credit or the blame. Of only one thing was he sure,--his
own half hundred men should fight as they had always fought, and
should hold their posts to the end. There ended his responsibility.
And did not the good Fathers say that God was watching over New
France?

Meantime the breath of summer was in the air. The spring campaign was
over for Menard. So he rested both elbows on the parapet, and wondered
how long the leaves had been out in Picardy. Over beyond the ships and
the river were waves of the newest green, instead of the deep, rich
colour and the bloom of full life he had left behind at Fort Frontenac
but two weeks back. The long journey down the St. Lawrence had seemed
almost a descent into winter. On the way to Quebec every day and every
league had brought fewer blossoms. Even Montreal, sixty leagues to the
south, had her summer before Quebec.

On the wharf below him the crowd were still plucking the dead Indian.
Menard could hear their laughter and shouts. Their figures were small
in the distance, their actions grotesque. One man was dancing,
brandishing some part of the Indian's costume. Menard could not
distinguish the object in his hand. A priest crossed the wharf and
elbowed into the crowd. For the moment he was lost in the rabble, but
shortly the shouting quieted and the lightheaded fellows crowded into
a close group. Probably the priest was addressing them. Soon the
fringe of the crowd thinned, then the others walked quietly away. When
at last the priest was left alone by the mutilated Indian, he knelt,
and for a space was motionless.

The idleness of reaction was on Menard. He leaned on the parapet,
hardly stirring, while the priest went on his way across the square
and began toiling up the steps. When he was halfway up, Menard
recognized him for Claude de Casson, an old Jesuit of the Iroquois
mission at Sault St. Francis Xavier, near Montreal. Menard strolled
through the citadel to the square, and, meeting the Father, walked
with him.

"Well, Father Claude, you are a long way from your flock."

"Yes, Captain Menard, I came with the relations. I have been"--Father
Claude was blown from his climb, and he paused, wiping the sweat from
his lean face--"I have been grieved by a spectacle in the Lower Town.
Some wretches had killed an Onondaga with the brutality of his own
tribe, and were robbing him. Are such acts permitted to-day in Quebec,
M'sieu?"

"He was a prisoner escaping from the soldiers. It m