sufficient to put the Puritan in good
humor, and he was soon diligently scouring nooks and corners with scent
for provender as keen as that of a pointer dog. I noticed with
curiosity how the motionless Jesuit followed the movements of his
hulking figure as he passed back and forth amid the shadows, his dark
eyes filled with wonder and aversion.

"'Tis truly a strange thing, Monsieur," the latter remarked soberly,
"to meet with one pretending love for Christ, yet who hateth Mother
Church, and dares make open mock of Her most holy offices. Thou didst
name thy comrade Puritan?"

"Ay, of the same breed as the Huguenots of your country, rebels against
the Pope."

He made the sign of the Cross.

"The curse of Holy Church is upon them all; they are condemned to
hell," he exclaimed with fervor. "A vile pestilence to be stamped out;
yet it would afford me joy beyond words could I save this man's soul
from eternal torture, and lead him back into the true faith. Mother of
God! what was it moved yonder?"

I glanced quickly about toward where he pointed, seeing the shadowed
figure of our forgotten prisoner.

"'Tis only one of the savages we have captured and bound. He guarded
this altar, ministering to the superstition of the tribe; an old man,
perchance the very chief priest who held you in the flame."

I anticipated seeing the light of revenge leap into his eyes, but,
instead, a rush of pity softened them, and before I could extend my
hand to interfere, he crept across the intervening space, and bent over
the fellow.

"A most cruel turn on the rope, Monsieur," he exclaimed, busying
himself at the knot. "Surely the man will rest easier, and no less
safely, with back propped against the rock. Nay, have no fear; I will
keep him tied fast if that be your wish, yet I seek to relieve his pain
so I may profitably converse with him upon the needs of his soul."

"With him! Saint George! he had small enough mercy on you."

"That is of the past, and abideth not in memory," and the white hands
held up the crucifix into the light. "He who died on this Cross
prayed, 'Father forgive, they know not what they do,' and who is Andre
Lafossier, to be harsher than his Master?"

Not until after he had prayed long and earnestly, holding the silver
cross ever before the wicked eyes of the unrepentant savage, did he
permit me to bathe his disfigured limbs, dressing them as best I could
with what rude materials I found at hand. Even