“I heard him, yes; for all his officers stood by.  La Hontan was there, too, and that pet of La Hontan’s, Baron de Saint-Castin’s half-breed son, of Pentegoet.”

The martial note in the officer’s voice sunk to contempt.  Gaspard was diverted from the governor to recognize, with the speechless perception of an untrained mind, that jealousy which men established in the world have of very young men.  The male instinct of predominance is fierce even in saints.  Le Moyne de Sainte-Helene, though of the purest stock in New France, had no prejudice against a half-breed.

“How is Mademoiselle Clementine?” inquired Gaspard, arriving at the question in natural sequence.  “You will see her oftener now than when you had to ride from the fort.”

The veins looked black in his visitor’s face.  “Ask the little Saint-Castin.  Boys stand under windows and talk to women now.  Men have to be reconnoitering the enemy.”

“Monsieur Anselm de Saint-Castin is the son of a good fighter,” observed Gaspard.  “It is said the New England men hate his very name.”

“Anselm de Saint-Castin is barely eighteen years old.”

“It is the age of Mademoiselle Clementine.”

The old habitant drew his three-legged stool to the hearth corner, and took the liberty of sitting down as the talk was prolonged.  He noticed the leaden color which comes of extreme weariness and depression dulling Sainte-Helene’s usually dark and rosy skin.  Gaspard had heard that this young man was quickest afoot, readiest with his weapon, most untiring in the dance, and keenest for adventure of all the eight brothers in his noble family.  He had done the French arms credit in the expedition to Hudson Bay and many another brush with their enemies.  The fire was burning high and clear, lighting rafters and their curious brown tassels of smoked meat, and making the crucifix over the bed shine out the whitest spot in a smoke-stained room.

“Father Gaspard,” inquired Sainte-Helene suddenly, “did you ever hear of such a thing as a loup-garou?”

The old habitant felt terror returning with cold feet up his back and crowding its blackness upon him through the windows.  Yet as he rolled his eyes at the questioner he felt piqued at such ignorance of his natural claims.

“Was I not born on the island of Orleans, monsieur?”

Everybody knew that the island of Orleans had been from the time of its discovery the abode of loups-garous, sorcerers, and all those uncanny cattle that run in the twilights of the world.  The western point of its wooded ridge, which parts the St. Lawrence for twenty-two miles, from Beauport to Beaupre, lay opposite Gaspard’s door.

“Oh, you were born on the island of Orleans?”

“Yes, monsieur,” answered Gaspard, with the pride we take in distinction of any kind.

“But you came to live in Beauport parish.”

“Does a goat turn to a pig, monsieur, because you carry it to the north shore?”