if'less Sol, his honest
face ablaze with wrath. His rifle flew to his shoulder, his finger pressed
the trigger, and the soul of Don Francisco Alvarez, grandee of Spain, sped
to judgment from the darkness and obscurity of the North American
wilderness.

"Come back, Paul! Come back!" cried Shif'less Sol, seizing the youth by
the shoulder.

"But Father Montigny is dying!" cried Paul, falling upon his knees beside
the priest. The tears ran down his cheeks and fell upon the pale face of
the dying man.

Paul and Father Montigny, Protestant and Catholic, young man and old, were
kindred spirits, and each had felt it from the first. In the soul of each
was the same mysticism, the same imaginative quality, the same spiritual
eye always looking into the future. It had occurred more than once to the
priest that, if he had remained outside the cloth, and had lived as other
men lived, he would have wished such a son as Paul.

Now he smiled and opened his eyes as he saw this beloved youth of his
later days weeping over him, as he lay in the forest with his death wound.
The one face that he wished most to see beside him, as he drew his last
breath, was there.

"Paul!" he said, "Paul, my son! Do not weep. It is the fate--in one form
or another--of all who travel in these woods--on such missions as mine. I
have long expected it--and I have often wondered that it has been delayed
so long. I escape, too, the torture--that more than one of my brethren has
suffered."

He reached out one hand, and put it lightly upon Paul's bare head. There
it lay and Paul felt it grow cold upon him.

"Come away, Paul," said the shiftless one gently. "The good priest is
dead. It's the livin' that need our help."

Bullets began to whistle from the thickets. The battle converged toward
them again, and Paul knew that he was needed to help the others hold the
little neck of land so important to all. A cannon shot shrieked over his
head, and then another. Once more they were the focus of the combat. The
forest in front of them sparkled as rapidly as before with beads of
flame.

Paul rose reluctantly and turned away. The priest lay on his back, his
face, pale and perfectly peaceful, upturned to the skies. Alvarez was a
dozen yards away, but his figure, still forever, was motionless in the
shadows. Paul did not bestow a glance upon him, but he gave Father
Montigny a last long look of affection and sorrow as he turned away.

"Down, Paul, down!" cried Hen