was noted throughout New
France, and every inch of timber (would M. le General observe?)
thoroughly well seasoned. . . . Yes, those were the arms above the
entrance--Noel quartering Tilly--two of the oldest families in the
province . . . If M. le General took an interest in heraldry, these
other quarterings were worth perusal . . . de Repentigny,
de Contrecoeur, Traversy, St. Ours, de Valrennes, de la Mothe,
d'Ailleboust . . . and the windmill would repay an ascent . . .
the view from its summit was magnificent. . . .'

Diane, seated in the boat and watching, saw him halt and point out
the escutcheons; saw him halt again in the gateway and spread out his
arms to indicate the solidity of the walls; could almost, reading his
gestures, hear the words they explained; and her cheeks burned with
shame.

"A fine estate!" said a voice in the next boat.

"Yes, indeed," answered Bateese at her elbow; "there is no Seigniory
to compare with Boisveyrac. And we will live to welcome you back to
it, mademoiselle. The English are no despoilers, they tell me."

She glanced at Dominique. He had filled a pipe, and, as he smoked,
his eyes followed her uncle's gestures placidly. Scorn of him, scorn
of herself, intolerable shame, rose in a flood together.

"If my uncle behaves like a _roturier_, it is because his mind is
gone. Shall _we_ spy on him and laugh?--ghosts of those who are
afraid to die!"

Father Launoy looked up from his breviary.

"Mademoiselle is unjust," said he quietly. "To my knowledge, those
servants of hers, whom she reproaches, have risked death and taken
wounds, in part for her sake."

Diane sat silent, gazing upon the river. Yes, she had been unjust,
and she knew it. Felicite had told her how the garrison had rushed
after Dominique to rescue her, and of the struggle in the stairway of
the tower. Dominique bore an ugly cut, half-healed yet, reaching
from his right eyebrow across the cheekbone--the gash of an Indian
knife. Bateese could steer with his left hand only; his right he
carried in a sling. And the two men lying at this moment by Father
Launoy's feet had taken their wounds for her sake. Unjust she had
been; bitterly unjust. How could she explain the secret of her
bitterness--that she despised herself?

Boats were crowding thick around them now, many of them half filled
with water. The crews, while they baled, had each a separate tale to
tell of their latest adventure; each, it seemed, had