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Updated: June 4, 2025
Upon this occasion Althea was peculiarly impressed; not so much by the blaze of light, the brightness and perfume of flowers, nor by the commanding attitude of the aged missioner, who stood grasping the mission cross and about to speak. It was the sudden memory of her uncle, John Temple, who so loved and practiced this same religion that touched her soul.
In the days of his practice he had struck a terrific blow for his weight. At the Athletic Club he had been noted for a subtle strategy and a cleverness of defence that were his own. But he felt that he had grown rusty during the past year and a half. This thought was in his mind when he tapped the Missioner on the end of his ruddy nose.
As the Missioner gripped Philip's hand his thin fingers had in them the strength of steel. "Ladue told me that she had found her man," he said. "May God bless you, my son! It was I, Father George, who baptized her years and years ago. For me she made Adare House a home from the time she was old enough to put her tiny arms about my neck and lisp my name.
And" Jean looked about him cautiously again, and whispered low "if you see anything about the dead missioner that you do not understand THINK OF JEAN DE GRAVOIS!" He rose to his feet and bent over Jan's white face. "I am going the Athabasca way to-day," he finished.
"I understand, Jan Thoreau, and I praise the blessed Virgin that it was Jean de Gravois who killed the missioner out upon the ice of Lac Bain!" "But the other," persisted Jan, "the other, which says that I " "Stop!" cried Jean sharply. He came around the table and seized Jan's hands in the iron grip of his lithe, brown fingers. "That is something for you to forget.
But there were heads that turned, none the less heads of tame sailors from the ships, for whose service the mission struggled to exist, and a few sleek faces of shore folk; and, on the low platform at the upper end of the hall, the black-coated, whiskered missioner who presided over the gathering craned his neck to look at the new-comer, without ceasing to sing with vigor.
What lay ahead of him was inevitable. After all, there is something unspeakable in the might and glory of dying for one's country or for a great love. And Jolly Roger McKay felt that strength as he strode through the blackness, and knocked at the door, and went in to face Nada and the little old gray-haired Missioner in the lampglow.
His eyes were keen and his hands steady, so that he was doing splendid practice shooting with both rifle and pistol, and each day when the Missioner insisted on their bout with the gloves he found it more and more difficult to hold himself in.
The little missioner, instead of Kent, was betraying a bit of nervousness. "There are matters, my son some few matters which you will want attended to. Shall we not talk about them?" "You mean " "Your people, first. I remember that once you told me there was no one. But surely there is some one somewhere." Kent shook his head. "There is no one now.
The black night was filled with the rumble and roar and the hissing lightning-flare of pent-up elements suddenly freed of bondage. And in the darkness and tumult the Missioner stood, a little gray man of tragedy, of deeply buried secrets, a man of prayer and of faith in God his heart whispering for guidance and mercy as he waited. The minutes passed. Five. Ten.
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