Onondaga men and women received Father Philibert Drouillard, and knelt for his willing blessing.  Despite the memories of Champlain and Frontenac, despite the long and honored alliance with the English, the French missionaries, whom no hardships could stop, had made converts among the Onondagas, an enlightened nation with kindly and gentle instincts, and of all these missionaries Father Drouillard had the most tenacious and powerful will.  And piety and patriotism could dwell together in his heart.  The love of his church and the love of his race burned there with an equal brightness.  He, too, had seen the clouds of war gathering, thick and black, and knowing the power of the Hodenosaunee, and that they yet waited, he had hastened to them to win them for France.  He was burning with zeal and he would have gone forth the very night of his arrival to talk, but he was so exhausted that he could not move, and he slept deeply in one of the houses, while his faithful converts watched.

Robert encountered the priest early the next morning, and the meeting was wholly unexpected by him, although the Frenchman gave no sign of surprise and perhaps felt none.

“Father Drouillard!” he exclaimed.  “I believed you to be in Canada!  I did not think there was any duty that could call you to the vale of Onondaga!”

The stern face of the priest relaxed into a slight smile.  This youth, though of the hostile race, was handsome and winning, and as Father Drouillard knew, he had a good heart.

“Holy Church sends us, its servants, poor and weak though we may be, on far and different errands,” he said.  “We seek the wheat even among the stones, and there are those, here in the vale of Onondaga itself, who watch for my coming.”

Robert recalled that there were Catholic converts among the Onondagas, a fact that he had forgotten for the time, and he realized at once what a powerful factor Father Drouillard would be in the fight against him.

“The Chevalier de St. Luc has been here for some time,” he said, “waiting until the fifty sachems are ready to hear him in council, when he will speak for France.  Mr. Willet and I are also waiting to speak for England.  But the Chevalier de St. Luc and I are the best of friends, and I hope, Father Drouillard, that you, who have come also to uphold the cause of France, will not look upon me as an enemy, but as one, unfitting though he may be, who wishes to do what he can for his country.”

Father Drouillard smiled again.

“Ah, my son,” he said, “you are a good lad.  You bore yourself well in Quebec, and I have naught against you, save that you are not of our race.”

“And for that, reverend sir, you cannot blame me.”

Father Drouillard smiled for the third time.  It was not often that he smiled three times in one day, and again he reflected that this was a handsome and most winning lad.

“Peace, my son!” he said.  “Protestant you are and Catholic am I, English you are and French am I, but no ill wind can ever blow between you and me.  We are but little children in the hands of the Omnipotent and we can only await His decree.”