d been the
means of the young man's undoing.

Terrible things had been said--terrible things of Francois, and of
the girl at the Seigneury. They knew the girl for a Protestant and an
Englishwoman, and that in itself was a sort of sin. And now every ear
was alert to hear what the Cure should say, what denunciation should
come from his lips when the covering was removed. For that it should be
removed was the determination of every man present. Virtue was at its
supreme height in Pontiac that day. Lajeunesse the blacksmith, Muroc the
charcoal-man, and twenty others were as intent upon preserving a high
standard of morality, by force of arms, as if another Tarquin were
harbouring shame and crime in this cedar shed.

The whole thing came home to Francois with a choking, smothering force.
Art, now in its very birth in his heart and life, was to be garroted.
He had been unconscious of all the wicked things said about him: now he
knew all!

"Remove the canvas from the figure," said the Cure sternly. Stubbornness
and resentment filled Francois's breast. He did not stir.

"Do you oppose the command of the Church?" said the Cure, still more
severely. "Remove the canvas."

"It is my work--my own: my idea, my stone, and the labour of my hands,"
said Francois doggedly.

The Cure turned to Lajeunesse and made a motion towards the statue.
Lajeunesse, with a burning righteous joy, snatched off the canvas. There
was one instant of confusion in the faces of all-of absolute silence.

Then the crowd gasped. The Cure's hat came off, and every other hat
followed. The Cure made the sign of the cross upon his breast and
forehead, and every other man, woman, and child present did the same.
Then all knelt, save Francois and the Cure himself.

What they saw was a statue of Christ, a beautiful benign figure;
barefooted, with a girdle about his waist: the very truth and semblance
of a man. The type was strong and yet delicate; vigorous and yet
refined; crude and yet noble; a leader of men--the God-man, not the
man-God.

After a moment's silence the Cure spoke. "Francois, my son," said he,
"we have erred. 'All we like sheep have gone astray; we have followed
each after his own way, but God hath laid on Him'--he looked towards the
statue--'the iniquity of us all.'"

Francois stood still a moment gazing at the Cure, doggedly, bitterly;
then he turned and looked scornfully at the crowd, now risen to their
feet again. Among them was a girl c