He was himself again in an instant. He had been in a kind of dream. It
seemed a long time since he had entered the church--in reality but a few
moments. He caught his moustache in his fingers, and turned on his heel
with a musing smile. His spurs clinked as he went down the aisle; and,
involuntarily, he tapped a boot-leg with his riding-whip. The singing
ceased. His spurs made the only sound. The rustics at the door fell
back before him. He had to go up three steps to reach the threshold. As
he stood on the top one he paused and turned round.

So, this was home: this church more so even than the Court hard by.
Here his ancestors--for how long he did not know, probably since the time
of Edward III--idled time away in the dust; here Gaston Belward had been
sleeping in effigy since Naseby Field. A romantic light came into his
face. Again, why not? Even in the Hudson's Bay country and in the Rocky
Mountains, he had been called, "Tivi, The Man of the Other." He had been
counted the greatest of Medicine Men--one of the Race: the people of the
Pole, who lived in a pleasant land, gifted as none others of the race of
men. Not an hour before Jacques had asked him where he got "the other."
No man can live in the North for any time without getting the strain
of its mystery and romance in him. Gaston waved his hand to the tomb,
and said half-believingly:

"Gaston Robert Belward, come again to your kingdom."

He turned to go out, and faced the rector of the parish,--a bent, benign-
looking man,--who gazed at him astonished. He had heard the strange
speech. His grave eyes rested on the stalwart stranger with courteous
inquiry. Gaston knew who it was. Over his left brow there was a scar.
He had heard of that scar before. When the venerable Archdeacon Varcoe
was tutor to Ian and Robert Belward, Ian, in a fit of anger, had thrown a