colonial dress with suspicion that he was made the excuse for separating
Romanist and Protestant.

Father Jogues saw her glance and read her thought, and silently accused
himself of cowardice for shrinking, in his maimed state, from her table
with the instincts of a gentle-born man. He explained, resting his hand
upon the chair which had been moved from the lady's to his servant's
table:--

"We have no wish to be honored above our desert, madame. We are only
humble missionaries, and often while carrying the truth have been
thankful for a meal of roots or berries in the woods."

"Your humility hurts me, monsieur. On the Acadian borders we have bitter
enmities, but the fort of La Tour shelters all faiths alike. We can
hardly atone to so good a man for having thrust him into our keep."

Father Jogues shook his head, and put aside this apology with a gesture.
The queen of France had knelt and kissed his mutilated hands, and the
courtiers of Louis had praised his martyrdom. But such ordeals of
compliment were harder for him to endure than the teeth and knives of
the Mohawks.

As soon as Le Rossignol saw the platters appearing, she carried her
mandolin to the lowest stair step and sat down to play: a quaint
minstrel, holding an instrument almost as large as herself. That part of
the household who lingered in the rooms above owned this accustomed
signal and appeared on the stairs: Antonia Bronck, still disturbed by
the small skeleton she had seen Zélie dressing for its grave; and an
elderly woman of great bulk and majesty, with sallow hair and face, who