girl at the Seigneury. They knew the girl for a Protestant and an
Englishwoman, and that in itself was a sort of sin. And now every ear
was alert to hear what the Cure should say, what denunciation should come
from his lips when the covering was removed. For that it should be
removed was the determination of every man present. Virtue was at its
supreme height in Pontiac that day. Lajeunesse the blacksmith, Muroc the
charcoal-man, and twenty others were as intent upon preserving a high
standard of morality, by force of arms, as if another Tarquin were
harbouring shame and crime in this cedar shed.

The whole thing came home to Francois with a choking, smothering force.
Art, now in its very birth in his heart and life, was to be garroted. He
had been unconscious of all the wicked things said about him: now he knew
all!

"Remove the canvas from the figure," said the Cure sternly. Stubbornness
and resentment filled Francois's breast. He did not stir.

"Do you oppose the command of the Church?" said the Cure, still more
severely. "Remove the canvas."

"It is my work--my own: my idea, my stone, and the labour of my hands,"
said Francois doggedly.

The Cure turned to Lajeunesse and made a motion towards the statue.
Lajeunesse, with a burning righteous joy, snatched off the canvas.
There was one instant of confusion in the faces of all-of absolute
silence.

Then the crowd gasped. The Cure's hat came off, and every other hat