Already I am tasting the luxury of idleness.”

“A dangerous luxury, M’sieu. If I might be permitted to advise––”

“Yes, yes, Father,––I know, I know. But what is the use? You are a priest, I am a soldier. Yours is penance, mine is fighting; yours is praying, mine is singing,––every man to his own. And when you priests have got your pagans converted, we soldiers will clean up the mess with our muskets. And now, Father, good day, and may God be with you.”

The priest’s face was unmoved as he looked after the retreating figure. He had watched Menard grow from a roistering lieutenant into a rigid captain, and he knew his temper too well 14 to mind the flicks of banter. But before the soldier had passed from earshot, he called after him.

Menard turned back. “What now, good Father? A mass for my soul, or a last absolution before I plunge into my term of dissolute idleness?”

“Neither, my son,” replied the priest, smiling. “Is any of your idleness to be shared with another?”

“Certainly, Father.”

“I am bringing a picture to the College.”

“I have no money, Father. I should be a sorry patron.”

“No, no, M’sieu; it is not a patron I seek. It is the advice of one who has seen and judged the master work of Paris. The painting has been shown to none as yet.”

“But you have seen it?”

“Yes, yes, I have seen it. Come with me, M’sieu; it is at my room.”

They walked together to the cell, six feet long by five wide, where Father Claude slept when in Quebec. It was bare of all save a hard cot. A bale, packed in rough cloth and tied with rope, lay on the bed. Father Claude opened the bundle, while Menard leaned against the wall, 15 and drew out his few personal belongings and his portable altar before he reached the flat, square package at the bottom. There was a touch of colour in his cheeks and a nervousness in the movement of his hands as he untied the flaxen strings, stripped off the cloth, and held the picture up to Menard’s view.

It was a full-length portrait in oil of a young Indian woman, holding a small cross in her right hand, and gazing at it with bent head. Her left hand was spread upon her breast. She wore a calico chemise reaching below her knees, and leggings, and moccasins. A heavy robe was thrown over the top of her head, falling on the sides and back to within a foot of the ground. In the middle background was a stream, with four Indians in a canoe. A tiny stone chapel stood on the bank at the extreme right.

Father Claude’s hand trembled as he supported the canvas upon the cot, and his eyes wavered from Menard to the picture, and back again.

“It is not altogether completed,” he said, nervously. “Of course the detail will be worked out more fully, and the cross should be given a warmer radiance. Perhaps a light showing through the windows of the chapel––” 16

“Who is it?” asked Menard.

“It is Catherine Outasoren, the Lily of the Onondagas,” replied the priest; “the noblest woman that ever rose from the depths of Indian superstition.”

Menard’s eyes rested on an obscure signature in a lower corner, “C. de C.”

“You certainly have reason to be proud of the work. But may I ask about the perspective? Should the maiden appear larger than the chapel?”

The priest gazed at the painting with an unsettled expression.

“Yes,” he said, “perhaps you are right, M’sieu. At any rate I will give the matter thought and prayer.”

“And the Indians,” Menard questioned, “in the canoe; are they coming toward the chapel or going away from it? It seems to me that any doubt on that point should be removed.”

“Ah,” said the priest; “that very doubt is allegorical. It typifies the workings of the human mind when first confronted by the truth. When the seeker first beholds the light, as shown through the devotion of such a woman as Catherine Outasoren, there arises in his mind––” 17

“Very true, very true! But I never yet have seen a canoe-load of Indians in doubt whether they were moving forward or backward.”

Father Claude held the canvas at arm’s length and gazed long at it.

“Tell me, M’sieu,” he said at last, “do you think it deserving of a place in the College?”

“I do not see why not.”

“And you think I would be justified in laying a request before the Superior?”

Menard shrugged his shoulders.

“That is your decision, Father.”

“I never can fully thank you, my son, for your kindness in looking on my humble work. I will not decide to-day. First I must add foliage in the foreground. And I will give it my earnest prayer.”

Menard said farewell and went out, leaving the priest gazing at the picture. He strolled back toward the citadel, stopping now and then to greet an old friend or a chance acquaintance. When he arrived at the headquarters in the citadel he found Danton, a brown-haired young lieutenant of engineers, gazing at a heap of plans and other papers on the table.

“Well, Captain Menard,” was his greeting, 18 “I’d give half of last year’s pay, if I ever get it, to feel as lazy as you look.”

“You are lazy enough,” growled Menard.

“That begs the question. It is not how lazy a man is, but how lazy he gets a chance to be.”

“If you’d been through what I have this spring, you’d deserve a rest.”

“You must have had a stirring time,” said the Lieutenant. “Major Provost has promised to let me go out with the line when the campaign starts. I’ve not had a brush since I came over.”

Menard gave him a quizzical smile before he replied, “You’ll get brushes enough.”

“By the way, the Major wants to see you.”

“Does he?” said Menard.

He lighted his short pipe with a coal from the fire and walked out.

Menard did not go at once to see Major Provost, the Commandant. He had already handed in his report at the citadel. It was probable that this was some new work for him. He had just settled his mind to the prospect of a rest, the first since that mad holiday, seven years before, when word had come that his lieutenant’s commission was on the way. That was at Three Rivers. He wanted to idle, to waste a few weeks for the sheer delight of extravagance, but his blood did not flow more quickly at the wish. He was an older man by a score of years––or was it only seven?

He lingered on the square. The black-eyed children, mostly dirty and ragged (for the maids whom the King had sent over by shiploads to his colonists had not developed into the most diligent and neat housewives) tumbled about his feet. He allowed himself to be drawn into 20 their play. They had no awe of his uniform, for it was worn and frayed. He had not yet taken the trouble to get out his fresher coat and breeches and boots. He thought of this, and was again amused. It was another sign of age. The time had been when his first care after arriving in Quebec was to don his rich house uniform and polished scabbard, and step gaily to the Major’s house to sun himself in the welcome of the Major’s pretty wife, who had known his uncle, the Sieur de Vauban, at La Rochelle. Now he was back in Quebec from months on the frontier, he was summoned to the Major’s house, and yet he stayed and laughed at the children. For the Major’s wife was older, too, and the vivacity of her youth was thinning out and uncovering