using... the Governor is a Protestant--eh? That is, indeed, a
zeal almost Christian--or millennial."

The Abby turned to the Seigneur. "Are you going to interfere longer with
the process of the law?"

"I think Monsieur has not quite finished his argument," said the
Seigneur, with a twist of the mouth.

"If the man was a Frenchman, why do you suspect the tailor of
Chaudiere?" asked Charley softly. "Of course I understand the reason
behind all: you have heard that the tailor is an infidel; you have
protested to the good Cure here, and the Cure is a man who has a sense
of justice, and will not drive a poor man from his parish by Christian
persecution--without cause. Since certain dates coincide and impulses
urge, you suspect the tailor. Again, according to your mind, a man who
steals holy vessels must needs be an infidel; therefore a tailor in
Chaudiere, suspected of being an infidel, stole the holy chalices. It
might seem a fair case for a grand jury of clericals. But it breaks down
in certain places. Your criminal is a Frenchman; the tailor of Chaudiere
is an Englishman."

The Abbe's face was contracted with stubborn annoyance, though he held
his tongue from violence. "Do you deny that you are French?" he asked
tartly.

"I could almost endure the suspicion because of the compliment to my
command of your charming language."

"Prove that you are an Englishman. No one knows where you came from; no
one knows what you are. You are a fair subject for suspicion, apart from
the evidence shown," said the Abbe, trying now to be as polite as the
tailor.

"This is a free country. So long as the law is obeyed, one can go where
one wills without question, I take it."

"There is a law of vagrancy."

"I am a householder, a tenant of the Church, not a vagrant."

"Monsieur, you can have your choice of proving these things here or in
Quebec," said the Abbe, with angry impatience again.

"I may not be compelled to prove anything. It is the privilege of the
law to prove the crime against me."

"You are a very remarkable tailor," said the Abbe sarcastically.

"I have not had the honour of making you even a cassock, I think.
Monsieur le Cure, I believe, approves of those I make for him. He has a
good figure, however."

"You refuse to identify yourself?" asked the Abbe, with asperity.

"I am not aware that you possess any right to ask me to do so."

The Abbe's thin lips clipped-to like shears. He turned again towards the
of