One evening, just as they were about to light the fire, the warrior who had been posted as sentinel at the edge of the forest gave a signal and a few moments later a tall, spare figure in a black robe with a belt about the waist appeared.  Robert’s heart gave a great leap.  The wearer of the black robe was an elderly man with a thin face, ascetic and high.  The captive recognized him at once.  It was Father Philibert Drouillard, the priest, whose life had already crossed his more than once, and it was not strange to see him there, as the French priests roamed far through the great wilderness of North America, seeking to save the souls of the savages.

Langlade, when he beheld Father Drouillard, sprang at once to his feet, and Robert also arose quickly.  The priest saw young Lennox, but he did not speak to him just yet, accepting the food that the Owl offered him, and sitting down with his weary feet to the fire that had now been lighted.

“You have traveled far, Father?” said Langlade, solicitously.

“From the shores of Lake Huron.  I have converts there, and I must see that they do not grow weak in the faith.”

“All men, red and white, respect Philibert Drouillard.  Why are you alone, Father?”

“A runner from the Christian village came with me until yesterday.  Then I sent him back, because I would not keep him too long from his people.  I can go the rest of the way alone, as it will be but a few days before I meet a French force.”

Then he turned to Robert for the first time.

“And you, my son,” he said, “I am sorry it has fared thus with you.”

“It has not gone badly, Father,” said Robert.  “Monsieur de Langlade has treated me well.  I have naught to complain of save that I’m a prisoner.”

“It is a good lad, Charles Langlade,” said the priest to the partisan, “and I am glad he has suffered no harm at your hands.  What do you purpose to do with him?”

“It is my present plan to take him to the village in which Madame Langlade, otherwise the Dove, abides.  He will be her prisoner until a further plan develops, and you know how well she watches.”

A faint smile passed over the thin face of the priest.

“It is true, Charles Langlade,” he said.  “That which escapes the eyes of the Dove is very small, but I would take the lad with me to Montreal.”

“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.  I have met him before, as I told you, and I would save him.  You know not what may happen in the Indian village, if you chance to be away.”

“The Dove will have charge of him.  She can be trusted.”