dreams. A crowd
gathered about, whispering and nodding and pointing. The Iroquois
beheld all this commotion with indifference not unmixed with contempt.
When he saw Du Puys and Bouchard pressing through the crowd, his lips
relaxed. These were men whom he knew to be men and tried warriors.
After greeting the two priests, Du Puys led them to a table and
directed Maitre le Borgne to bring supper for three. The Iroquois,
receiving a pleasant nod from Father Chaumonot, took his place at the
table. And Le Borgne, pale and trembling, took the red man's order for
meat and water.

"Ah, Captain," said Chaumonot, "it is good to see you again."

"Major, Father; Major."

"You have received your commission, then?"

"Finally."

"Congratulations! Will you direct me at once to the Hotel de Perigny?
I must see the marquis to-night, since we sail to-morrow."

"As soon as you have completed your supper," said Du Puys. Then
lowering his voice: "The marquis's son is in yonder room."

"Then the marquis has a son?" said Brother Jacques, with an
indescribable smile. "And by what name is he known?"

"The Chevalier du Cevennes."

Strange fires glowed in the young Jesuit's eyes. He plucked at his
rosary. "The Chevalier du Cevennes: the ways of God are inscrutable."

"In what way, my son?" asked Chaumonot.

"I met the Chevalier in Paris." Brother Jacques folded his arms and
stared absently at his plate.

CHAPTER VII

THE PHILOSOPHY OF MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS DE PERIGNY

The Hotel de Perigny stood in the Rue des Augustines, diagonally
opposite the historic pile once occupied by Henri II and Diane de
Poitiers, the beautiful and fascinating Duchesse de Valentinois of
equivocal yet enduring fame. It was constructed in the severe beauty
of Roman straight lines, and the stains of nearly two centuries had
discolored the blue-veined Italian marble. A high wall inclosed it,
and on the top of this wall ran a miniature cheval-de-frise of iron.
Nighttime or daytime, in mean or brilliant light, it took on the somber
visage of a kill-joy. The invisible hand of fear chilled and repelled
the curious: it was a house of dread. There were no gardens; the
flooring of the entire court was of stone; there was not even the usual
vine sprawling over the walls.

Men had died in this house; not always in bed, which is to say,
naturally. Some had died struggling in the gloomy corridors, in the
grand salon, on the staircase leading to the