were 
 asleep. 
 
 Dorothy opened the door. She received the 
 young man politely, but as indifferently as if he had 
 not returned after a long absence. 
 
 " With your permission, Sister Dorothy," he 
 said, " I will come in and tell you something of my 
 adventures since we met." 
 
 " I thank you. Monsieur le Breton; but do you 
 not remember the Superior does not allow me to 
 receive visits? " 
 
 " I have come here with his consent. If I remain 
 at the fort I will come many times if it is agreeable 
 to you. Sister Dorothy." 
 
 She did not answer for a few moments; then she 
 said in a listless voice, " You are kind; it will please 
 me to see you; yet you will find me but dull; when 
 I would converse, I scarce remember what words I 
 would use; perchance I have thought much, and 
 my mind has grown too weary, for now I recall with 
 difficulty from hour to hour, and neglect, unwit- 
 tingly, the work that I should do." 
 
 'Toor child, poor little Sister Dorothy; you have 
 been without a companion; your life has been too 
 dreary; some recreation may brighten it. You 
 will walk with me. I will draw you on a sledge on 
 the ice. You will grow strong again, and smile 
 again." 
 
Brotbet 1Rene 239 
 
 " Ah, Brother Rene, I fear not. Would that I 
 could, in return for your kindness! At one time I 
 could make an appearance of happiness; now, I 
 have not even strength for that. But I thank you 
 from my heart.'* 
 
 But the next day, when Dorothy returned from 
 an outing with Rene and the Couture children, 
 there was a little color in her face and more life in 
 her voice. 
 
 One evening, he showed her a miniature of his 
 mother. She held it in her hand, and looked at it 
 long. " Ah, she is sweet, her face so full of mother 
 love! You miss her. You hope for the day when 
 you may see her once more.'' 
 
 " I do, I long for it," he said, with much feeling. 
 He looked at her, as if to ask, " Do you not long to 
 see those who are dear to you? " 
 
 She answered the questioning look. " I wore 
 about my neck a chain, from which hung the pict- 
 ure of my — of the one whom I had always called 
 mother; but that, with all the gifts I had from her, 
 was taken from me. O, it was cruel, I loved it so; 
 but they could not take her from my heart." 
 
 " Did your own mother die in your infancy? " he 
 asked abruptly, and the next moment regretted 
 the words, for Dorothy looked startled, and her 
 face grew paler. " I — have no recollection of her. 
 I — was left — motherless when I was a babe. But — 
 mother — I knew not till she lay dead that she was 
 
240 ubc IRomance of a Jesuit /nMsston 
 
 not my own mother — was tender to me as if I had 
 been her own child; too tender, it may be. She 
 spared me all knowledge of the evil of the world, 
 shielded me from all that could hurt me. Ah me, 
 how I have longed to lay my head on her breast, to 
 tell her all that has come to me since she left me; 
 then I cry out on myself for the thought, ' She is 
 happy; how dare you wish that she should have 
 knowledge of your misery? ' " 
 
 She hid her face in her hands. Rene's eyes were 
 blinded by tears. He laid his hand gently on the 
 bov/ed head. " Had you no one of your own kin- 
 dred, or no friend? " 
 
 " Of my own kin I know not one." 
 " But friends, had you no friends? " 
 " I had — one friend." She laid her head on the 
 table, and was unmindful of Rene's presence. Pres- 
 ently she moaned out some words that he did not 
 hear distinctly. Then came a cry that seemed to 
 be wrung from her heart, and he thought that it 
 was, " O, Leon, Leon! " 
 
 He believed now, beyond doubting, that she 
 loved De Charolais. 
 
 She seemed unconscious that she had said the 
 name, and when she raised her head, she said brok- 
 enly, " I had one friend. Brother Rene, one who 
 loved me, one vv^hom I love now and will love for- 
 ever. But we were parted, forbidden to see each 
 other, to speak together again. Ah, Brother 
 Rene, life has been hard, very hard for me." 
 
^Brotber 1Rcnc 241 
 
 " I know it, I know it, my poor little Sister 
 Dorothy." 
 
 " Even beside her dead body, they said such false, 
 such cruel words. And it seemed to me that she 
 must hear and suffer for me, as if the dear, mute lips 
 must open and plead." 
 
 From the crisp snow without, they heard the 
 footfalls of M. Couture and his wife. " Brother 
 Rene," said Dorothy hastily, " promise me, prom- 
 ise me solemnly, you will never, never, repeat to 
 any one, not to a priest in the confessional, what I 
 have said. I had not meant to say it." 
 
 Rene promised, and kept his word. That even- 
 ing, when he was alone with the Superior, he 
 showed so much emotion when Dorothy's name 
 was mentioned that Ragueneau's anxiety was 
 again aroused for the young man's sake. 
 
 Since he had become the keeper of a part of 
 Dorothy's secret, he believed himself to be deeply 
 in love with her. The very fact of her devotion to 
 another made his feeling the keener. He told him- 
 self that he desired Dorothy's happiness, yet he 
 had an underlying and melancholy satisfaction in 
 the belief that his rival's pledge to a priestly life and 
 the determination of others to hold him to that 
 pledge put the probability of her union with him 
 out of the question. He grew pale, encouraged a 
 pathetic expression, and the Superior had under 
 consideration a plan to send him away again from 
 the presence of the siren. 
 
242 Ube IRomance of a Jesuit /BMseion 
 
 But an unlooked-for event changed Rene from 
 a sighing and hopeless suitor to an ecstatic lover, 
 though he found some difficulty in adjusting him- 
 self to his new role. Three of the men who had 
 gone to the French settlements in the autumn with 
 Bressani and his party returned at this time, bring- 
 ing with them many documents for the Fathers and 
 the Frenchmen at the fort. The Superior was re- 
 lieved by the information that De Charolais had 
 been sent to France. The Frenchmen at the fort 
 received letters that had been many months on 
 their way. To Le Breton came one from his father. 
 It announced that the lady of his heart had at last 
 discovered that she had been mistaken in her feel- 
 ings, that her true love had been really given to 
 Rene. She had communicated this discovery to 
 her father, who had conferred with Rene's father, 
 and all would be satisfactorily arranged if Rene 
 would return as soon as possible. The young lady 
 had a will of her own, and had refused to give her 
 consent to a marriage that had been arranged for 
 her. Yet Rene's joy was not unmingled with some 
 pain. The thought of parting from Dorothy gave 
 him some severe twinges. As affairs had turned, he 
 was thankful that she had averted his open declara- 
 tion to her. He congratulated himself on his con- 
 stancy to his first love. He would be able with a 
 good conscience to tell her he had always been true 
 to her. He really persuaded himself that he had. 
 
3Btotber IRene' 243 
 
 and that his feeling for Dorothy had been but a 
 passing ripple on the deep current of his affections. 
 He was much concerned, however, as to what Doro- 
 thy might think. He was aware that he had said 
 many things to her which would naturally lead her 
 to the belief that he had more than a brotherly af- 
 fection for her; but perhaps she would divine the 
 truth, that such words were but the outcome of 
 his chivalrous pity and tenderness for her. He 
 hoped she would look at it in this way, for he did not 
 wish to fall in her estimation; he knew she had but 
 a poor opinion of men who were fickle in love. 
 When he told her, she congratulated him and 
 roused herself to more interest than he had seen in 
 her since his return. But she was perplexed. His 
 w^ords to her on their arrival on the island in the 
 previous spring had not sounded as would words of 
 the faithful and despairing lover of another woman; 
 she tried to persuade herself that sorrow had drawn 
 him to her, and that his sympathy for her, the need 
 of sympathy for himself, had called forth utter- 
 ances that appeared to convey more than he had 
 intended. 
 
 " Ah, little Sister Dorothy," he said pensively. 
 " Am I selfish in my joy when I must leave you to 
 your sorrow and hopelessness? " 
 
 " Brother Rene, do not grieve for that. Truly, 
 truly, I rejoice with you. And — also — it brings to 
 me — some hope.'* 
 
244 TLbc IRomance of a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 What could she mean? He debated on her words 
 in his mind, and said absently, what he had not in- 
 tended for her ears, " Hope, what hope? Will he 
 not be a priest? " 
 
 She looked at him questioningly, and he colored. 
 Both were silent for some time; then Dorothy said 
 quietly, without emotion, " Brother Rene, I know 
 the Superior had reason for anger on that night 
 when I left the island; yet he appeared so deeply 
 displeased when I returned with Brother Leon de 
 Charolais. Brother Leon will be a priest. It would 
 seem that the Reverend Father should have been 
 well satisfied to find me in his care." 
 
 Rene knew she had spoken in reply to his ex- 
 clamation. Her coolness surprised him. Was she 
 acting? 
 
XXVIII 
 
 Hban&onment of tbe Iburon /©fssion 
 
 Returning spring brought little hope to the 
 starving multitudes on the island. The spring fish- 
 eries began, and the melting snow uncovered the 
 acorns in the woods; but along the mainland the 
 Iroquois were on the track of their prey. Some of 
 the Hurons chose to face this peril rather than death 
 by starvation. A number set out to cross the ice; 
 but, softened by the spring sun, it gave way, and 
 many were drowned. Those who reached the 
 shore divided into companies of from ten to one 
 hundred persons, and began their fishing. But the 
 watching Iroquois, who had made their way 
 through ice and snow from the towns in Central 
 New York, surprised and surrounded them, and 
 hunted down fugitives from the bands so persist- 
 ently that, of the numbers who had gone to the 
 mainland, the Jesuits knew of but one who escaped. 
 
