, 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.