The Chase of Saint-Castin and Other Stories of the French in the New World by Mary Hartwell Catherwood
page 13 of 166 (07%)
page 13 of 166 (07%)
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the swelling forest let heaven come strangely close to the ground. It
was like standing on a mountain plateau in a gray dazzle of clouds. Madockawando's daughter dipped her pail full of the clear water. The appreciative motion of her eyelashes and the placid lines of her face told how she enjoyed the limpid plaything. But Saint-Castin understood well that she had not come out to boil sap entirely for the love of it. Father Petit believed the time was ripe for her ministry to the Abenaqui women. He had intimated to the seignior what land might be convenient for the location of a convent. The community was now to be drawn around her. Other girls must take vows when she did. Some half-covered children, who stalked her wherever she went, stood like terra-cotta images at a distance and waited for her next movement. The girl had just finished her dipping when she looked up and met the steady gaze of Saint-Castin. He was in an anguish of dread that she would run. But her startled eyes held his image while three changes passed over her,--terror and recognition and disapproval. He stepped more into view, a white-and-gold apparition, which scattered the Abenaqui children to their mothers' camp-fires. "I am Saint-Castin," he said. "Yes, I have many times seen you, sagamore." Her voice, shaken a little by her heart, was modulated to such softness that the liquid gutturals gave him a distinct new pleasure. "I want to ask your pardon for my friend's rudeness, when you warmed and fed us in your lodge." |
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