 Their hearts were further bowed in grief by the 
 news that Charles Garnier had been murdered early 
 in the winter at St. Jean by the Iroquois; and that 
 Noel Chabanel, on his way to Isle St. Joseph, in 
 obedience to an order from the Superior, had been 
 
 245 
 
246 zbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtssion 
 
 killed in the woods by a renegade Huron. Brebeuf 
 had been called the lion of the Huron mission, and 
 Garnier the lamb. '' But the lamb was as fearless 
 as the lion." 
 
 Before leaving Sainte Marie on the Wye to go 
 to his post in the Tobacco Nation, Chabanel had 
 written to his brother in France to regard him as a 
 victim destined for the fires of the Iroquois. He 
 declared that, although naturally timid, he had be- 
 come wholly indifferent; and believed that only a 
 superhuman power could have wrought such a 
 change in him. 
 
 When he had been beset with temptations to beg 
 for a recall from the mission, he had made this vow: 
 
 " My Lord Jesus Christ, who, in the admirable 
 disposition of Thy paternal providence, hast willed 
 that I, although most unworthy, should be a co- 
 laborer with the holy apostles in this vineyard of 
 the Hurons, I, Noel Chabanel, impelled by the de- 
 sire of fulfilling Thy holy will in advancing the con- 
 version of the savages of this land to Thy faith, do 
 vow, in the presence of the most holy sacrament of 
 Thy precious body and blood, which is God's taber- 
 nacle among men, to remain perpetually attached 
 to this mission of the Hurons, understanding all 
 things according to the interpretation and disposal 
 of the Superiors of the Society of Jesus. Therefore 
 I entreat thee to receive me as the perpetual servant 
 of this mission, and to render me worthy of so sub- 
 lime a ministry. Amen." 
 
Ubc fUbisBion HbanDone& 247 
 
 So he sealed his vow with his blood, and rejoiced 
 to give up his Hfe for the faith. 
 
 The missionaries could see no prospect of any 
 improvement in the condition of the islanders; and 
 the massacre of their companions on the mainland 
 increased the despondency of the Hurons. The In- 
 dians held a council and resolved to abandon 
 Ahoendoe. Some would disperse in the remote, 
 inaccessible forests; others would seek a refuge in 
 the Grand Manitoulin Island; some would try to 
 reach the Andastes, and others would be willing to 
 find safety in adoption and incorporation with the 
 Iroquois. 
 
 Amid all this perplexity and distress, some hearts 
 were glad. Victor Caradeuc's absence had served 
 to turn his thoughts from Dorothy to his old love, 
 Nialona. He had returned with Rene le Breton, 
 and had renewed his suit to Nialona with so much 
 ardor and apparent sincerity that she had relent- 
 ed, and they were to be married at an early date. 
 Washaka had become convinced that Hauteroche 
 had never been true to her, and had accepted the 
 devotion of Jules Venette. The two girls had seen 
 little of Dorothy for many months. Madame Cou- 
 ture's lodge was far from theirs; Dorothy was al- 
 ways accompanied by one of the Couture family; 
 moreover, they had not desired any intercourse 
 with her; so their few meetings had been brief and 
 constrained. But their happiness softened their 
 
248 ubc IRomancc of a Jesutt /BMsalon 
 
 feeling toward her, and Nialona sent her a friendly 
 notice of her betrothal to Caradeuc. 
 
 Rene le Breton was so eager to return to France 
 that he would have willingly taken the risk of a soli- 
 tary journey to the French settlements; but he ac- 
 cepted the advice of the Fathers to await the de- 
 velopment of their plans. 
 
 In May, two of the chiefs asked an interview with 
 the Fathers, and, addressing Ragueneau, begged 
 him to transport the remnant to Quebec, where 
 they would form a church under the protection of 
 the fort. 
 
 The Jesuits were deeply moved. They held 
 many consultations, and, for forty hours, prayed in 
 turn for enlightenment. At last they determined 
 to grant the petition, and try to save the remnant 
 of the Hurons. 
 
 Soon after he heard the news, Caradeuc waited 
 on the Superior, and begged him to consent to his 
 marriage with Nialona before the departure from 
 the island. The Superior promised to consider it, 
 and to give his answer in a day or two. In a short 
 time, Jules Venette appeared, with a plea that he 
 might take Washaka from the island as his wife. 
 On the evening of that day, Nialona sent a message 
 reminding the Superior that it was the Month of 
 Mary; she had heard that the marriages of that 
 month were especially under the protection of the 
 Queen of Heaven; and since she had first thought 
 of marriage she had wished to be married in May. 
 
XTbe /IDiSBton HbanboncD 249 
 
 The Superior saw no good reason for withhold- 
 ing his consent. Kishik was dead, Nialona and 
 Washaka had been hving with a Huron family, and 
 had made many complaints. All present arrange- 
 ments would soon be broken up; to have the two 
 Christian girls under the charge of their proper 
 protectors would relieve the Fathers of much anx- 
 iety. So the consent was given, and a few days 
 later, with as much rejoicing as was possible under 
 the circum.stances, the marriages were solemnized 
 in the chapel, and a marriage feast was held in a 
 grove. Most of the guests wore tattered and 
 scanty clothing; it was long since some of them 
 had eaten a satisfying meal; but a special effort 
 had been made for this occasion; the hunters and 
 fishermen had been active, and no one went away 
 hungry. 
 
 Dorothy, glad to forgive, and be on friendly 
 terms again, had been granted a respite from her 
 duties with the Coutures, and had entered enthu- 
 siastically into the festivities. Her interest in the 
 weddings, and the prospect of a change, gave her 
 new life. 
 
 The missionaries hastened their preparations for 
 departure, lest the Iroquois should learn of their 
 purpose and lie in wait. On the loth of June, they 
 began their voyage, with all their French followers, 
 and about three hundred Hurons. 
 
 " It was not, without tears," wrote Ragueneau, 
 " that we left the country of our hopes and our 
 
250 ube IRomance of a Jesuit /l&lssion 
 
 hearts, where our brethren had gloriously shed 
 their blood." 
 
 The canoes made their way along the shores 
 where, two years before, one of the chief savage 
 communities of the continent had been settled. 
 Now all was death and desolation. They steered 
 northward, along the eastern coast of the Georgian 
 Bay, till they reached Lake Nipissing. In all direc- 
 tions, they found traces of the Iroquois. The ashes 
 of burnt wigwams showed where the Algonquins 
 had dwelt on its shores; and, farther on, there was 
 a deserted fort built of trees, where the Iroquois, 
 who had caused this desolation, had spent the win- 
 ter. SoHtude reigned along the Ottawa; for the 
 Algonquins of Allumette Island and the adjacent 
 shores had all been killed or driven away. 
 
 '' When I came up this great river, only thirteen 
 years ago," wrote Ragueneau, 'T found it bordered 
 with Algonquin tribes, who knew no God and, in 
 their infidelity, thought themselves gods on earth; 
 for they had all they desired, abundance of fish and 
 game, and a prosperous trade with alHed nations; 
 besides, they were the terror of their enemies. But 
 since they have embraced the Faith and adored the 
 Cross of Christ He has given them a heavy share in 
 this cross, and made them a prey to misery, torture, 
 and a cruel death. Our only consolation is that, 
 as they died Christians, they have a part in the in- 
 heritance of the true children of God, who scourg- 
 eth every one whom He receiveth." 
 
XXIX 
 Dototb^ in peril 
 
 Dorothy travelled in the canoe with the Couture 
 family; but when the canoes landed anywhere for 
 the night she met Nialona and other Huron 
 women and helped in the preparation for encamp- 
 ment. 
 
 One evening, when they were descending the 
 Ottawa River, they went ashore for the night, and 
 chose a pleasant grove for the camp. Dorothy, 
 with a number of Huron women and some boys, 
 went into the woods to gather brushwood for the 
 fires. Washaka accompanied them. Since her 
 marriage she had assumed dictatorial airs toward 
 the unmarried or the wives of Hurons. She de- 
 sired them to address her as Madame Venette. 
 
 She appreciated the fact that marriage with a 
 Frenchman had given her a superior position. In 
 one respect, her Huron sisters had cause to envy 
 her, for even the Christianized Hurons retained 
 their savage custom — which neither counsel nor 
 command of the missionaries had been able to re- 
 move — ^of requiring their women to do the most ar- 
 
 251 
 
252 Zbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDiseton 
 
 duous work. Washaka stood apart and dictated 
 or reproved, and Dorothy, partly for the sake of 
 peace, and also because she was secretly amused, 
 followed her directions. 
 
 Washaka sat on a mound; the women were to 
 return to her with their bundles, and all would go 
 together to the grove. A few moments after they 
 had left her she heard hurrying footsteps, and 
 Dorothy, with young Bernard Gautier, came to- 
 ward her with empty arms. 
 
 " What, have you brought nothing? '* she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " Washaka, in a marshy place, we came upon 
 many footprints! They are freshly made! They 
 are not of our people! " 
 
 Washaka sprang up. " Come, haste back to the 
 camp! " 
 
 " Nay, but we must warn the others, the women, 
 the little boys. I go with Bernard to seek Mita- 
 sog and those with him. Haste you there " — she 
 pointed in the direction where a number of women 
 had gone — " tell them, bring them with you to the 
 camp." 
 
 " Where is your sense? " cried Washaka impa- 
 tiently. " Let them see for themselves. Shall we 
 be caught in a trap? I go to the camp." 
 
 So saying, she turned in the direction of the 
 camp, and ran. 
 
 Dorothy was terrified, but she would not desert 
 
Dorotb^ in peril 253 
 
 her friends. " Go, Bernard, you your way, I mine. 
 Ere long we may find them." 
 
 Bernard hesitated. The boy adored Dorothy. 
 It was terrible to him to leave her without his pro- 
 tection; but he knew that duty called him to warn 
 the women and children of the danger. They had 
 rashly gone a long distance from the camp. By the 
 time Washaka could give the alarm there, and re- 
 turn with guards, it might be too late. So Dorothy 
 and Bernard parted hurriedly, and went on their 
 separate ways in search of their friends. 
 
