blanket, and his bags, pushed his way unconcernedly through the gaping
crowd and knocked loudly at the door.

"Who is he, then?" asked De Catinat. "A Canadian? I am almost one
myself. I had as many friends on one side of the sea as on the other.
Perchance I know him. There are not so many white faces yonder, and in
two years there was scarce one from the Saguenay to Nipissing that I had
not seen."

"Nay, he is from the English provinces, Amory. But he speaks our
tongue. His mother was of our blood."

"And his name?"

"Is Amos--Amos--ah, those names! Yes, Green, that was it--Amos Green.
His father and mine have done much trade together, and now his son, who,
as I understand, has lived ever in the woods, is sent here to see
something of men and cities. Ah, my God! what can have happened now?"

A sudden chorus of screams and cries had broken out from the passage
beneath, with the shouting of a man and the sound of rushing steps.
In an instant De Catinat was half-way down the stairs, and was staring
in amazement at the scene in the hall beneath.

Two maids stood, screaming at the pitch of their lungs, at either side.
In the centre the aged man-servant Pierre, a stern old Calvinist, whose
dignity had never before been shaken, was spinning round, waving his
arms, and roaring so that he might have been heard at the Louvre.
Attached to the gray worsted stocking which covered his fleshless calf
was a fluffy black hairy ball, with one little red eye glancing up, and