“It is not like France,” said he.  “It is not green and peaceful and smiling, but it is grand and strong and stern like Him who made it.  As I have weakened, Adele, my soul has been less clogged by my body, and I have seen clearly much that has been dim to me.  And it has seemed to me, my children, that all this country of America, not Canada alone, but the land where you were born also, Amos Green, and all that stretches away towards yonder setting sun, will be the best gift of God to man.  For this has He held it concealed through all the ages, that now His own high purpose may be wrought upon it.  For here is a land which is innocent, which has no past guilt to atone for, no feud, nor ill custom, nor evil of any kind.  And as the years roll on all the weary and homeless ones, all who are stricken and landless and wronged, will turn their faces to it, even as we have done.  And hence will come a nation which will surely take all that is good and leave all that is bad, moulding and fashioning itself into the highest.  Do I not see such a mighty people, a people who will care more to raise their lowest than to exalt their richest—­who will understand that there is more bravery in peace than in war, who will see that all men are brothers, and whose hearts will not narrow themselves down to their own frontiers, but will warm in sympathy with every noble cause the whole world through?  That is what I see, Adele, as I lie here beside a shore upon which I shall never set my feet, and I say to you that if you and Amory go to the building of such a nation then indeed your lives are not misspent.  It will come, and when it comes, may God guard it, may God watch over it and direct it!” His head had sunk gradually lower upon his breast and his lids had fallen slowly over his eyes which had been looking away out past Point Levi at the rolling woods and the far-off mountains.  Adele gave a quick cry of despair and threw her arms round the old man’s neck.

“He is dying, Amory, he is dying!” she cried.

A stern Franciscan friar, who had been telling his beads within a few paces of them, heard the cry and was beside them in an instant.

“He is indeed dying,” he said, as he gazed down at the ashen face.  “Has the old man had the sacraments of the Church?”

“I do not think that he needs them,” answered De Catinat evasively.

“Which of us do not need them, young man!” said the friar sternly.  “And how can a man hope for salvation without them?  I shall myself administer them without delay.”

But the old Huguenot had opened his eyes, and with a last flicker of strength he pushed away the gray-hooded figure which bent over him.

“I left all that I love rather than yield to you,” he cried, “and think you that you can overcome me now?”

The Franciscan started back at the words, and his hard suspicious eyes shot from De Catinat to the weeping girl.

“So!” said he.  “You are Huguenots, then!”