g and steady east wind had driven away all vestige of the storm.
The sea was running westward in long and swinging leaps, colorful,
dazzling, foam-crested. The singing air was spangled with frosty
brine-mist; a thousand flashes were cast back from the city windows;
the flower of the lily fluttered from a hundred masts. A noble vision,
truly, was the good ship Saint Laurent, standing out boldly against the
clear horizon and the dark green of the waters. High up among the
spars and shrouds swarmed the seamen. Canvas flapped and bellied as it
dropped, from arm to arm, sending the fallen snow in a flurry to the
decks. On the poop-deck stood the black-gowned Jesuits, the sad-faced
nuns, several members of the great company, soldiers and adventurers.
The wharves and docks and piers were crowded with the curious:
bright-gowned peasants, soldiers from the fort, merchants, and a
sprinkling of the noblesse. It was not every day that a great ship
left the harbor on so long and hazardous a voyage.

The Chevalier leaned against the railing, dreamily noting the white
faces in the sunshine. He was still vaguely striving to convince
himself that he was in the midst of some dream. He was conscious of an
approaching illness, too. When would he wake? . . . and where? A hand
touched his arm. He turned and saw Brother Jacques. There was a
kindly expression on the young priest's face. He now saw the Chevalier
in a new light. It was not as the gay cavalier, handsome, rich,
care-free; it was as a man who, suffering a mortal stroke, carried his
head high, hiding the wound like a Spartan.

"A last look at France, Monsieur le Chevalier, for many a day to come."

The Chevalier nodded.

"For many days, indeed. . . . And who among us shall look upon France
again in the days to come? It is a long way from the Candlestick in
Paris to the deck of the Saint Laurent. The widest stretch of fancy
would not have brought us together again. There is, then, some
invisible hand that guides us surely and certainly to our various ends,
as the English poet says." The Chevalier was speaking to a thought
rather than to Brother Jacques. "Who among us shall look upon these
shores again?"

"What about these shores, Paul?" asked Victor, coming up. "They are
not very engaging just now."

"But it is France, Victor; it is France; and from any part of France
Paris may be reached." He turned his face toward the north, in the
direction of Paris.