is of great assistance to me."

"Is he a Catholic?" curiously.

"Aye, and proud to be."

The marquis signified his astonishment by wagging his head. "I should
like to see this Indian at mass; it must be very droll."

"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, passing over the marquis's questionable
irony, "will you permit me to tell you a short story before approaching
the subject of my visit?"

"Rabelaisian?" maliciously.

"No; not a monstrous story, but one relative to an act of kindness
which took place many years ago."

"Well, if I am not interested I shall interrupt you," said the marquis.
He swept his hand toward the wine, but the priests and the Iroquois
respectfully declined. "Proceed."

"Once upon a time," began Chaumonot, his eyes directed toward the
bronze console which supported the mantel, "there lived a lad whose
father was a humble vine-dresser. At the age of ten he was sent to
Chatillon, where he lived with his uncle, a priest, who taught him
Latin and Holy history. This did not prevent him from yielding to the
persuasion of one of his companions to run off to Beaune, where the two
proposed to study music under the Fathers of Oratory. To provide funds
for the journey, he stole a dozen livres from his uncle, the priest.
Arriving at Beaune, he became speedily destitute. He wrote home to his
mother for money. She showed the letter to his father, who ordered him
home. Stung by the thought of being branded a thief in his native
town, he resolved not to return, but in expiation to set out forthwith
on a pilgrimage to Rome. Tattered and penniless, he took the road to
Rome. He was proud, this boy, and at first refused to beg; but misery
finally forced his pride to its knees, and his hand stretched forth
from door to door. He slept in open fields, in cowsheds, in haystacks,
occasionally finding lodging in a convent. Thus, sometimes alone,
sometimes in the company of wandering vagabonds, he made his way
through Savoy and Lombardy in a pitiable condition of destitution and
disease. At length he arrived at Ancona, where the thought occurred to
him of visiting the Holy House of Loretto, and of applying for succor
of the Holy Virgin. Patience, Monsieur; only a moment more."

The marquis, leaning on his cane, was distorting his lips and wrinkling
his eyebrows.

"The lad's hopes were not disappointed. He had reached the renowned
shrine, knelt, paid his devotions, when, as he issued from the chapel
door, he