The stranger who had attracted Racine’s attention was a tall thin man, with a high aquiline nose, stern fierce gray eyes, peeping out from under tufted brows, and a countenance so lined and marked by age, care, and stress of weather that it stood out amid the prim courtier faces which surrounded it as an old hawk might in a cage of birds of gay plumage.  He was clad in a sombre-coloured suit which had become usual at court since the king had put aside frivolity and Fontanges, but the sword which hung from his waist was no fancy rapier, but a good brass-hilted blade in a stained leather-sheath, which showed every sign of having seen hard service.  He had been standing near the door, his black-feathered beaver in his hand, glancing with a half-amused, half-disdainful expression at the groups of gossips around him, but at the sign from the minister of war he began to elbow his way forward, pushing aside in no very ceremonious fashion all who barred his passage.

Louis possessed in a high degree the royal faculty of recognition.  “It is years since I have seen him, but I remember his face well,” said he, turning to his minister.  “It is the Comte de Frontenac, is it not?”

“Yes, sire,” answered Louvois; “it is indeed Louis de Buade, Comte de Frontenac, and formerly governor of Canada.”

“We are glad to see you once more at our lever,” said the monarch, as the old nobleman stooped his head, and kissed the white hand which was extended to him.  “I hope that the cold of Canada has not chilled the warmth of your loyalty.”

“Only death itself, sire, would be cold enough for that.”

“Then I trust that it may remain to us for many long years.  We would thank you for the care and pains which you have spent upon our province, and if we have recalled you, it is chiefly that we would fain hear from your own lips how all things go there.  And first, as the affairs of God take precedence of those of France, how does the conversion of the heathen prosper?”

“We cannot complain, sire.  The good fathers, both Jesuits and Recollets, have done their best, though indeed they are both rather ready to abandon the affairs of the next world in order to meddle with those of this.”

“What say you to that, father?” asked Louis, glancing, with a twinkle of the eyes, at his Jesuit confessor.

“I say, sire, that when the affairs of this world have a bearing upon those of the next, it is indeed the duty of a good priest, as of every other good Catholic, to guide them right.”

“That is very true, sire,” said De Frontenac, with an angry flush upon his swarthy cheek; “but as long as your Majesty did me the honour to intrust those affairs no my own guidance, I would brook no interference in the performance of my duties, whether the meddler were clad in coat or cassock.”

“Enough, sir, enough!” said Louis sharply.  “I had asked you about the missions.”