disquietude from the people, and much of it from the chiefs. But,
to their eyes, all the heavens were scarlet and the world was about to
be in upheaval. It was a time for every sachem to walk with cautious
steps and use his last ounce of wisdom.

On the fourth night a powerful ally of St. Luc's arrived, although the
chevalier had not called him, and did not know until the next day that
he had come. He was a tall, thin man of middle years, wrapped in a black
robe with a cross upon his breast, and he had traveled alone through the
wilderness from Quebec to the vale of Onondaga. He carried no weapon but
under the black robe beat a heart as dauntless as that of Robert, or of
Willet, or of Tayoga, and an invincible faith that had already moved
mountains.

Onondaga men and women received Father Philibert Drouillard, and knelt
for his willing blessing. Despite the memories of Champlain and
Frontenac, despite the long and honored alliance with the English, the
French missionaries, whom no hardships could stop, had made converts
among the Onondagas, an enlightened nation with kindly and gentle
instincts, and of all these missionaries Father Drouillard had the most
tenacious and powerful will. And piety and patriotism could dwell
together in his heart. The love of his church and the love of his race
burned there with an equal brightness. He, too, had seen the clouds of
war gathering, thick and black, and knowing the power of the
Hodenosaunee, and that they yet waited, he had hastened to them to win
them for France. He was burning with zeal and he would have gone forth
the very night of his arrival to talk, but he was so exhausted that he
could not move, and he slept deeply in one of the houses, while his
faithful converts watched.

Robert encountered the priest early the next morning, and the meeting
was wholly unexpected by him, although the Frenchman gave no sign of
surprise and perhaps felt none.

"Father Drouillard!" he exclaimed. "I believed you to be in Canada! I
did not think there was any duty that could call you to the vale of
Onondaga!"

The stern face of the priest relaxed into a slight smile. This youth,
though of the hostile race, was handsome and winning, and as Father
Drouillard knew, he had a good heart.

"Holy Church sends us, its servants, poor and weak though we may be, on
far and different errands," he said. "We seek the wheat even among the
stones, and there are those, here in the vale of Onondaga its