"Our Swiss says," stated Zélie, with a respectful heretic's sparing of
this priest, "that it is the child of D'Aulnay de Charnisay." And she
added no comment. The soldiers set their spades to last year's sod, cut
an oblong wound, and soon had the earth heaped out and a grave made.
Father Jogues, perplexed, and heavy of heart for the sins of his
enlightened as well as his savage children, concluded to consecrate the
baby's bed. The Huguenot soldiers stood sullenly by while a Romish
service went on. They or their fathers had been driven out of France by
the bitterness of that very religion which Father Jogues expressed in
sweetness. They had not the broad sympathy of their lady, who could
excuse and even stoop to mend a priest's cassock; and they made their
pause as brief as possible.

While the spat and clink of spades built up one child's hillock, Zélie
was on her knees beside another some distance from it, scraping away
dead leaves. Her lady had bid her look how this grave fared, and she
noticed fondly that fern was beginning to curl above the buried lad's
head. The heir of the La Tours lay with his feet toward the outcast of
the Charnisays, but this was a chance arrangement. Soldiers and
servants of the house were scattered about the frontier burial ground,
and Zélie noted to report to her lady that winter had partly effaced and
driven below the surface some recent graves. Instead of being marked by
a cross, each earthen door had a narrow frame of river stones built
around it.

Van Corlaer left the drowned falls and passed his own tents, and waited
outside the knee-high inclosure for Father Jogues. The missionary, in
his usual halo of prayer, dwelt upon the open breviary. Many a tree
along the Mohawk valley yet bore the name of Jesu which he had carved in
its bark, as well as rude crosses. Such marks helped him to turn the