 Dorothy went to the east, Bernard to the west. 
 They knew not where their foes, if foes they were, 
 might lurk, but they went on firmly, though each 
 trembled. Perhaps the women and children had 
 separated; that would increase their difficulties. 
 
 Dorothy presently came to many tracks, appar- 
 ently those of their own party, in the soft ground, 
 and followed them. She heard happy voices in the 
 distance, and recognized them. But before she 
 drew near her friends she saw a man coming in a 
 direction which would presently cause him to cross 
 her path. She crept under some low, thickly grow- 
 ing bushes, and waited. She thought he had not 
 seen her, for at the moment when she caught sight 
 of him his head was turned. He was within a few 
 yards of her when he came on the trail of her peo- 
 ple. He examined the footprints carefully, then 
 turned quickly, and went back in the direction 
 
254 Ubc IRoinance ot a Jesuit /HMssion 
 
 whence he had come. He was alone, he could not 
 risk an encounter with numbers. As soon as he was 
 at a sufficient distance, Dorothy crept from her 
 hiding place, and ran forward on the trail. Before 
 long, she saw Mitasog with some women and chil- 
 dren. They had made up their bundles and were 
 returning. 
 
 She held up her hand in warning, and then put it 
 to her Hps. They understood the gesture of silence, 
 and lowered their voices. The sun was low, and, 
 though the June day is long, the light in the woods 
 was dim. They could not see how white her face 
 was until she was beside them. Then in her joy at 
 being with friends, she swayed, and Mitasog put 
 out his arm to hold her. 
 
 '' We must haste home," she gasped. *' There 
 are many footprints of strange people. I have 
 seen a man who is not of our party. He has come 
 on our trail. He has gone for his comrades. Mita- 
 sog, must we return that way? Or is it possible for 
 you to guide us back by another path? " 
 
 Mitasog hesitated. Should they return by the 
 way they had come they might walk into the arms 
 of the enemy awaiting them. Yet by striking 
 through the woods in a new direction they might 
 wander far, and be long in finding the camp. 
 
 They consulted hurriedly, and decided to try the 
 new way, trusting that Bernard and his party would 
 do the same, and not attempt to join them. 
 
Dototb^ In peril 255 
 
 "We must keep near together," said Dorothy; 
 " for darkness comes fast.'* 
 
 They hastened on; but saw no sign of the open 
 space beyond the woods in which their camp had 
 been estabhshed; far as their eyes could pierce 
 there was an endless succession of trees. There was 
 a bend in the river a little way beyond the camp, 
 of which they knew nothing, and they had gone 
 considerably below the direct line to the tents. 
 
 Abwi, one of the women, laid her hand on Mita- 
 sog's arm. " Hark! they follow! " 
 
 They paused but a moment before Mitasog*s 
 keen ear discerned the tramp of many feet. 
 
 He held up his hand for silence, '' Go on. I wait, 
 I look, then I tell you." 
 
 He went back a few yards, and peered in the di- 
 rection of the sound. Though it was dark he 
 could see that those who followed were all men. 
 The hope that it was Bernard and his party was 
 dispelled. It was unlikely that any of their own 
 people would come to them from that direction. 
 He could not afford to take chances. He hastened 
 to the group. " It is dark. I see not clear. There 
 be many. Are they friends? Would they not call 
 tons? They are silent; run, for life. Run side by 
 side." 
 
 They ran, as he had directed; but some outran 
 others; the trees grew so thickly, there were so 
 many fallen ones, and there was so much under- 
 
256 Zbc IRomancc ot a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 brush in the way, that it was impossible to run side 
 by side. Dorothy had not strength to keep the 
 pace of her companions. Her heart beat fast, her 
 breath came with difficulty, there was a sharp pain 
 in her chest. She felt as if she should suffocate,, 
 and knew she could not go on. Her only safety 
 was in hiding before the pursuers came too near, 
 so she crept aside and under a heap of logs, and 
 waited trembling. 
 
 The others went on. If they knew she had 
 dropped behind, they knew they dare not wait for 
 her. She heard the tramp of feet as the men passed 
 her. She was safe for the time at least. They had 
 gone in pursuit of the party. 
 
 In a few moments she heard a woman's shrill 
 cries and the shouts of men. She believed they had 
 captured Panasawa, who had sprained her foot 
 some weeks before, and had several times fallen 
 back in the race. The cries continued, and came 
 nearer. Dorothy crept to the edge of her thicket 
 and peered out. Two men were returning with a 
 girl and a little boy. It was so dark now that she 
 could not see the girl's face clearly; but she recog- 
 nized Panasawa's voice, and believed that the boy 
 was her brother, Nigik. 
 
 The boy was in front of his captor, and did not 
 attempt to escape; he was evidently aware that 
 submission to his fate was the wiser course. But 
 from time to time he gave a howl of pain when the 
 savage kicked or pinched him by way of diversion. 
 
Dorotb^ in peril 257 
 
 The poor girl was struggling* desperately, at 
 which the man who held her laughed in a deep, gut- 
 tural tone. More than once he released his hold, 
 and she attempted to run from him, only to be 
 caught again. "Alas, alas! unhappy Panasawa," 
 moaned Dorothy to herself. She had no hope that 
 the captors would be overtaken by the Frenchmen 
 or Hurons. Panasawa would be carried far away 
 by the savages, and no doubt would be compelled 
 to become the wife of one of them. It was un- 
 likely that they would put her to death or torture 
 her. The boy was a fine little fellow; they would 
 adopt him into their tribe. But would not Pana- 
 sawa rather die than be carried away from her own 
 people, and from Wenenkin, whom she loved? 
 
 The cries died in the distance, and Dorothy crept 
 a little way from her retreat, ready to dart in again 
 at the first sound. She listened long, not daring 
 to creep out. It seemed to her that night was far 
 advanced before she heard voices and footsteps, 
 and men went hurriedly past. It was too dark now 
 to recognize by their appearance if they were 
 friends or foes; but she knew by their voices that 
 they were not her own people. She thought their 
 numbers had decreased. They were hurrying so 
 that she had some hope the Frenchmen were in 
 pursuit; but s'he waited long and saw no one. 
 
 What if her people, beheving that she had been 
 captured, had broken up the camp, and were nov/ 
 
258 Ubc IRomance of a Sesutt /HMsston 
 
 far down the river? If they had learned that there 
 was a large encampment of the enemy in the neigh- 
 borhood, they dare not wait. She must not lie 
 there and lose all chance of rescue. She grew des- 
 perate, and crept from her hiding place. She saw 
 no one, heard no sound. While she had lain under 
 the logs, a snake had darted over her hand, and she 
 had touched a soft, furry thing, probably a squirrel, 
 that had run from her. The horror of lying in that 
 place was almost as great as the fear of venturing 
 forth. She followed the trail, peering in the dark- 
 ness to find the steps, and, ere long, came upon an 
 open space where dead bodies lay. There had been 
 a fight in the woods; her people had met the sav- 
 ages. There were neither women nor children 
 there; probably they had escaped. It was lighter 
 in the clearing, and she saw one white face. When 
 she stooped she recognized a French soldier, Louis 
 le Due. So far as she could see, there was no other 
 Frenchman. But she feared to remain in that place 
 of horror. She heard no moan of the wounded. 
 All were dead. 
 
 She followed the trail through the forest till she 
 came to the river. She saw its gleaming before 
 she reached it. But there was no camp, no canoe, 
 no sign of life. She was alone in the wilderness! 
 
 The discovery overcame her; she sank on the 
 ground, and lay for a brief time in blissful uncon- 
 sciousness. With returning sense came the horror 
 
Dototb^ in peril 259 
 
 of her situation. She rose and ran to the bank, 
 looked up and down, and saw no one. But it was a 
 winding river at this place; beyond that deep bend 
 she might find her people. She ran on, hoping, 
 fearing. In the dim hght of the open country, the 
 scattered trees, waving in the wind, took human 
 shape. 
 
 Presently, before her, on the ground, she saw a 
 withing form. She stood still, unable to move. 
 At first, she could not make out whether it was a 
 wild beast or a human being. 
 
 A hand was raised. It was a man ; but he did not 
 rise. He had seen her, had evidently motioned to 
 her. Had he wished to do her harm he might 
 easily have caug'ht her. It occurred to her that he 
 was wounded. She went, trembhng, a few steps 
 nearer, and he uttered something in a guttural 
 voice that she did not understand. He began to 
 drag himself slowly toward her, moving forward by 
 the aid of one arm, so that she was convinced that 
 he was badly hurt. When he came near enough to 
 see her face, he shrank back. He had never seen a 
 white woman, and was terrified. She went up to 
 him, and spoke to him gently. A trail of blood was 
 behind him, and he was still bleeding from wounds 
 in one arm and his side. 
 
 She was roughly dressed in a hempen garment 
 that had been made in the wilderness. She had no 
 linen with which to bind his wounds, but she tried 
 
26o ube IRomance of a Sesutt /iDisston 
 
 to stanch the blood by tearing off strips from a 
 woollen petticoat that she wore, though the June 
 day had been warm. She succeeded in binding 
 up the arm so as to reduce the flow of blood, then 
 ran down to the river, and came back with as much 
 water as she could carry in her hands. He drank 
 it gratefully, and she returned for more. For a 
 short time, in ministering to him, she lost the 
 sense of her own danger. But it came upon her 
 again, and she pointed to the distance with her 
 hand, to make him understand that she must leave 
 him. He held her dress, but she pulled it gently 
 from him, and he was too weak to resist. 
 
