of an untrained mind, that jealousy which men established
in the world have of very young men. The male instinct of predominance
is fierce even in saints. Le Moyne de Sainte-Helene, though of the
purest stock in New France, had no prejudice against a half-breed.

"How is Mademoiselle Clementine?" inquired Gaspard, arriving at the
question in natural sequence. "You will see her oftener now than when
you had to ride from the fort."

The veins looked black in his visitor's face. "Ask the little
Saint-Castin. Boys stand under windows and talk to women now. Men have
to be reconnoitering the enemy."

"Monsieur Anselm de Saint-Castin is the son of a good fighter,"
observed Gaspard. "It is said the New England men hate his very name."

"Anselm de Saint-Castin is barely eighteen years old."

"It is the age of Mademoiselle Clementine."

The old habitant drew his three-legged stool to the hearth corner, and
took the liberty of sitting down as the talk was prolonged. He noticed
the leaden color which comes of extreme weariness and depression
dulling Sainte-Helene's usually dark and rosy skin. Gaspard had heard
that this young man was quickest afoot, readiest with his weapon,
most untiring in the dance, and keenest for adventure of all the eight
brothers in his noble family. He had done the French arms credit
in the expedition to Hudson Bay and many another brush with their
enemies. The fire was burning high and clear, lighting rafters and
their curious brown tassels of smoked meat, and making the crucifix
over the bed shine out the whitest spot in a smoke-stained room.

"Father Gaspard," inquired Sainte-Helene suddenly, "did you ever hear
of such a thing as a loup-garou?"

The old habitant felt terror returning with cold feet up his back and
crowding its blackness upon him through the windows. Yet as he rolled
his eyes at the questioner he felt piqued at such ignorance of his
natural claims.

"Was I not born on the island of Orleans, monsieur?"

Everybody knew that the island of Orleans had been from the time of
its discovery the abode of loups-garous, sorcerers, and all those
uncanny cattle that run in the twilights of the world. The western
point of its wooded ridge, which parts the St. Lawrence for twenty-two
miles, from Beauport to Beaupre, lay opposite Gaspard's door.

"Oh, you were born on the island of Orleans?"

"Yes, monsieur," answered Gaspard, with the pride we take in
distinction of any kind.

"But you c