"And so you are from that country of which I have heard so much of
late--that France across the sea?" The Chevalier's tones expressed
genuine interest. He could now account for the presence of the
mutilated hand. Here was a man who had seen strange adventures in a
strange land. "New France!" musingly.

"Yes, my son; and I am all eagerness to return."

The Chevalier laughed pleasantly. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but I
confess that it excites my amusement to be called 'son' by one who can
not be older than myself."

"It is a habit I acquired with the savages. And yet, I have known men
of fifty to be young," said the Jesuit, his brows sinking. "I have
known men of thirty to be old. Youth never leaves us till we have
suffered. I am old, very old." He was addressing some inner thought
rather than the Chevalier.

"Well, I am thirty, myself," said the Chevalier with assumed lightness.
"I am neither young nor old. I stand on the threshold. I can not say
that I have suffered since I have known only physical discomforts. But
to call me 'son' . . ."

"Well, then," replied the priest, smiling, "since the disparity in
years is so small as to destroy the dignity of the term, I shall call
you my brother. All men are brothers; it is the Word."

"That is true." How familiar this priest's eyes were! "But some are
rich and some are poor; beggars and thieves and cutthroats; nobly and