 As she ran along the bank, looking vainly for 
 her companions, three men sprang from a thicket. 
 With a wild cry, she jumped into the river, which 
 was not deep in that spot. She expected them to 
 follow her instantly; but they stood on the bank 
 irresolute, as if transfixed with wonder. There 
 flashed across her mind a recollection of the awe 
 with which the Hurons had at first gazed at her; 
 perhaps they thought she was some supernatural 
 being. She hastened down the stream, but was 
 soon aware that they were following her. She 
 shrieked wildly for help. Some one of her own 
 might hear. But the men were almost behind her! 
 
 She struggled desperately on, but it appeared to 
 her that she was not moving. She tried to scream 
 again, but her voice, as in a nightmare, would make 
 
Borotb^ in ©eril 261 
 
 no sound. Then she plunged suddenly into deep 
 water. She had gone over a shoal, and felt her- 
 self sinking. She knew how to swim, but seemed 
 unable to move, to help herself. A man seized 
 her, her senses forsook her, and she struggled no 
 more. 
 
 After awhile she had a dim consciousness of 
 shouts, angry voices, and a clash of arms; but it 
 seemed as something far away. 
 
 When she came to herself, she realized that dawn 
 was breaking, that she was lying in a canoe, and 
 that someone was paddling rapidly. She dreaded 
 to open her eyes, for, though her senses were 
 dimmed, she recalled the events of the night suf- 
 ficiently to turn her cold vv^ith horror. 
 
 She heard voices, and they came to her ear with 
 a familiar sound. Surely the speaker was Rene le 
 Breton. Was it possible that all that had passed 
 had been but a terrible dream? Her head was 
 resting on something soft. Would the savages 
 be so kind to her? She opened her eyes and looked, 
 and in her joy she almost became unconscious 
 again, for her companions were one of the priests, 
 Rene and Bernard Gautier. 
 
 She gave a little cry of joy, and tried to raise her- 
 self; but fell back. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Dorothee," cried Bernard joy- 
 fully, " O, she is recovering! She will not die.'* 
 
 " Did I dream? " she asked. " Did no savagfes 
 
262 zbc IRomance of a Jeeutt /iDtsston 
 
 pursue us? Have I been in a fever and raved? Or 
 was it true? " 
 
 " It was true," said Bernard. " You were lost. 
 We had sought you in vain. Some were hopeless; 
 they believed you had been carried far away; that 
 to seek further would be useless; the women, the 
 children, must be carried to a place of safety. They 
 went on down the river. We and others remained 
 to search. We had heard voices of the men on the 
 bank. We were in hiding in our canoe 'neath over- 
 hanging trees. When we heard your cries we 
 made no answer, but darted forth and rescued 
 you." 
 
 " The Indians, where are they? " 
 
 *' The three who pursued you lie dead," said 
 Rene. " Nibishi and Kidjatik were not far from us, 
 and they came to our help. They hastened to the 
 rest to announce your safety. We hope soon to 
 reach them, then we must all haste on together. 
 We dare not stop to rest, to eat, for who knows 
 whether a large force may not be encamped behind 
 us." 
 
 " Are all safe? " asked Dorothy anxiously. 
 
 Rene did not answer. 
 
 " Tell me, I must know. How many have we 
 lost?" 
 
 " Five Huron men and Louis le Due in the fight 
 in the woods," answered Bernard. " The other 
 men are safe." 
 
Dorotb^ In peril 263 
 
 "And the women? " 
 
 " The women, the children, whom I sought are 
 safe," said Bernard. 
 
 " But of those wdiom I warned two were taken, a 
 woman and a boy. Was it Panasawa? Was Nigik 
 with her? Were they rescued again? " 
 
 No one answered, and Dorothy knew what their 
 silence meant. 
 
 " We sought long," said the priest. " Gladly 
 would we have roamed the woods and given our 
 lives, if need be, for their safety. But that would 
 have been madness. We have many helpless wom- 
 en, little children, feeble old people with us. We 
 dare not expose all to danger of death or captivity 
 for the two, though we have dearly loved the two. 
 Should part of our force remain, both divisions 
 would be too weak to resist attack. Our hearts 
 were torn; yet we must go on, and leave them to 
 their fate." 
 
 Dorothy moaned. She understood the neces- 
 sity; but it seemed terrible. 
 
 The priest crossed himself. " The hand of God 
 is in it. Panasawa is a Christian. The truths that 
 she has learned she will teach her captors. Even the 
 Iroquois, barbarous though they be, do not ill- 
 treat the women captives, unless in the rage for 
 blood in time of battle. Do not grieve for her. 
 We will pray for her continually that she may have 
 grace to testify for the Faith, and lead her captors 
 as captives for Christ and the Cross*" 
 
264 Ubc IRomance of a Jesuit /flMsslon 
 
 Dorothy sighed, and covered her face. Pan- 
 asawa was at least as far advanced in civilization as 
 Washaka, and she had a finer nature. She had been 
 surrounded by as much refinement as was possible 
 in that wilderness; the gross habits of the savages 
 would be repellent to her; her lot was hard. 
 
 Presently she remembered the wounded man 
 whom she had left on the bank. She raised her- 
 self, and told the story. *' Did you find him? Is 
 he dead?'' 
 
 " We found him," said the priest. " He was dy- 
 ing. While Monsieur le Breton sought to restore 
 you, I baptized the man. He understood me, and 
 seemed willing and grateful. The others also, 
 those whose lives we were compelled to take to 
 save yours, were baptized before they breathed 
 their last, and I commended their souls to God. 
 Grieve not, but rather rejoice. From a brief pain 
 here they passed to an eternity of bliss; for may 
 we not hope that from them, who sinned in their 
 ignorance, the pains of purgatory have been with- 
 held? " 
 
 " Hark," cried Bernard, " I hear the voice of 
 Monsieur Caradeuc. Our friends are at hand." 
 
 And in a few moments, rounding a bend of the 
 river, they came in sight of the fleet of canoes. 
 
XXX 
 
 Bn TUneipecteO IDtsitor 
 
 The sunlight sparkling on the rippling water, the 
 foliage waving in the soft June air, the birds sing- 
 ing from the shore, spoke only of life and joy, and 
 appeared to Dorothy in pitiful contrast with the 
 horrors of the previous day. She had been trans- 
 ferred to the canoe of Nialona and Caradeuc; with 
 the lively Couture children she would have had no 
 opportunity to rest. She lay, dozing, and awaking 
 in nervous tremor. Nialona, too, was sad; but 
 many seemed to have already forgotten Panasawa, 
 and to have no thought of danger. Not a sign of 
 the enemy was seen, and the missionaries and war- 
 riors hoped that the force had been small, and that 
 the band had retreated, not daring to venture with- 
 in sight again. 
 
 Since the time of the destruction of St. Louis, 
 more than a year before, there had been unremit- 
 ting watchfulness against an Iroquois attack; every 
 member of the party had lived so long in the pres- 
 ence of danger that it had in a measure lost its ter- 
 ror. True, for the greater part of the time they 
 
 265 
 
266 ZDc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDlsston 
 
 had had the protection of the fort, they were now 
 in an exposed position on the water; yet the peril 
 that might be so near did not sufBce to check 
 youthful gayety. The gloom of starvation and dis- 
 ease that had enveloped them on the island had 
 passed. Before long they would reach a place 
 where they would be abundantly fed, so it was not 
 necessary to hoard so carefully the fast diminishing 
 stores. Besides, as they descended the river, they 
 caught fresh fish in abundance, and from time to 
 time parties of hunters went ashore for game, and 
 joined the fleet farther down. 
 
 At sunset of the day after the attack, the party 
 ventured ashore to encamp for the night. Most of 
 them were very weary, for they had paddled night 
 and day, the men taking short snatches of sleep by 
 turns in the canoes. A large force was detailed to 
 keep watch; but no enemy appeared, and the next 
 day and the day following, they went on without 
 alarm. 
 
 Dorothy began to ask anxiously if they would 
 soon arrive at Quebec. It seemed to her that as 
 they had been so long on the way, they must be 
 near their destination, and it was evident that she 
 had something on her mind. One evening, when 
 the tents were being set up, she sought Rene le 
 Breton. " Monsieur le Breton," she began, 
 '' Brother Rene, I " 
 
 " What troubles you. Sister Dorothy? " he 
 
Hn IHnexpecteb IDtsitot 267 
 
 asked kindly. " You are pale. What has hap- 
 pened? " 
 
 *' Nothing has happened. It is but that — I 
 would speak with the Superior — before — we arrive 
 in the white settlement — I will inform him. I have 
 withheld it from him. I must tell him now. And 
 — Brother Rene, I am afraid." 
 
 He smiled, but there was sympathy in the smile. 
 '' I perceive you are afraid, little Sister Dorothy, 
 but do not fear, he will not be harsh with you. Is 
 it some foolish thing you have done? You are very 
 young. He will remember that." 
 
 *' I — I cannot see that I did wrong; but I know 
 not what he will think. I go to him to plead with 
 him not to give me up — to " 
 
 " Shall I find him, and bring him to you; or, if he 
 is alone, take you to him? " 
 
 She gasped. Her timidity was pitiful. Rene 
 could not understand why she had always held the 
 Superior in such dread. He did not know how she, 
 who had rarely heard a harsh word in her early 
 years, had been intimidated by cruelty and injus- 
 tice, so that there were few whom she did not fear. 
 
 " Yes, go, go to him quickly, while I have deter- 
 mined that I will do it." 
 
 He returned presently. " The Superior will see 
 you at once. Come with me." 
 
 As they went, he saw her color come and go. 
 He caught her hand, and held it in his strong 
 
268 XTbc IRomance of a Jesuit /IDtsslon 
 
 grasp, as an assurance of sympathy. It was such a 
 slender, deHcate hand. '' Poor Uttle Dorothy, be 
 brave," he said softly. 
 
