imes and amid all nations
of men. There were Jesuits, he knew, up yonder, beyond the rivers,
beyond the forests. He would find that Church there, steadfast as
these stars and, alone with them, bridging all this long gulf.
In his momentary weakness the repose She offered came on him as a
temptation. Had he but anchored himself upon her, all these leagues
had been as nothing. But he had cut himself adrift; and now the
world, too, had cut him off, and where was he with his doubts? . . .
Or was She following now and whispering, "Poor fool, you thought
yourself strong, and I granted you a short licence; but I have
followed, as I can follow everywhere, unseen, knowing the hour when
you must repent and want me; and lo! my lap is open. Come, let its
folds wrap you, and at once there is no more trouble; for within them
time and distance are not, and all this voyage shall be as a dream."

No; he put the temptation from him. For it was a sensual temptation
after all, surprising him in anguish and exhaustion and bribing with
promise of repose. He craved after it, but set his teeth. "Yes, you
are right, so far. The future has gone from me, and I have no hopes.
But it seems I have to live, and I am a man. My doubts are my
doubts, and this is no fair moment to abandon them. What I must
suffer, I will try to suffer. . . ."

The bowman had lit a lantern in the bows and passed back the resinous
brand to an Indian seated forward, who in turn handed it back over
John's head toward Sergeant Barboux, but, seeing that he dozed,
crawled aft over the wounded men and set it to the wick of a second
lantern rigged on a stick astern. As the wick took fire, the Indian,
who had been steering hitherto hour after hour, grunted out a
syllable or two and handed his comrade the paddle. The pair changed
places, and the ex-steersman--who seemed the elder by many years--
crept cautiously forward; the lantern-light, as he passed it, falling
warm on his scarlet trowsers and drawing fiery twinkles from his belt
and silver arm-ring.

With a guttural whisper he crouched over John, so low that his body
blotted out the lantern, the stars, the whole dim arch of the
heavens. Was this murder? John shut his teeth. If this were to be
the end, let it come now and be done with; he would not cry out.
The Highland lad had ceased his coughing and lay unconscious, panting
out the last of his life more and more feebly. The elder Highlander
moaned from time