The Road to Frontenac. Merwin Samuel

left behind at Fort Frontenac but two weeks back. The long journey down the St. Lawrence had seemed almost a descent into winter. On the way to Quebec every day and every league had brought fewer blossoms. Even Montreal, sixty leagues to the south, had her summer before Quebec.

      On the wharf below him the crowd were still plucking the dead Indian. Menard could hear their laughter and shouts. Their figures were small in the distance, their actions grotesque. One man was dancing, brandishing some part of the Indian’s costume. Menard could not distinguish the object in his hand. A priest crossed the wharf and elbowed into the crowd. For the moment he was lost in the rabble, but shortly the shouting quieted and the lightheaded fellows crowded into a close group. Probably the priest was addressing them. Soon the fringe of the crowd thinned, then the others walked quietly away. When at last the priest was left alone by the mutilated Indian, he knelt, and for a space was motionless.

      The idleness of reaction was on Menard. He leaned on the parapet, hardly stirring, while the priest went on his way across the square and began toiling up the steps. When he was halfway up, Menard recognized him for Claude de Casson, an old Jesuit of the Iroquois mission at Sault St. Francis Xavier, near Montreal. Menard strolled through the citadel to the square, and, meeting the Father, walked with him.

      “Well, Father Claude, you are a long way from your flock.”

      “Yes, Captain Menard, I came with the relations. I have been”–Father Claude was blown from his climb, and he paused, wiping the sweat from his lean face–“I have been grieved by a spectacle in the Lower Town. Some wretches had killed an Onondaga with the brutality of his own tribe, and were robbing him. Are such acts permitted to-day in Quebec, M’sieu?”

      “He was a prisoner escaping from the soldiers. It must be a full year since I last saw you, Father. I hope you bring a good record to the College.”

      “The best since our founding, M’sieu.”

      “Is there no word in the relations from the New York missions?”

      “Yes, M’sieu. Brother de Lamberville brings glorious word from the Mohawks. Twenty-three complete conversions.”

      “You say he brings this word?” Menard’s brows came together. “Then he has come up to Montreal?”

      “Yes.”

      “It is true, then, that the Iroquois have word of our plans?”

      “It would seem so. He said that a war party which started weeks ago for the Illinois country had been recalled. A messenger was sent out but a few days before he came away.”

      Menard slowly shook his head.

      “This word should go to the Commandant,” he said. “How about your Indians at the Mission, Father Claude? They have not French hearts.”

      “Ah, but I am certain, M’sieu, they would not break faith with us.”

      “You can trust them?”

      “They are Christians, M’sieu.”

      “Yes, but they are Iroquois. Have none of them gone away since this news reached Quebec?”

      “None, save one poor wretch whose drunkenness long ago caused us to give up hope, though I–”

      “What became of him? Where did he go?”

      “He wandered away in a drunken fit.”

      “And you have not heard from him since?”

      “No, M’sieu. He was Teganouan, an Onondaga.”

      “You would do well, Father, if I may suggest, to take what news you may have to the Commandant. You and I know the importance of trifles at such a time as this. How long do you remain in Quebec?”

      “A few days only, unless there should be work for me here.”

      “Do you return then to Montreal?”

      “I cannot say until I have made my report and delivered the relations. Brother de Lamberville thinks it important that word should go to all those who are now labouring in the Iroquois villages. If they remain after the campaign is fairly started, their lives may be in danger.”

      “You think it necessary to go yourself?”

      “What else, M’sieu? This is not the time to trust too freely an Indian runner. And a layman might never get through alive. My habit would be the best safeguard.”

      “I suppose you are right. If I should not see you again, I must ask you to convey my respect to your colleagues at the Mission. I shall probably be here until the campaign is fairly started; perhaps longer. Already I am tasting the luxury of idleness.”

      “A dangerous luxury, M’sieu. If I might be permitted to advise–”

      “Yes, yes, Father,–I know, I know. But what is the use? You are a priest, I am a soldier. Yours is penance, mine is fighting; yours is praying, mine is singing,–every man to his own. And when you priests have got your pagans converted, we soldiers will clean up the mess with our muskets. And now, Father, good day, and may God be with you.”

      The priest’s face was unmoved as he looked after the retreating figure. He had watched Menard grow from a roistering lieutenant into a rigid captain, and he knew his temper too well to mind the flicks of banter. But before the soldier had passed from earshot, he called after him.

      Menard turned back. “What now, good Father? A mass for my soul, or a last absolution before I plunge into my term of dissolute idleness?”

      “Neither, my son,” replied the priest, smiling. “Is any of your idleness to be shared with another?”

      “Certainly, Father.”

      “I am bringing a picture to the College.”

      “I have no money, Father. I should be a sorry patron.”

      “No, no, M’sieu; it is not a patron I seek. It is the advice of one who has seen and judged the master work of Paris. The painting has been shown to none as yet.”

      “But you have seen it?”

      “Yes, yes, I have seen it. Come with me, M’sieu; it is at my room.”

      They walked together to the cell, six feet long by five wide, where Father Claude slept when in Quebec. It was bare of all save a hard cot. A bale, packed in rough cloth and tied with rope, lay on the bed. Father Claude opened the bundle, while Menard leaned against the wall, and drew out his few personal belongings and his portable altar before he reached the flat, square package at the bottom. There was a touch of colour in his cheeks and a nervousness in the movement of his hands as he untied the flaxen strings, stripped off the cloth, and held the picture up to Menard’s view.

      It was a full-length portrait in oil of a young Indian woman, holding a small cross in her right hand, and gazing at it with bent head. Her left hand was spread upon her breast. She wore a calico chemise reaching below her knees, and leggings, and moccasins. A heavy robe was thrown over the top of her head, falling on the sides and back to within a foot of the ground. In the middle background was a stream, with four Indians in a canoe. A tiny stone chapel stood on the bank at the extreme right.

      Father Claude’s hand trembled as he supported the canvas upon the cot, and his eyes wavered from Menard to the picture, and back again.

      “It is not altogether completed,” he said, nervously. “Of course the detail will be worked out more fully, and the cross should be given a warmer radiance. Perhaps a light showing through the windows of the chapel–”

      “Who is it?” asked Menard.

      “It is Catherine Outasoren, the Lily of the Onondagas,” replied the priest; “the noblest woman that ever rose from the depths of Indian superstition.”

      Menard’s eyes rested on an obscure signature in a lower corner, “C. de C.”

      “You certainly have reason to be proud of the work. But may I ask about the perspective? Should the maiden appear larger than the chapel?”

      The priest gazed at the painting with an unsettled expression.

      “Yes,”