he lonely grandsire in Tadousac.

"The curse is lifted!" said the pious peasants, mindful of Pascal's
treason. "A child at last! The good God has forgiven him."

From Quebec to Malbaie came so-called friends, English who despised
his treachery, French who hated his name, but courtiers all; and with
them came an unbidden guest, an aged trapper, unshorn and roughly
clad, who lurked in the shadows of the great hall, and whispered ever:
"France! Pascal! Traitor!"

Beautiful as an angel was the baby heir, fair with the patrician
beauty of his English mother, strong of limb as befitted the trapper's
descendant. Unconscious of the homage paid him, he slept in his
nurse's arms, his baptismal robes sweeping the floor.

"A sturdy fellow, my friends," said his laughing sponsor. "An English
Deschamps."

"An English Deschamps!" cried the English guests, pleased with the
conceit. "Long may his line endure."

"A traitor Deschamps!" said a voice instinct with wrath. "Unhappy man,
your taint is in him!"

The revelers shrank back appalled, as from the shadows came the
unbidden guest and stood among them, his mien majestic with the
dignity of sorrow. Pascal alone recognized him and forced his ashen
lips to speak the word: "Father."

"Yes, your father, unhappy boy; unlettered, old and broken with the
burden of your disgrace, but loyal still to God and country. I have
guarded those great virtues well, for God gave them to me, and I would
have transmitted them to my posterity, and linked the name of
Deschamps forever with patriotism and Faith. But your treachery has
destroyed my hope and smirched the memory of your brothers, whose
names are written on the roll of martyrs to their Faith and country.
Ah, Pascal, how I loved you! And your son? An English Deschamps you
say! A son born to perpetuate his father's degradation! No, Pascal, I
shall save my honor! Your traitor blood shall never taint posterity.
You may live your life of misery, but you shall live it alone."

And snatching the child from its nurse's arms the old trapper passed
from the house and had reached his canoe before the stupefied revelers
were roused into pursuit. But they had no boats. The old trapper had
driven holes through the sides of every one but his own.

With swift strokes Deschamps paddled down the St. Lawrence, through
the rocky entrance to the Saguenay, and over its dark waters till a
harbor was reached in a cleft of the coast. Here the madman landed,
c