“And it’s a question,” added Henry, “whether his canoe gets to the bank or the bottom of the river first.”

“It’s a white man and we must save him!” cried Paul, his generous boy’s heart stirred to the utmost.

They quickly untied their boat and pulled with great strokes toward the sinking canoe and its lone occupant.  They were alongside in a few minutes and Henry threw a rope to the man, who caught it with a skillful hand, and tied his frail craft stoutly to the side of the strong “Galleon.”  Then, as Paul reached a friendly hand down to him he sprang on board, exclaiming at the same time in a deep voice:  “May the blessing of Heaven rest upon you, my children.”

The five were startled at the face and appearance of the man who came upon their boat.  They had never thought of encountering such a figure in the wilderness.  He was of middle age, tall, well-built, and remarkably straight, but his shaven face was thin and ascetic, and the look in his eyes was one of extraordinary benevolence.  Moreover, it had the peculiar quality of seeming to gaze far into the future, as it were, at something glorious and beautiful.  His dress was a strange mixture.  He wore deerskin leggins and moccasins, but his body was clothed in a long, loose garment of black cloth and on his head was a square cap of black felt.  A small white crucifix suspended by a thin chain from his neck lay upon his breast and gleamed upon the black cloth.

Every one of the five instantly felt veneration and respect for the stranger and Paul murmured, “A priest.”  The others heard him and understood.  They were all Protestants, but in the deep wilderness religious hatred and jealousy had little hold; upon them none at all.

“Bless you, my sons,” repeated the man in his deep, benevolent voice, and then he continued in a lighter tone, speaking almost perfect English, “I do believe that if you had not appeared when you did I and my canoe should have both gone to the bottom of this very deep river.  I am a fair swimmer, but I doubt if I could have gained the land.”

“We are glad, father,” said Paul respectfully, “that we had the privilege to be present and help at such a time.”

The priest looked at Paul and smiled.  He liked his refined and sensitive face and his correct language and accent.

“I should fancy, my young friend,” he said, still smiling, “that the debt of gratitude is wholly mine.  I am Pierre Montigny, and, as you perhaps surmise, a Frenchman and priest of the Holy Church, sent to the New World to convert and save the heathen.  I belong to the mission at New Orleans, but I have been on a trip, to a tribe called the Osage, west of the Great River.  Last night my canoe was damaged by the fierce storm and I started forth rather rashly this morning, not realizing the extent to which the canoe had suffered.  You have seen and taken a part in the rest.”

“You were going back to New Orleans alone, and in a little canoe?” said Paul.