piety of Jean Paul Victor. His missionary work had carried him far
north, where the cold burns men thin. The zeal which drove him north
and north and north over untracked regions, drove him until his body
failed, drove him even now, though his body was crippled.

A mighty yearning, and a still mightier self-contempt whipped him on,
and the school over which he was master groaned and suffered under his
régime. Father Anthony said gently: "Are there none among all your
lads, dear Father Victor, whom you find something more than imperfect
machines?"

The man of the north drew from a pocket of his robe a letter. His lean
fingers touched it almost with a caress.

"One. Pierre Ryder. He shall carry on my mission in the north. I, who
am silent, have done much; but Pierre will do more. I had to fight my
first battle to conquer my own stubborn soul, and the battle left me
weak for the great work in the snows, but Pierre will not fight that
battle, for I have trained him.

"This letter is for him. Shall we not carry it to him? For two days I
have not seen Pierre."

Father Anthony winced.

He said: "Do you deny yourself even the pleasure of the lad's company?
Alas, Father Victor, you forge your own spurs and goad yourself with
your own hands. What harm is there in being often with the lad?"

The sneer returned to the lips of Jean Paul Victor.