the priest opened the door, swept against him like a wind so warm that a
moisture came to his eyes. "Iberville!" he said, in a glad voice.
"Pierre!"

The violin was down on the instant. "My dear abbe!" he cried. And then
the two embraced.

"How do you like my entrance?" said the young man. "But I had to
provide my own music!" He laughed, and ran his hands affectionately down
the arms of the priest.

"I had been playing the same old chansonette--"

"With your original variations?"

"With my poor variations, just before you came in; and that done--"

"Yes, yes, abbe, I know the rest: prayers for the safe return of the
sailor, who for four years or nearly has been learning war in King
Louis's ships, and forgetting the good old way of fighting by land, at
which he once served his prentice time--with your blessing, my old tutor,
my good fighting abbe! Do you remember when we stopped those Dutchmen on
the Richelieu, and you--"

The priest interrupted with a laugh. "But, my dear Iberville--"

"It was 'Pierre' a minute gone; 'twill be 'Monsieur Pierre le Moyne of
Iberville' next," the other said in mock reproach, as he went to the
fire.