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It was but a fleeting fancy, gone when Adam Colfax hailed them from the deck of the Independence. The eyes of the Puritan still burned with zealous fire, and those of Drouillard beside him showed the same spirit. "What do you think of the landing?" he said to the five collectively. "Can we force it now? What do you think?"
The bodies of all the fallen warriors were buried the next day, and decent burial was also given to Jumonville. But that of the Seigneur de Chatillard was still lying in state when Willet and the rangers left. "If you wish," said the hunter to Father Drouillard, "I can procure you a pass through our lines, and you can return that way to the city. We don't make war on priests."
I've lived long enough and seen enough to know that each church holds good men, and unless I make a big mistake, and I don't think I make any mistake at all, Father Drouillard is not only a good man, but he has a head full of sense and he's as brave as a lion, too." "Lots of priests are," said Robert. "Nobody ever endured the Indian tortures better than they.
They were all soon gathered on the deck of the little Independence, and the faces of the two scouts who came last were very grave. "What do you think of it, Lyon?" said Adam Colfax. Lyon gave his head one brief shake. "We're right in the middle of the biggest hornet's nest the country ever saw," he replied. "Looks ez ef we couldn't git past without another terrible fight." "And you, Drouillard?"
Robert, knowing the great power of the church in Canada, was curious about Father Drouillard, whom he knew at once to be no ordinary man. His lean ascetic face seemed to show the spirit that had marked Jogues and Goupil and those other early priests whom no danger nor Indian torture could daunt.
"I thank you," said Father Drouillard, "but I do not need it. It is easy for me to go into Quebec, whenever I choose, but, for a day or two, my duty will lie here. To-morrow we bury the Seigneur, and after that must put this household in order. Though one of the Bostonnais, you are a good man, David Willet. Take care of yourself, and of the lad, Robert Lennox."
His eyes were set and stern, but, as the sun fell in floods of burnished gold on the cathedral and the convents, his accusing look softened, became sad, then pitying, then hopeful. "A wonderful sight, Father Drouillard," said Willet, who stood at his elbow and who also gazed at Quebec with feelings quite his own. "I've seen it before, but I can never see it too often." "Mr.
He had with him Adolphe Drouillard, a brave and devoted French Creole from New Orleans; James Tilden, a Virginian; Henry Eckford, a south Carolinian; Charles Turner, a New Yorker, and William Truesdale, and Eben Barber, New Englanders, and besides these, Nat Thrale and Ned Lyon, the best of the scouts and guides since the disappearance of the five, were present.
The churches also increased in numbers, and at one point the Frontenac stopped and took on a priest, a tall strongly built man of middle years, with a firm face. De Galisonnière introduced him as Father Philibert Drouillard, and Robert felt his penetrating gaze upon his face. Then it shifted to Willet and Tayoga, resting long upon the Onondaga.
"Nay, Father, that cannot be. I am second to nobody in respect for Holy Church, and for you, Father Drouillard, whose good deeds are known to all, and whose bad deeds are none, but those who fight the war must use their judgment in fighting it, and the prisoners are theirs." Father Drouillard sighed. "It is so, Charles Langlade," he said, "but, as I have said, the prisoner is a good youth.
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