ain in this pent-up Quebec, gazed at his vanishing figure with
curiosity. They had their gay blades in New York and Albany and even a
few in Boston of the Puritans, but he had not seen anybody like de Mezy.

"It is such as he who are pulling down New France," murmured Father
Drouillard.

A moment or two later the priest said farewell and departed in the
direction of the cathedral.

"There goes a man," said Willet, as he looked after the tall figure in
the black robe. "I don't share in the feeling of church against church.
I don't see any reason why Protestant should hate Catholic and Catholic
should hate Protestant. I've lived long enough and seen enough to know
that each church holds good men, and unless I make a big mistake, and I
don't think I make any mistake at all, Father Drouillard is not only a
good man, but he has a head full of sense and he's as brave as a lion,
too."

"Lots of priests are," said Robert. "Nobody ever endured the Indian
tortures better than they. And what's the figure over the doorway,
Dave?"

"That, Robert, is Le Chien d'Or, The Golden Dog. It's the sign put up by
Nicholas Jaquin, whom they often called Philibert. This is his warehouse
and he was one of the _honnetes gens_ that we've been talking about. He
fought the corrupt officials, he tried to make lower prices for the
people, and beneath his Golden Dog he wrote:"

"Je suis un chien qui ronge l'os,
En le rongeant je prends mon repos;
Un jour viendra qui n'est pas venu,
Que je mordrai qui m'aura mordu."

"That is, some day the dog will bite those who have bitten him?"

"That's about it, Robert, and I suppose it generally comes true. If you
keep on striking people some of them in time will strike you and strike
you pretty hard."

"And does Philibert still run his warehouse beneath his sign of the
Golden Dog?"

"No, Robert. He was too brave, or not cautious enough, and they
assassinated him, but there are plenty of others like him. The French
are a brave and honest people, none braver or more honest. I tell you
so, because I know them, but their government is corrupt through and
through. The House of Bourbon is dying of its own poison. It may seem
strange to you, hearing me say it here in the Western world, so far from
Versailles, but I'm not the only one who says so."

"But I like Quebec," said Robert. "I haven't seen another city that
speaks to the eye so much."

They were now well into the Upper Town, and the p