Father Montigny glanced at the five in turn and the rare, beautiful smile lighted up his face.  He read every thought of theirs in their open countenances, and he knew that they were in thorough accord with him.  But Paul, as usual, appealed to him most of all—­the deeply spiritual quality in the lad was evident to the priest and reader of men.

Father Montigny took a little leather-bound book from under his black robe and stood up.  The others stood up also.  Then the priest read a prayer.  It was in Latin and the five—­Paul included—­did not understand a word of it, but not a particle of its solemnity and effect was lost on that account.

It was to Paul, in many ways, the most impressive scene in which he had ever taken part, the noble, inspired face of the priest, the solemn words, and no other sound except the peaceful murmur made by the flowing of the great river.  They seemed as much alone on their little hill as if they stood on a coral island in the south seas.

Nature was in unison with the rite.  A brilliant sun came out, the dripping trees dried fast, and, under the blue sky, the yellow of the river took on a lighter hue.

After the prayer they resumed their seats by the fire, which they left at intervals only to get something from the boat or to bring the dryest wood that they could find for the replenishing of the fire.  Paul and Shif’less Sol went together on one of the trips for firewood.

“He is shorely a good man,” said the shiftless one nodding in the direction of the priest, “but don’t you think, Paul, he’s undertook a mighty big job, tryin’ to convert Injuns?”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Paul, “but that is the purpose to which he has devoted his life.  He does good, but it seems a pity to me too, Sol, that he goes on such missions.  In the end he’ll find martyrdom among some cruel tribe, and he knows it.”

While Father Montigny, like others of his kind, expected martyrdom and willingly risked it, his spirits were darkened by no shadow now.  Not one of the five was more cheerful than he, and he gave them all the news at his command.

“And I am glad,” he continued, “that you are going to New Orleans.  You are really messengers of peace and, unofficial heralds though you are, you may save more than one nation from great trouble.”

The five were deeply gratified by his words.  If they had needed any encouragement in their self-chosen task they would have received it now.

“Since you are returning to New Orleans, Father Montigny,” said Paul, “why don’t you go with us in our big boat?  It is far safer and more comfortable than a canoe.”

Father Montigny shook his head.

“It is a kind offer,” he replied, “but I cannot accept it.  I leave you to-morrow at the mouth of a river on our right as we descend.  There is a small village of peaceful Indians several miles up that stream and I wish to stay with them a day or two.  I and my canoe have traveled many thousands of miles together and we will continue.”