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Updated: May 2, 2025
George, down the Richelieu and thence through the deep snows of the Canadian winter, it boots little to make mention; neither to tell of that devotion of Raoul de Ligny to the newly-rescued lady, already reputed in camp rumor to be of noble English family. "That sous-lieutenant; he is tête montée regarding madame," said Pierre Noir one evening to Jean Breboeuf.
Jean Breboeuf," called out Du Mesne to that worthy, who presently appeared, breathing hard from his climb up the river bluff. "Know you what has been concluded?" "No; how should I guess?" replied Jean Breboeuf. "Or, at least, if I should guess, what else should I guess save that we are to take boat at once and set back to Montréal as fast as we may? But that what is this?
"An excellent hoe can be made from the blade bone of an elk, as the woman Wabana will perhaps show you if you like," said Pierre Noir, derisively, to his comrade of the paddle. "Even so," said Jean Breboeuf. "I make me the hoe. Could I have but thee, old Pierre, to sit on a stump and fright the crows away, I make no doubt that all would go well with our husbandry.
'Tis a good place for a sentinel to keep the crows from picking yet more bones than these which will embarrass you in your hoeing, Jean Breboeuf." "He says the Richelieu, Du Mesne," broke in John Law, musingly. "Very far away it sounds. I wonder if we shall ever see it again, with its little narrow farms.
With a laughing salutation, however, Pierre followed her into the blaze of firelight which poured from the heaped-up hearth. In spite of his disguise he was at once recognized by the man of the house as an Acadian, and the wanderers found an instant and hearty welcome. "We shall have to keep you hidden till we get you away!" said the villager, one Jean Breboeuf by name.
I am Ignatius Morat, of the Society of Jesus, and as to the people who have used me a little roughly, why, if you are sent upon the Iroquois mission, of course you know what to expect. I have nothing at all to complain of. Why, they have used me very much better than they did Father Jogues, Father Breboeuf, and a good many others whom I could mention.
In the year 1634, the three Jesuit Fathers, Breboeuf, Daniel, and Davost, succeeded in establishing themselves in the village of Ihonhatiria, in the land of the Hurons, and there, in a very poor little chapel dedicated to St. Joseph, they planted the seed of that interesting portion of the early Canadian Church, the Huron Mission. In a year after, they were joined by Pere Jogues.
When BREBOEUF, the French translator of the Pharsalia of Lucan, had completed the first book as it now appears, he at the same time composed a burlesque version, and sent both to the great arbiter of taste in that day, to decide which the poet should continue. The decision proved to be difficult.
The heroic explorers of the Far West were its sons, or went forth from its gates. Jogues looms up beside Breboeuf. Champlain and Frontenac open the luminous way along which have trod Dorchester and Dufferin. The blended glory of Wolfe and Montcalm is immortal, and the renown is hardly less of the young, ill-fated Montgomery. Where was there ever a greater sailor than Iberville?
Ignatius shared the same fate, and all the inhabitants, men, women, and children, were slain. Fathers Breboeuf and Lalemant were included in the general massacre, but their deaths were marked by an exceptional refinement of barbarity.
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