again the guest-chamber of the sutherland home was occupied.

how came it that a catholic priest lay under a protestant roof? how comes it that the new west ever ruthlessly strips reality naked of creed and prejudice and caste, ever breaks down the barrier relics of a mouldering past, ever forces recognition of men as individuals with individual rights, apart from sect and class and unmerited prerogatives? the catholic priest was wounded. the protestant home was near. manhood in protestant garb recognized manhood in roman cassock. necessity commanded. prejudice obeyed as it ever obeys in that vast land of untrameled freedom. so father holland was cared for in the protestant home with a tenderness which mr. sutherland would have repudiated. for my part, i have always thanked god for that leveling influence of the west. it pulls the fools from high places and awards only one crown—merit.

it was little fellow who had brought father[pg 434] holland, wounded and insensible, from the sioux camp.

"what of louis laplante's body, little fellow?" i asked, as soon as i had seen all the others set out for the settlement with father holland lying unconscious in the bottom of the canoe.

"the white man, i buried in the earth as the white men do—deep in the clay to the roots of the willow, so i buried the frenchman," answered the indian. "and the squaw, i weighted with stones at her feet; for they trod on the captives. and with stones i weighted her throat, which was marked like the deer's when the mountain cat springs. with the stones at her throat and her feet, the squaw, i rolled into the water."

"what, little fellow," i cried, remembering how i had seen him roll over and over through the camp-fire, with his hands locked on the sioux woman's throat, "did you kill the daughter of l'aigle?"

"non, monsieur; little fellow no bad indian. but the squaw threw a flint and the flint was poison, and my hands were on her throat, and the squaw fell into the ashes, and when little fellow arose she was dead. did she not slay la robe noire? did she not slay the white man before monsieur's eyes? did she not bind the white woman? did she not drag me over the ground like a dead stag? so my fingers caught hard in her throat, and when i arose she lay dead in the ashes. so i fled and hid till the[pg 435] tribe left. so i shoved her into the water and pushed her under, and she sank like a heavy rock. then i found the priest."

i had no reproaches to offer little fellow. he had only obeyed the savage instincts of a savage race, exacting satisfaction after his own fashion.

"the squaw threw a flint. the flint was poison. also the squaw threw this at little fellow, white man's paper with signs which are magic," and the indian handed me the sheet, which had fallen from the woman's pocket as she hurled her last weapon.

without fear of the magic so terrifying to him, i took the dirty, crumpled missive and unfolded it. the superscription of quebec citadel was at the top. with overwhelming revulsion came memory of poor louis laplante lying at the camp-fire in the gorge tossing a crumpled piece of paper wide of the flames, where the sioux squaw surreptitiously picked it up. the paper was foul and tattered almost beyond legibility; but through the stains i deciphered in delicate penciling these words:

"in memory of last night's carouse in lower town, (one favor deserves another, you know, and i got you free of that scrape), spike the gun of my friend the enemy. if r-f-s g—p—e, e. h—l-t-n, j—k mack, or any of that prig gang come prying round your camp for news, put them on the wrong track. i owe the whole —— —— set[pg 436] a score. pay it for me, and we'll call the loan square."

no name was signed; but the scene in the quebec club three years before, when eric had come to blows with colonel adderly, explained not only the authorship but louis' treachery. 'tis the misfortune of errant rogues like poor louis that to get out of one scrape ever involves them in a worse. now i understood the tumult of contradictory emotions that had wrought upon him when i had saved his life and he had resolved to undo the wrong to miriam.

little fellow put the small canoe to rights, and i had soon joined the others at the sutherland homestead. but for two days the priest lay as one dead, neither moaning nor speaking. on the morning of the third, though he neither opened his eyes nor gave sign of recognition, he asked for bread. then my heart gave a great bound of hope—for surely a man desiring food is recovering!—and i sent frances sutherland to him and went out among the trees above the river.

that sense of resilient relief which a man feels on discharging an impossible task, or throwing off too heavy a burden, came over me. miriam was rescued, the priest restored, and i dowered with god's best gift—the love of a noble, fair woman. hard duty's compulsion no longer spurred me; but my thoughts still drove in a wild whirl.[pg 437] there was a glassy reflection of a faded moon on the water, and daybreak came rustling through the trees which nodded and swayed overhead. a twittering of winged things arose in the branches, first only the cadence of a robin's call, an oriole's flute-whistle, the stirring wren's mellow note. then, suddenly, out burst from the leafed sprays a chorus of song that might have rivaled angels' melodies. the robin's call was a gust of triumph. the oriole's strain lilted exultant and a thousand throats gushed out golden notes.