 " I will," she answered resolutely. 
 
 But when she stood in Father Ragueneau's pres- 
 ence, all her resolution seemed to desert her again, 
 and she gave Rene an appealing glance, as if to beg 
 him not to leave her. He would gladly have re- 
 mained, but he knew he must go; so he bowed and 
 went away, without another word. 
 
 '' Be seated, my daughter," said Ragueneau. 
 The seat was but a log, and the roof a maple-tree. 
 
 Dorothy obeyed, but said nothing. 
 
 " You wished to see me, my child. You have 
 something to tell me." 
 
 " I have. Father." She hesitated, then plunged 
 in desperately. " Father, if, if you should find that 
 — that someone wanted to marry me " 
 
 She stopped again, Ragueneau's face had grown 
 stern. He believed she had come to make a plea 
 for Leon, whom she expected to meet in Quebec. 
 
 " O, Father, do not be angry with me. If — if 
 you forsake me, to whom shall I look for help? 
 Surely you would not give me up to him, to them? 
 You could not think it right that I should be forced 
 to marry against my v/ill? " 
 
 " Forced to marry against your will, child! Has 
 any man here dared to make you believe that? " 
 
 " No, no, not here. It was — to escape marriage 
 
Hn xanexpectet) IDtsttot 269 
 
 — that I fled. Father, do not blame me. I had been 
 parted from all I loved — the sea between me and 
 those who lived — the grave holding those whom 
 death had taken. In a strange land, without one 
 true friend — they — they Who said they were my 
 protectors — sought to compel me to marry one 
 whose very voice made me shudder. Father, I 
 could not. Rather would I have died. I — I es- 
 caped — I found refuge with you — do not — do not 
 give me up." 
 
 She had forgotten her fear in her earnestness. 
 She stood before him, her face flushed, her eyes 
 bright, her hands clasped in entreaty. He was 
 much moved; but he said very gravely, " My child, 
 if this story is true, why did you not speak of it long 
 ere this? " 
 
 " Father — I could not. I — feared you would 
 compel me to return to them." 
 
 '' Not if you have indeed told me the exact 
 truth." 
 
 Her face blazed. She drew herself up proudly. 
 " Father, I would not lie. Had I wished to lie to 
 you, to deceive, could I not have woven a tale? 
 Have I ever done so? It is true, true, true." 
 
 " Then, do not fear, my daughter, t'hat we would 
 be in accord with any who would force you to wed 
 unwillingly. The holy sacrament of marriage 
 should be sanctified by mutual love." 
 
 *' I thank you, Father," she said fervently. 
 
2 70 Ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 " Now, tell me further, child- 
 
 His question was cut short. Two Frenchmen 
 burst in. '' Father, footprints, the ashes of fires, 
 have been discovered. The tents have been set 
 up. We are sent to beg you to join in a conference 
 in yonder grove. Shall we embark again? Or shall 
 we venture to remain here for the night? " 
 
 After an anxious consultation, the missionaries 
 and their men decided to remain on land. The 
 search of the scouts in the neighborhood resulted 
 in no more discoveries. By going down the river, 
 they were as likely to come upon the enemy as by 
 remaining where they were. 
 
 Sentries stood guard all night, and there were 
 wakeful eyes and anxious hearts in the tents. Dur- 
 ing the night, the watchers thought they saw forms 
 flitting among the trees, or heard the crackling of 
 branches, but no attack was made. Yet the wily 
 enemy might follow them covertly for days, pre- 
 paring for a more effective assault. 
 
 Moniing dawned balmy and fair. They had 
 breakfasted, and were making ready to break up the 
 camp. Dorothy took up a jar containing boiled 
 maize, which was to serve the Couture children for 
 provision during the day. She had just left the 
 tent, to carry her jar to the Couture canoe, when, 
 not knowing why she did so, she turned to peer 
 into the forest. 
 
 In another moment, those who watched her were 
 
Hn TDtneipecteb Disitor 271 
 
 almost paralyzed with a terror that bade fair to be- 
 come a panic among the women. " The Iroquois! 
 The Iroquois! She sees the Iroquois!" was the 
 thought of all, for she had dashed the vessel on the 
 ground, and stood, eyes staring, arms thrown up- 
 ward, then outstretched, as if her brain had been 
 turned by fear. 
 
 In another moment, the startled expression had 
 changed to ecstasy, and with a cry of joy which 
 those who heard it never forgot, a cry that rang 
 out exultant, and was echoed through the arches 
 of the forest, she darted through the trees that 
 bordered the clearing, " Lion, my Lion! " 
 
 The Superior heard the cry, and hastened to the 
 spot. Frenchmen and Indians, all the Fathers, 
 gathered, and peered to see that strange meeting. 
 
 The Superior heard a young man's voice thrill 
 out, " Dorothy, my darling, my own Dorothy." 
 
 The words were in English, the young man's 
 dress was that of a foreigner; yet Ragueneau was 
 convinced that it was Leon. Had she not called 
 him by name? Her arms were about his neck, and 
 he held her clasped to his heart. The brown head 
 bowed to the fairer one was surely Leon's head. In 
 their joy at meeting, they had been heedless of the 
 authority of the Church, of all the world save them- 
 selves. 
 
 Ragueneau stepped up and laid his hand on the 
 young man's arm with a stern grip, " Leon de 
 Charolais, how have you dared " 
 
2 72 XTbe IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsBion 
 
 The youth still clasped Dorothy, who, laughing 
 and sobbing, hid her face on his breast; but he 
 raised his head, and disclosed a blushing, though 
 unabashed, and happy countenance 
 
 The Superior stepped back in amazement. The 
 brown eyes that looked so frankly into his were 
 like Leon's eyes. In face and figure the man bore a 
 resemblance to Leon, and yet, on nearer view, he 
 differed from him strikingly. 
 
 " Young man, who are you? " 
 
 " My name. Reverend Father, is Godfrey Lyon 
 Dermount. Pardon me for my lack of courtesy. 
 I was unmindful of all save one. Yet had you come 
 suddenly face to face with her whom you loved, 
 from whom you had been separated for dreary 
 years, you, too, might have so forgotten." 
 
 The voice of his Dorothy piped from its nest, 
 " Lion, the Superior is a priest, how could he? " 
 
 The young man laughed, " Ah, I know that the 
 Reverend Father's bride is the Church; he will par- 
 don me that I cannot choose my words with dis- 
 cretion." 
 
 Dorothy escaped from the restraining arm, and 
 revealed a face rosy with blushes, and glorified with 
 joy. 
 
 As they stood there, a company of men appeared 
 from the forest. In that band of strangers, Rague- 
 neau*s party presently recognized familiar faces — 
 two Hurons who had left the Isle of St. Joseph in 
 
Un mneipectet) meitov 273 
 
 the autumn with Bressani. The truth flashed on 
 them. They had waited in vain for the reinforce- 
 ments that Bressani had set out to bring; they had 
 come too late to prevent the abandonment of the 
 mission. 
 
 Presently they saw Bressani's rugged form. He 
 was hastening toward Ragueneau. 
 
 The Superior's eyes were fixed on one who stood 
 apart, with drawn and haggard face. 
 
 Leon de Charolais had witnessed the meeting, 
 and it had cut him to the heart. 
 
XXXI 
 
 %^on'5 Successful Quest 
 
 Bressani, forty well-armed Frenchmen, and the 
 Hurons who had accompanied him in the autumn 
 from Isle St. Joseph, were on their way to the island 
 for the defence of the mission. The missionaries had 
 been unable to send word of its abandonment. 
 When the newcomers saw the footprints of 
 Ragueneau's party, they also feared that enemies 
 were at hand, and kept watch. Early in the morn- 
 ing, a scout from Ragueneau's encampment, who 
 had ventured farther than his companions, came 
 suddenly on a former comrade; there were hurried 
 explanations, and he was taken into Bressani's 
 presence. He informed the leader of the abandon- 
 ment of the mission; and, knowing that danger was 
 not near, remained to breakfast, and then guided 
 the band to the camp of their friends. Godfrey, 
 impatient to meet Dorothy, whom he had not ex- 
 pected to see so soon, and reckless of consequences, 
 went in advance. 
 
 The missionaries held a conference, and decided 
 
 to remain in camp for the day. On the morrow, 
 
 they would start on the return journey. • 
 
 274 
 
%€on*3 Successtitl (^uest 275 
 
 Godfrey and Dorothy wandered together. The 
 Superior's only restriction was that they should not 
 stray too far from the camp. They tried to with- 
 draw from the many curious eyes; but that was no 
 easy matter; and they were too happy to be much 
 disturbed by peering faces. 
 
 Leon was beset by questions, but would reveal 
 nothing. If Dorothy wished to tell her story, they 
 would hear it from her own lips. She had much to 
 say to her lover; but later, he believed, she would 
 find time to talk with her girl friends. 
 
 The Hurons were filled with admiration for the 
 handsome, well-dressed stranger. For months, 
 their soldiers and traders had been clad in such garb 
 as they could manufacture in the wilderness. 
 
 Later in the day, the two young men met the 
 Superior and Father Brecsani in a spot apart. 
 Ragueneau had directed that they should not be 
 disturbed. Godfrey told Dorothy's story up to the 
 time of their separation. He spoke in French, 
 without much difficulty. 
 
 " Have you discovered the secret of her parent- 
 age? Does your father consent to your marriage? " 
 asked the Superior. 
 
 " My father and mother have consented, though 
 we have not learned anything further of her birth. 
 Some day I believe we shall know the truth. And, 
 Reverend Father, I am assured of this — a flower 
 so sweet and pure as my Dorothy never sprang 
 
276 zbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 from evil soil. Whatever the mystery of her par- 
 entage may be, it is not one of sin." 
 
