alone. God had given him a handsome face, but He had also given
him an alternate--starvation or the robes. He was a beggar; the gown
was his subsistence. By and by his sobs subsided, and he heard a voice.

"So the little Father grows weak?" And the Black Kettle leaned against
a tree and looked curiously down upon the prostrate figure in black.
"Is he thinking of the house of his fathers; or, has he looked too long
upon Onontio's daughter? I have seen; the eagle's eye is not keener
than the Black Kettle's, nor his flight swifter than the Black Kettle's
thought. Her cheeks are like the red ear; her eyes are like the small
blue flower that grows hidden in the forest at springtime; her hair is
like the corn that dries in the winter; but she is neither for the
Black Kettle nor for his brother who weeps. Why do you wear the black
robe, then? I have seen my brother weep! I have seen him face the
torture with a smile--and a woman makes him weep!"

Brother Jacques was up instantly. He grasped the brawny arms of the
Onondaga and drew him toward him.

"The little Father has lost none of his strength," observed the
Onondaga, smiling.

"No, my son; and the tears in his eyes are of rage, not of weakness.
Let Dominique forget what he has seen."

"He has already forgotten. And when will my brother start out for the
stone house of Onontio?"

"As soon as possible." Aye, how fared Monsieur le Marquis these days?

"But not alone," said the Black Kettle. "The silence will drive him
mad, like a brother of his I knew."

"The Great Master of Breath wills it; I must go alone," said Brother
Jacques. He was himself again. The tempest in his soul was past.

"I should like to see Onontio's house again;" and the Indian waited.

"Perhaps; if the good Fathers can spare you."

And together they returned to the shore of the lake. The vibrant song
of the bugle stirred the hush. It was five o'clock. The soldiers had
finished the day's work, and the settlers had thrown down the ax. All
were mustered on the parade ground before the palisade. The lilies of
France fluttered at the flagstaff. There were fifty muskets among the
colonists, muskets of various makes and shapes. They shone dully in
the mean light. Here and there a comparatively new uniform brightened
the rank and file. They had been here for more than a year, and the
seventeenth of May, the historic date of their departure from Quebec,
seemed far away. Few and f