Darkness came, and he was in the woods, stumbling here and there,
driven as by a strong wind, scorched as by a flame. At last he sank
down at the foot of a great oak-tree, in a place he knew well, even in
the dark: he could go no farther.

"D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

It whispered in his ears, and seemed for a little to drown the haunting
notes of the violin. He, the Calvinist, the practical man, who
believed in two things outside the visible world, a great hell and a
small heaven, now felt spirits about him, saw visions that were not of
this life. His ancestor, the Huguenot, stood before him, in cloak and
band; in one hand a Bible, in the other a drawn dagger. His dark eyes
pierced like a sword-thrust; his lips moved; and though no sound came,
Jacques knew the words they framed.

"Tenez foi! Keep the faith that I brought across the sea, leaving for
it fair fields and vineyards, castle and tower and town. Keep the
faith for which I bled, for which I died here in the wilderness,
leaving only these barren acres, and the stone that bears my last word,
my message to those who should come after me. Keep the faith for which
my fair wife faded and died, far away from home and friends! Let no
piping or jigging or profane sound be in thy house, but let it be the
house of fasting and of prayer, even as my house was. Keep faith! If
thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee!"

Who else was there,--what gentle, pallid ghost, with sad, faint eyes?
The face was dim and shadowy, for he had been a little child when his
mother died. She was speaking too, but what were these words she was