 " I trust you may be right. She is a good girl," 
 said the Superior. 
 
 '* Ah, could you have seen her before sorrow 
 stole the bloom from her cheek! " said the lover 
 rapturously. " She was a rosebud giri then. Yet, 
 methinks, frail lily that she is now, she has a new 
 and wonderful beauty." 
 
 " We shall see the roses bloom again in her fair 
 face," said Bressani. 
 
 " Already I perceive a change," said the Supe- 
 rior. '' Her eye is bright, her step quick; she is 
 transformed. The poor child, why did she refuse 
 to trust us, to confide in us? " 
 
 " She is so sensitive. Father. The cruel slurs on 
 her mother's name, for which no justification can 
 be found; the harshness with which she was treated 
 after the death of her tender foster-mother, her 
 many sorrows, had wounded her so deeply that she 
 could not speak of them. She had been deceived; 
 moreover, she had been forced by threats to take 
 a vow of silence. She dared not speak." 
 
 " Father, that night on the island she told me 
 all," said Leon. " Up to that time, I had had no 
 suspicion of the truth. I besought her to permit 
 me to repeat it to you, but she would not. She had 
 given me her confidence under my promise of se- 
 crecy. When I was on my way to Quebec, the 
 
OLeWs Successful diucst 277 
 
 thought came to me that I might find — him whom 
 she loved. If he were yet faithful, his people, learn- 
 ing how true she had been, how deeply she had suf- 
 fered, might withdraw their ban. In Quebec I heard 
 that far in the wilds a party of English people had 
 been rescued from the Iroquois by a band of con- 
 reurs des bois, and had been conducted in safety to 
 the Enghsh settlements in the south. They said 
 that several of their number had been killed or 
 carried away by the savages, and that one of the 
 captured was a young English girl who had been 
 betrothed to an elderly man of the party. Upon 
 this news, I felt assured that, despite my promise 
 of silence, her safety required that I acquaint Father 
 Bressani with her story. I did so, and he most 
 strictly cautioned the men who had accompanied 
 us to utter no word concerning the white stranger 
 at the mission; for who could tell whether the story 
 might not be carried by some wanderer to the set- 
 tlements of the south. 
 
 " I crossed the seas with documents for our Gen- 
 eral. When I had delivered all messages from the 
 mission, and received his instructions, I told him 
 the story of her whom we had sheltered, and be- 
 sought his aid. He was much interested, and dis- 
 covered for me that the family of Dermount is 
 noble and well known in England, and, with his 
 consent, and under his directions, I set out to seek 
 Godfrey Dermount of the Manor of St. Basil. 
 
278 Ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /BMsston 
 
 " On a winter's day I approached the gates, and 
 saw a young man standing in the gate- way. He 
 had been about to set forth; but, perceiving me, 
 had awaited my coming. His face was pale and sad, 
 and his appearance convinced me that he whom I 
 sought was before me. ]\Iy dress was not that of 
 his countrymen, and he looked on me with some 
 wonder. 
 
 '* * Are you Godfrey Dermount of the Manor of 
 St. Basil? 'I asked. 
 
 '' ' That is my name, yon house is my home,* he 
 replied. 
 
 " ' I have come many miles to seek you,' I w^ent 
 on. ' Pardon me, I would ask a question. Have 
 you heard aught of a maiden, Dorothy by name, 
 who left your country well-nigh two years past? ' 
 
 " His face grew white as the dead, and he leaned 
 upon the gate-post. But, quickly recovering him- 
 self, he seized my arm, and said, ' Man, have you 
 news of her? In Heaven's name, tell me. Does she 
 live? ' 
 
 " ' I saw her but a few months past. I trust she 
 yet Hves and that all is well with her.' 
 
 " ' We but lately heard,' cried he, * that she had 
 been carried off by savages. I believed she was 
 dead, or — reserved for a more horrible fate.' 
 
 '' Then I told him my story, and he would have 
 me accompany him to the house and tell it to his 
 parents. 
 
%^on'B Successful Quest 279 
 
 " In a pleasant room we found a tall and comely 
 lady. She rose when we entered, and looked with 
 much surprise at Godfrey, for the color had come 
 to his cheeks and the brightness to his eyes. And 
 before he had presented me to her, he seized her 
 •hands, and cried, * Mother, he has come to tell me 
 of my Dorothy. She lives. She is well. Mother, 
 I go with him to seek her, but let me not go with- 
 out your blessing. When you have heard his story 
 it will win your heart for her.' 
 
 " And truly her heart was won. For while I told 
 how sweet and patient, how faithful and noble his 
 Dorothy had been, his mother's tears dropped fast, 
 and she clasped his hand as he knelt beside her, and 
 gave him her blessing. His father also came in and 
 heard the tale, and gave a glad consent. They 
 overwhelmed me with kindness, and sent many 
 micssages of gratitude to you. Reverend Father, and 
 soon as we could set forth, sped us on our way." 
 
 " And now. Father, I would speak of our mar- 
 riage," said Godfrey. " We hope, we believe, that 
 you will consent that it take place to-morrow, be- 
 fore we set out on our return." 
 
 *' To-morrow! Wait, rather, until our arrival in 
 Quebec." 
 
 " To-morrow, Father, as you know, we part from 
 Leon de Charolais, when he begins his lonely jour- 
 ney to seek the Hurons on the North Shore. It is 
 our wish that he should be with us; for Dorothy 
 
28o XLbc IRomance of a Sesuit /iDlsston 
 
 has a deeper regard for her Brother Leon than for 
 anyone else upon the earth — save myself." 
 
 " Is this your wish, Leon? " asked the Superior 
 gently. 
 
 '' It is my heartfelt wish, Father." 
 
 " Then, my son, it shall be granted. We will set 
 up our altar in yonder grove. Doubtless, the fair 
 bride will not regret that her garments are but of 
 rough material." 
 
 " Reverend Father, my mother has sent to her 
 many garments of goodly texture. We have car- 
 ried them with difficulty over rough ways." 
 
 " Will your parents be satisfied that you should 
 be joined in marriage by one who is not of their 
 faith?" 
 
 '' They will. Father." 
 
 When the Superior had questioned Godfrey, and 
 was satisfied that he and his betrothed had been 
 baptized, he appointed for the two certain medita- 
 tions and prayers to precede the sacrament of mat- 
 rimony, and directed the lover to permit the fair 
 girl to withdraw and remain for some hours in re- 
 treat. 
 
 Then the good news was sent out, and the 
 Vv^omen were bidden to begin to make ready a mar- 
 riage feast, and deck a bridal bower in a grove. 
 
XXXII 
 
 H if ore5t Celebration 
 
 " Leon," said the Superior when he was alone 
 with the young man, " when our General directed 
 that you spend three years in the service of the 
 Hurons, he was not aware that the mission had 
 been of necessity abandoned. He had received 
 only the information from Father Bressani that he 
 would return to us with armed men and stores. 
 Doubtless, the Reverend Father, Piccolomini, gave 
 the order concerning you through his desire to ful- 
 fil the wishes of our late lamented Superior, Caraf- 
 fa." Ragueneau bent his head and crossed himself 
 at the mention of CarafTa's name. '' I am con- 
 vinced that, were he informed of the circumstances, 
 he w^ould give you permission to return to France, 
 there to remain until your ordination. Neverthe- 
 less, as he has said that, by special dispensation, 
 your service in the wilderness shall be regarded as a 
 part of your course, I do not command your return 
 with us; I leave you free to do as you will; this, I 
 am convinced, would be the course of the General 
 were he informed in full. Withdraw now to the 
 
 281 
 
282 ubc IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDtsston 
 
 forest for meditation and prayer. Do not fail to 
 take into account the loneliness of the life you pro- 
 pose. Hitherto, our missionaries have had some 
 companionship with men of their race; you will be 
 alone in the wilderness, a soUtary witness of the 
 faith to a scattered and vanishing people. We, too, 
 will pray that you may be led to a right judgment. 
 If you inform me to-night that your decision is to 
 return with us to Quebec, there to help us in the 
 work with our Indians, I shall believe that God has 
 guided you to that decision. But if you still feel 
 convinced that your duty is to minister to the few 
 of our scattered flock whom you will seek on the 
 deserted shores, go to them, our blessings and our 
 prayers will go with you." 
 
 "Father, I have thought and prayed; I have a 
 conviction that will not be changed by further 
 thought. I longed to see France once more; but 
 when I heard at Quebec of the death of my father I 
 felt that the tie that had bound me to my own land 
 was broken. For the few who are left in the wil- 
 derness without a guide I can do more than for the 
 greater numbers in Quebec, who will have other 
 and wiser teachers. I believe that I can follow 
 some of those whom I knew, and who, I trust, will 
 rejoice to see me. With your permission, Wene- 
 kin will return with me. I have counted the cost. 
 I know it will be lonely sometimes; yet as I am 
 persuaded that I am called to that work, I will not 
 
H jforest Celebration 283 
 
 turn back. I will now, as you advise, withdraw for 
 meditation and prayer. I need your prayers that I 
 may be strong, that my faith fail not." 
 
 Leon de Charolais spent many hours that night, 
 deep in the woods, wrestling with doubts that 
 pressed him sore, striving to still the pain in his 
 heart at thought of parting with Dorothy forever, 
 to rejoice in the joy that his hand had brought her. 
 For though he had set himself so resolutely to do 
 his duty as he saw it, to try to fulfil the pledges he 
 had given; as of old, his faith was weak, he was be- 
 set by questionings. He had begun to understand, 
 dimly yet, but far more clearly than he had once 
 understood, something of the mystery, the purify- 
 ing power of sacrifice. Were it possible to take 
 the sorrow from his life, to be as though it had 
 never touched him, he would not have it so. His 
 youthful joyousness of heart had left him; yet in its 
 place something had come that had made him a 
 braver and a purer man, his life a richer life. 
 
