ated simple duty.
But the girl had darted ahead of us, we following by the flutter of the
white gown, and she led us out of the courtyard by a sally-port to the
rear of a block-house. She paused in the shadow of some shrubbery.

"Get fagots from the Indians to light us across the flats," she
whispered to Father Holland. "They'll think nothing of your coming.
You're always among them!"

"Mistress Sutherland!" I began, as the priest hurried forward to the
Indian camp-fires, "I hate to think of you risking yourself in this way
for----"

"Stop thinking, then," she interrupted abruptly in a voice that somehow
reminded me of my first vision of statuary.

"I beg your pardon," I blundered on. "Father Holland and I have both
forgotten to apologize for our rudeness about helping you down."

"Pray don't apologize," answered the marble voice. Then the girl
laughed. "Really you're worse than I thought, when I heard you bungling
over a boat. I didn't mind your rudeness. It was funny."

"Oh!" said I, abashed. There are situations in which conversation is
impossible.

"I didn't mind your rudeness," she repeated, "and--and--you mustn't mind
mine. Homesick people aren't--aren't--responsible, you know. Ah! Here
are the torches! Give me one. I thank you--Father Holland--is it not?
Please smother them down till we reach the river, or we'll be followed."

She was off in a flash, leading us through a high growth of rushes
across the flats. So I was both recognized and remembered from the
previous night. The thought was not displeasing. The wind moaned
dismally through the reeds. I did not know that I had been glancing
nervously behind at every step, with uncomfortable recollections of
arrows and spear-heads, till Father Holland exclaimed:

"Why, boy! You're timid! What are you scared of?"

"The devil!" and I spoke truthfully.

"Faith! There's more than yourself runs from His Majesty; but resist the
devil and he will flee from you."

"Not the kind of devil that's my enemy," I explained. I told him of the
arrow-shot and spear-head, and all mirth left his manner.

"I know him, I know him well. There's no greater scoundrel between
Quebec and Athabasca."

"My devil, or yours?"

"Yours, lad. Let your laughter be turned to mourning! Beware of him!
I've known more than one murder of his doing. Eh! But he's cunning, so
cunning! We can't trip him up with proofs; and his body's as slippery as
an eel or we might----"

But a loon flap