emptying of the moccasin, and the gathering up and re-shaking of the
counters, Granger held his breath. It seemed to him that Eyelids was
gambling with an invisible player, and that the stake which he stood
to lose or win was his own life. It was inconceivable that any man
should have sat playing all these hours at a game of hazard, risking
nothing, having for antagonist himself.

Relief came from without. From far across the river the forest-silence
was shattered by a piercing cry. It reached him distantly at first,
but, with each interval that elapsed, it grew nearer. It was like the
tortured, desperate complaining of a soul in its final agony. Stealing
to the window, he looked out, and saw upon the farther bank the
outline of a timber-wolf. He looked at Beorn; he also had heard it,
for he had pricked up his ears like a husky and was listening. Fearing
that the suspense of these long and silent hours might cause him to
behave unworthily, he clutched Antoine by the shoulder, and whispered,
"For God's sake, say something. Tell us one of your tales."

Then Le Pere thought awhile, and afterwards, in a low sonorous voice,
commenced to recount the story of the founding of the Huron
Mission--one of the noblest histories in the world, of men who have
died for men. As he progressed, Eyelids looked up from his
moccasin-game and the little tappings, as of muffled hammers about a
coffin, ceased for a spell.

He told them of Isaac Jogues, the Jesuit; how he was the most timid of
men, and how for his love of Christ he became brave.

He told them of his capture, on the second day of August, 1642, by the
Iroquois, and the patience with which his sufferings were endured. How
when he was near dying of hunger and thirst, he used the drops of
rain, which had gathered in an ear of corn which had been thrown him,
to baptize two dying men. How when the Indians had grown weary of
torturing him and had cast him out into the March bleakness, he spent
his days in the forest praying, and carving the name of _Jesus_ on the
tree-trunks with his lacerated hands.

Then followed the account of his miraculous escape to France and the
honours which were proffered him by Church and State, no one of which
he would take, save only permission to return to Canada that, as he
had lived, so he might die for men, and the Pope's special
dispensation that he might say the Mass, from which he had been
debarred by his mutilations.

And he told them the st