 In the morning the bridal bower was seen, 
 decked with wild flowers. There were crimson 
 roses and v/hite lilies from the forest, and from an 
 abandoned beaver meadow had come scarlet lobe- 
 lias, calceolarias — white, pink, yellow, and crimson 
 — wild iris, tiger lilies, and trilliums. 
 
 To Nialona had been given the honor of dressing 
 the bride. Here and there on the soft white dress 
 and veil she had fastened a spray of roses and ferns; 
 
284 trbe IRomance ot a Jesuit /iDisston 
 
 and a rose blush tinged the cheeks that had been 
 so pale. 
 
 The Huron women, who had never beheld any- 
 thing so beautiful as that bridal dress, were as chil- 
 dren in their surprise and delight. And priests and 
 laymen alike gratified the bridegroom by the asser- 
 tion that a lovelier maid had never been wedded. 
 
 Dorothy stood alone with De Charolais, and 
 looked into his face with her joy lighting her beau- 
 tiful eyes, '' O, my Brother Leon, my true and noble 
 Brother Leon," she said, '' why must you, who 
 have brought happiness to us, live and suffer alone? 
 And yet, yet, there is something in your face, in 
 your eyes, that I never saw there before. It re- 
 minds me of words I once heard my — my father 
 read, ' A Conqueror returning from his wars.' " 
 
 " Do not sorrow for me, my Sister Dorothy. If 
 it be possible, let me hear of you; you will be happy; 
 in that I shall find happiness. May all marriage 
 blessings be granted you; joy and peace, and no re- 
 grets. God bless you, God guard you, God keep 
 you, my — Sister Dorothy." 
 
 His face was pale, but calm and smiling, when 
 Ragueneau said the words that made Dorothy 
 Wynne and Godfrey Dermount man and wife. By 
 the Superior's direction, she gave, as her maiden 
 name, that of her adopted parents. 
 
 At the wedding feast — the noon dinner of which 
 all partook before setting out on the journey — it 
 
H iforest Celebration 285 
 
 was noticeable that De Gharolais was as full of life 
 and interest as anyone at the board. 
 
 When Dorothy went to her tent to change her 
 wedding dress for a darker one that her new rela- 
 tives had sent her, Leon and the young husband 
 walked apart. There was much work to do in the 
 preparation for departure, but they were excused. 
 
 For awhile they talked of their plans; but there 
 was something in Godfrey's mind that he longed, 
 yet hesitated, to say. A call came; the fleet was 
 ready to set out. Then Godfrey grasped the hand 
 of his friend. " Leon, I know your heart, the sor- 
 row of it, all that you have borne and suffered for 
 our sakes. O, my friend, my friend, I would that I 
 could repay you; some good day may God reward 
 you." 
 
 Leon did not answer. His eyes were dim, and 
 Godfrey knew that his thought was too deep for 
 words. 
 
 Presently Dorothy and her husband took their 
 places in their canoe over which Bernard Gautier 
 and the Huron boys had made a canopy to protect 
 the bride from the glare of the summer sun. 
 
 As they went dov/n the river, they looked back 
 many times to wave their last adieux to Leon, who 
 stood with Wenekin on the lonely shore. He 
 smiled bravely above the pain in his heart, and 
 watched and waved to them in return till they 
 passed from his sight. 
 
286 zrbe iRomance ot a Jesuit /BMsston 
 
 Godfrey ceased to ply the paddle, for Dorothy's 
 cheeks were wet with tears. 
 
 *' What is it, dear heart? " he asked, though he 
 divined the cause. 
 
 " It is for our Brother Leon. Ah, why must he 
 be lonely, and, I fear, very sad, too, when so much 
 happiness has been given to us? It is hard.** 
 
 " Yes, dear 'heart," said Godfrey, bending to 
 wipe away her tears; '' it is indeed very hard. But 
 our eyes see only a little way. In days to come, he 
 may receive a joy of which we have no foresight 
 now. Remember, we, too, have sorrowed, and with- 
 out hope; and our joy is so much the deeper by 
 reason of that sorrow." 
 
XXXIII 
 
 TLo 1b!m tbat ©vetcometb 
 
 On an Easter morning, Dorothy Dermount sat 
 with her husband by the cradle of t'heir boy, " Leon 
 Godfrey." They had written to Leon of the birth 
 of the child, and that they had given him the be- 
 loved name. Months afterward they received his 
 letter in return, and a rug of fur for the infant's cot. 
 In the three years since they had parted, they had 
 heard from him whenever it was possible for him to 
 send them a message. On this morning, a belated 
 letter had come to them, and they talked of it while 
 they watched the young Leon. It had been written 
 many weeks before, in the depths of the forest, 
 sent to Quebec by Indians who were carrying mes- 
 sages to the Superior; t'hence across the seas by the 
 first ship that left that shore. Early in the sum- 
 mer, by command of the General, De Charolais 
 would return to France, and remain there until his 
 ordination; when it was probable that he would 
 again be sent as a missionary to the Hurons. He 
 would surely hasten to visit his friends as soon as 
 he could gain permission. He had never written a 
 word of complaint ; but they rejoiced in the brighter 
 
 287 
 
288 XTbe IRomance of a Sesutt /HMeston 
 
 tone of this letter. They were ambitious for him, 
 that he should win high place in his Church. 
 Surely, they said, the Superior General of the Jes- 
 uits would not send a man of his parts back to the 
 wilderness. The child woke, and Dorothy took it 
 in her arms, and prattled to it, in baby words, of the 
 Uncle Leon who would come so soon, and how 
 father and mother would delight to greet him. 
 
 Early on that Easter morning, Leon de Charolais 
 rose from his bed on the ground, to try to reach a 
 Huron camp, where he would give an instruction 
 suitable to the day. In the t'hree years that had 
 passed since he had stood on the Ottawa's shores, 
 straining his eyes till the last canoe had passed 
 from his sight, he had never seen a man of his own 
 race, his heart had never been cheered by converse 
 with a friend, other than an Indian friend. He had 
 endured hunger and cold, but these were nought 
 beside the hunger of the heart for human compan- 
 ionship. He had had some hours of spiritual exalta- 
 tion, when he felt strengthened to press on and en- 
 dure; but he had passed many hours of despond- 
 ency. 
 
 He had seen in the lives of his people some fruit 
 of the truths 'he had taught; but sometimes those 
 to whose service he had given his life had turned 
 from him with mockery and derision, or had grossly 
 deceived him. Yet some of his men loved him well, 
 followed him faithfully. He knew that he had 
 
TLo Ibtm tbat (^vercomctb 289 
 
 cheered the dying and strengthened the living; 
 and, in moments of discouragement, remembering 
 these, he was nerved to go forward again. But he 
 longed with all t'he longing of his human heart for 
 the grasp of a manly hand, the cheer of a com- 
 panion's voice, for such counsel and sympathy as 
 he had had in the first months of his life at the 
 mission. 
 
 Did his thoughts ever turn to Dorothy? Many 
 times, but not often with pain. He longed to meet 
 her again, to hear the music of her voice, to see with 
 his own eyes her happiness — the happiness she had 
 received through him. Many times he had fallen 
 on his knees in thanksgiving for his victory on that 
 night on the island, that he had been kept from 
 uttering any word that might have revealed to her 
 the evil suggestion that had come to him. Had she 
 known that even for a moment he in whom she had 
 placed her pure trust had thought to betray it, 
 what revulsion of soul would have come to her, how 
 he might have shaken her faith in God and man. 
 And so, for her sake, and 4iis own, he was thankful 
 that he had never fallen from his high place in her 
 heart as brother and friend. 
 
 When he rose on that Easter morning, he saw 
 the leafless trees about him, the dark trunks and 
 mouldering logs, damp and sodden from the melt- 
 ing snow. It was a bleak, gray morning, and its 
 bleakness accentuated his loneliness. But he 
 
290 xrbe IRomance ot a Jesuit /BMssion 
 
 pushe'd on bravely, and presently he was cheered by 
 thought of the welcome of 'his people. As he 
 walked, he began to sing a hymn of St. Frangois 
 Xavier, one that he loved because it had been a 
 favorite with Brebeuf. 
 
 ** My God I love Thee: not because 
 I hope for Heaven thereby; 
 Nor yet because if I love not, 
 I must forever die. 
 
 " But, O my Jesus, Thou didst me 
 Upon the cross embrace; 
 For me didst bear the nails and spear 
 And manifold disgrace; 
 
 " And griefs and torments numberless. 
 And sweat of agony; 
 E'en death itself, and all for me, 
 Who was Thine enemy. 
 
 *' And so, O blessed Jesus Christ, 
 Should I not love Thee well? 
 Not for the hope of gaining Heaven, 
 Nor of escaping Hell; 
 
 " Not with the hope of winning aught. 
 Nor gaining a reward; 
 But as Thyself hast loved me, 
 O, ever loving Lord." 
 
 He could not give it the note of deep spiritual 
 feeling with which Brebeuf had sung. He loved it 
 because it recalled the voice of his friend. As he 
 went on, he asked again the question that he had 
 asked many times: Why had he so little spiritual 
 
Uo Ibim tbat ©vercometb 291 
 
 fervor when he had given a heart of love to his fel- 
 low-man? Why did the light shine for him so dimly 
 when he had sought it so earnestly? He could not 
 find the answer; but some day, he believed, the 
 answer would be given. He would understand 
 why he had been permitted to wander so often in 
 darkness. He thought of St. Peter, who had 
 thrice denied his Lord, yet Peter had been com- 
 mended by the Master, and had given his life for 
 Him. Leon had never denied with his lips; God 
 only and his own soul knew t'he doubts that beset 
 him. 
 