"now god be praised for love and beauty and goodness—and above all—for frances—for frances," were the words that every bird seemed to be singing; though, indeed, the interpretation was only my heart's response. i know not how it was, but i found myself with hat off and bowed head, feeling a gratitude which words could not frame—for the splendor of the universe and the glory of god.

"rufus," called a voice more musical to my ear than any bird song; and frances was at my side with a troubled face. "he's conscious and talking, but i can't understand what he means. neither can miriam and eric. i wish you would come in."

i found the priest pale as the pillows against which he leaned, with glistening eyes gazing fixedly high above the lintel of the door. miriam, with her snow-white hair and sad-lined face, was fanning the air before him. at the other[pg 438] side stood eric with the boy in his arms. mr. sutherland and i entered the room abreast. for a moment his wistful gaze fell on the group about the bed. first he looked at eric and the child, then at miriam, and from miriam to me, then back to the child. the meaning of it all dawned, gleamed and broke in full knowledge upon him; and his face shone as one transfigured.

"the lord was with us," he muttered, stroking miriam's white hair. "praise be to god! now i can die in peace——"

"no, you can't, father," i cried impetuously.

"ye irriverent ruffian," he murmured with a flash of old mirth and a gentle pressure of my hand. "ye irriverent ruffian. peace! peace! i die in peace," and again the wistful eyes gazed above the door.

"rufus," he whispered softly, "where are they taking me?"

"taking you?" i asked in surprise; but frances sutherland's finger was on her lips, and i stopped myself before saying more.

"troth, yes, lad, where are they taking me? the northern tribes have heard not a word of the love of the lord; and i must journey to a far, far country."

at that the boy set up some meaningless child prattle. the priest heard him and listened.

"father," asked the child in the language of indians when referring to a priest, "father, if the good white father goes to a far, far away, who'll go to northern tribes?"[pg 439] "and a little child shall lead them," murmured the priest, thinking he, himself, had been addressed and feeling out blindly for the boy. eric placed the child on the bed, and father holland's wasted hands ran through the lad's tangled curls.

"a little child shall lead them," he whispered. "lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation. a light to lighten the gentiles—and a little child shall lead them."

then i first noticed the filmy glaze, as of glass, spreading slowly across the priest's white face. blue lines were on his temples and his lips were drawn. a cold chill struck to my heart, like icy steel. too well i read the signs and knew the summons; and what can love, or gratitude, do in the presence of that summons? miriam's face was hidden in her hands and she was weeping silently.

"the northern tribes know not the lord and i go to a far country; but a little child shall lead them!" repeated the priest.

"indeed, sir, he shall be dedicated to god," sobbed miriam. "i shall train him to serve god among the northern tribes. do not worry! god will raise up a servant——"

but her words were not heeded by the priest.

"rufus, lad," he said, gazing afar as before, "lift me up," and i took him in my arms.

"my sight is not so good as it was," he whispered. "there's a dimness before my face, lad![pg 440] can you see anything up there?" he asked, staring longingly forward.

"faith, now, what might they all be doing with stars for diadems? what for might the angels o' heaven be doin' going up and down betwane the blue sky and the green earth? faith, lad, 'tis daft ye are, a-changin' of me clothes! lave the black gown, lad! 'tis the badge of poverty and he was poor and knew not where to lay his head of a weary night! lave the black gown, i say! what for wu'd a powr irish priest be doin' a-wearin' of radiant white? where are they takin' me, rufus? not too near the light, lad! i ask but to kneel at the master's feet an' kiss the hem of his robe!"

there was silence in the room, but for the subdued sobbing of miriam. frances had caught the priest's wrists in both her hands, and had buried her face on the white coverlet. with his back to the bed, mr. sutherland stood by the window and i knew by the heaving of his angular shoulders that flood-gates of grief had opened. there was silence; but for the hard, sharp, quick, short breathings of the priest. a crested bird hopped to the window-sill with a chirp, then darted off through the quivering air with a glint of sunlight from his flashing wings. i heard the rustle of morning wind and felt the priest's face growing cold against my cheek.

"i must work the master's work," he whispered, in short broken breaths, "while it is day—for the night cometh—when[pg 441] no man—can work.—don't hold me back, lad—for i must go—to a far, far country—it's cold, cold, rufus—the way is—rugged—my feet are slipping—slipping—give a hand—lad!—praise to god—there's a resting-place—somewhere!—farewell—boy—be brave—farewell—i may not come back soon—but i must—journey—to—a——far——far——"

there was a little gasp for breath. his head felt forward and frances sobbed out, "he is gone! he is gone!"

and the warmth of pulsing life in the form against my shoulder gave place to the rigid cold of motionless death.

"may the lord god of israel receive the soul of his righteous servant," cried mr. sutherland in awesome tones.

with streaming eyes he came forward and helped me to lay the priest back.

then we all passed out from that chamber, made sacred by an invisible presence.