s prayerbook and put it into his coat pocket.

"This man whom we consign to American soil was, like so many of us, born
on the other side of the ocean," he said. "He came of one of the oldest
and noblest families of France, fleeing the Godless revolution that
tormented their homeland, which was also my homeland. The de Marions
gave themselves soul and body to this new land where they had to make
their own way. Here titles and ancient lineage meant nothing."

_Get on with it, dammit!_

"God saw fit to try them sorely after they came here to Illinois. The
mother of the family died in childbirth. A daughter died a horrid death
at the hands of Indians, and a son"--he gestured at Raoul, who stared
back at him, keeping his face expressionless--"held captive, a slave, by
Indians for two years."

It was good that Pere Isaac mentioned that. It would prepare people to
accept what was about to happen.

"Pierre de Marion was a good man, but he was also a sinner, like all of
us. He fell into the sin of lust, and that sin bore fruit. But Pierre
did not hide his sin as so many men have. He reached out to his son
through me and helped him. Eventually he acknowledged his son and
brought him out of the wilderness to be educated for civilization."

Raoul looked across the open pit at Auguste. The half-breed's red-brown
face was flushed an even darker color, but still he stared fixedly down
into the grave.

_Time to start._

It was an immense relief to begin to move. First, he had to get back to
the chateau ahead of the funeral procession and join his men there.
Slowly, so as not to attract attention, Raoul drew back from the
graveside.

* * * * *

Auguste's feet felt heavy and confined in his cowhide boots as they
crunched over the short stubble. He walked alone on the newly cut track
back toward the great stone and log house. He could hear the sound of
spades biting into the mound of dirt beside Pierre's grave and clods of
earth thudding onto his coffin.

Auguste led the procession of mourners. The others let him walk apart,
to be alone with his grief. Behind Auguste, he was aware, were Nicole
and Frank and Nancy Hale and Pere Isaac, and then a long line of
servants and farm hands and village people. Near the end of the
procession Registre Bosquet played a sprightly tune, as was the custom
among the Illinois French, a way of saying that life goes on. In the
rear was the cart that had carried P