 He readhed the borders of Lake Huron, where, 
 on the dark waters, great cakes of ice floated. He 
 stood on the shore, and watched the smaller blocks 
 rise and fall with the waves. He did not see the 
 foes that lay in ambush, was not conscious of an 
 enemy at hand, until he heard the whiz of an arrow 
 through the air, followed almost instantly by a 
 stinging pain in his side. He turned to defend him- 
 self; but arrow followed arrow till his fur coat was 
 pierced and cut in many places. Faint and bleed- 
 ing, he sank on his knees. His assailants knew that 
 he was now powerless to escape them, and ran to 
 summon others to behold their Work. 
 
 The clouds parted, and the dull waters danced in 
 the morning sunshine. The glory of it touched his 
 glazing eyes. There came to him the words of the 
 dying Stephen: " I see Heaven opened, and the Son 
 
292 Zbc IRomance ot a Jesuit /IDIsslon 
 
 of Man standing on the right hand of God." Was 
 it but the vision of delirium? 
 
 Then, as if spoken in his ear by some one stand- 
 ing by, came Words that he had heard many times 
 — the words of another soldier of the Cross: " I 
 have fought — a good fight, I have — finished 
 my course — I have — kept — the faith — hence- 
 forth " 
 
 Sig'ht dimmed, hearing failed, and he sank gently 
 on a little knoll of earth. 
 
 The savages came whooping through the forest 
 and surrounded him. But they stepped back in 
 amazement, for the dying lips smiled, the eyes that 
 opened once more were illumined for a moment by 
 a great joy; the hand, feebly raised, pointed upward. 
 Then the hand dropped, the eyes closed, and the 
 life on earth was ended. 
 
BAKER & TAYLOR CO.' 8 PUBLICATIONS. 
 TWO OUT-OF-DOOB3 BOOKS. 
 
 WITH THE WILD FLOWERS, from Pussy-willow 
 TO Thistle-down. A rural chronicle of our flower 
 friends and foes, describing them under their 
 familiar English names. By E. M. Hardinge. 
 16mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.00. 
 
 This book is a delightfully chatty volume, carrying us 
 through the whole season with the wild flowers as they make 
 their appearance. It is intended for those who love flowers as 
 flowers, and who like to read about them without getting 
 into too close contact with technical terms and classifications. 
 
 The author is well known as a writer for the New York 
 * ' Evening Post " and the magazines, and her articles are 
 gladly welcomed by those who like both nature and hterature. 
 
 THE AlVIATEUR AQUARIST. By Mark Samuel, 
 Aquarist to Columbia College, New York. 16mo, 
 cloth, illustrated. $1.00. 
 
 An American aquarium book indispensable to every one who 
 wishes to start an aquarium or who already has one. It con- 
 tains complete instructions for making a new self-sustaining 
 aquarium requiring change of water but once a year, and tells 
 how, when, and where to find suitable water-plants and fishes. 
 With over fifty new illustrations from life, by which to iden- 
 tify the specimens. 
 
 Sent, postpaid, on receipt of the pn'ice, hy 
 'THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO., Publishers, 
 
 5 AND 7 East Sixteenth St., New York. 
 
BAKER <fe TAYLOR CO.'S PUBLICATIONS, 
 
 T'WO FAMOUS AMERICANS. 
 
 TALKS WITH EALPH WALDO EMERSON. With 
 a hitherto unpublished Portrait. By Charles J. 
 Woodbury. 12mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.25. 
 
 The writer of this book had exceptionable opportunities for 
 access to and intercourse with Mr. Emerson, and has furnished 
 the latter's admirers, and lovers of culture generally, a service 
 of the highest value in preparing this faithful record of the 
 poet's opinions, freely and spontaneously expressed in conver- 
 sations on current thought, literature, philosophy, and criti- 
 cism ; his views as to what knowledge and culture are most 
 worth ; and his thoughts about contemporary writers and 
 workers. 
 
 " No lover of Emerson can afford to overlook this book. 
 He pervades it. The man himself is there. " — New York Sun. 
 
 GREELEY ON LINCOLN. With Mr. Greeley's Let- 
 ters to Charles A. Dana and a Lady Friend; to 
 which are added, Reminiscences of Horace Greeley 
 Edited by Joel Benton. With a photo -sculpture 
 portrait of Mr. Greeley, and a fac-simile of a part 
 of his MS. 12mo, cloth, $1.25. 
 
 The treatise which gives the title to this volume, shows Mr. 
 Greeley's mind in contact with the questions and the person- 
 ality which, perhaps, were most prominent in the course of his 
 own career, and to a certain extent epitomize it. The Letters 
 to Mr. Dana, and those to an intimate lady friend, not only 
 cover rare periods and incidents in Mr. Greeley's life, but they 
 show the naive, unconscious motions of a mind never tempted 
 to dissimulation, and (in the privacy for which they are in- 
 tended) without motive to be other than sincere. 
 
 "A valuable addition to American literature." — Chicago 
 Times. 
 
 " The contents of this volume are among the most interest- 
 ing that have ever been offered to American readers." — Wash- 
 ington Evening News. 
 
 Sent, postpaid, on receipt of the price, by 
 
 THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO., Publishers, 
 
 5 AND 7 East Sixteenth St., New York. 
 
BAKER & TAYLOR C0:8 PUBLICATIONS. 
 TWO BOOKS ON ART. 
 
 CRaYON portraiture. Complete Instructions 
 for Making Crayon Portraits on Crayon Paper and 
 on Platinum, Silver, and Bromide Enlargements. 
 Also, Directions for the Use of Transparent Liquid 
 Water-colors and for Making French Crystals. By 
 J. A. Barhydt. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, revised 
 and enlarged edition; paper, 50 cents; cloth, |1.00. 
 A carefully prepared hand-book for professional and ama- 
 teur artists, written with special reference to giving such full 
 explanation of details as to furnish to those who desire to take 
 up crayon work a full knowledge of all the materials required 
 and their use and manipulation, together with all the methods 
 and processes employed. The coloring of photographs, engrav- 
 ings, and photogravures with Liquid Water-colors and the 
 making of French Crystals are also fully treated. 
 
 The author's successfully accomplished intention is to fur- 
 nish a manual that will enable the student to undertake the 
 making of crayon portraits for a livelihood or to gratify his 
 taste as an amateur. 
 
 AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHY. A Practical Guide 
 for the Beginner. By W. I. Lincoln Adams, Editor 
 of " The Photographic Times," " The American 
 Annual of Photography," "The Photographic In- 
 structor," etc., etc. Illustrated. Paper, 50 cents ; 
 cloth, $1.00. 
 A treatise for the amateur, by one whose experience of, and 
 immediate contact with, the wants of those who are using the 
 camera in and out of doors especially fit him to prepare a 
 hand-book that will both serve as a guide to the ordinary work, 
 and will introduce the reader to new fields of interest. 
 
 Contents. — I. Apparatus. II. In the Field. III. In the 
 Dark lloom. IV. Printing and Toning. V. Portraiture. 
 YI. Instantaneous Photography. YII. Flash-light Photog- 
 raphy. YIII. Orthochromatic or Color-sensitive Photogra- 
 phy. IX. Composite Photography. X. The "Fathers of 
 Photography." Appendix, Tables, Formulae, etc. 
 Sent, postpaid, on receipt of the price, by 
 
 THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO., Publishers, 
 
 5 AND 7 East Sixteenth St., New Yobk. 
 
BAKER <& TAYLOR CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 PBESIDENT THWINQ'S NE^W BOOK. 
 
 WITHIN COLLEGE WALLS. By Charles Franklin 
 Thwinq, President of Adelbert College and of 
 Western Reserve University ; Author of " Ameri- 
 can Colleges : their Students and Work," ' ' Reading 
 of Books," "The Working Church" ; Joint- Author 
 of "The Family: an Historical and Social Study," 
 etc. 16mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.00. 
 
 Contents :— I. The College and the Home II. The Good 
 of being in College. III. The College Forming Character. 
 IV. Certain College Temptations. V. College Government. 
 VI. Play in College. VII. Simplicity and Enrichment of Life 
 in College. VIII. The College and the Church. IX. The 
 College Fitting for Business. X. The Pre-eminence of the 
 College Graduate. 
 
 For fifteen years President Thwing has been writing con- 
 stantly upon College subjects; his first work having borne the 
 title of " American Colleges." The present book discusses, in 
 a liberal spirit, those topics which are uppermost in interest to 
 the students themselves, as well as to their parents and others 
 concerned in their work and welfare. Dr. Thwing is, perh-ips-, 
 the most prominent scientific student of college and university 
 statistics, and the results of work before and after graduation. 
 This carefully and entertainingly written presentation of con- 
 clusions drawn from his personal experience and observation 
 as college student and president has a distinct value as guide 
 and encouragement to those within college walls, and as an 
 enlightened statement of college aims, tendencies, and possi- 
 bilities to their friends without. 
 
 "An earnest, eloquent, and convincing vindication of the 
 value of a college education, not only as a means of ennobling 
 and enriching the individual character and thus indirectly 
 benefiting the community, but also, from a utilitarian point of 
 view, as the best means of fitting a man to succeed in whatever 
 calling in life he may choose." — Cleveland Leader. 
 
 Sent, postpaid, on receipt of the price, by 
 
 THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO., Publishers, 
 
 5 AND 7 East Sixteenth St., New York. 
 
Sanford 
 
 The 
 
 Mnry B» 
 
 miscion 
 
 -- -"^ •^' %_^ ■v>^ «.^ 
 
 romance of a Jesuit 
 
 S224 
 -HP — 
 
 9G990yv 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY