Treason had purchased prosperity for the recreant son.  Wealth and honors were his and an English wife, a haughty woman of half-noble family, who completed the work of alienation.  Traitorous deed, kindred and race were all forgotten, and when the joy-bells rang for the birth of an heir there was revel in the magnificent mansion of Pascal Deschamps.

“Summon our friends,” said the happy father.  “A son to the house of Deschamps!  Let his baptism be celebrated as becomes the heir of wealth, power and position.”

So heralds went forth from town to town, making known the tidings, but bore no message to the lonely grandsire in Tadousac.

“The curse is lifted!” said the pious peasants, mindful of Pascal’s treason.  “A child at last!  The good God has forgiven him.”

From Quebec to Malbaie came so-called friends, English who despised his treachery, French who hated his name, but courtiers all; and with them came an unbidden guest, an aged trapper, unshorn and roughly clad, who lurked in the shadows of the great hall, and whispered ever:  “France!  Pascal!  Traitor!”

Beautiful as an angel was the baby heir, fair with the patrician beauty of his English mother, strong of limb as befitted the trapper’s descendant.  Unconscious of the homage paid him, he slept in his nurse’s arms, his baptismal robes sweeping the floor.

“A sturdy fellow, my friends,” said his laughing sponsor.  “An English Deschamps.”

“An English Deschamps!” cried the English guests, pleased with the conceit.  “Long may his line endure.”

“A traitor Deschamps!” said a voice instinct with wrath.  “Unhappy man, your taint is in him!”

The revelers shrank back appalled, as from the shadows came the unbidden guest and stood among them, his mien majestic with the dignity of sorrow.  Pascal alone recognized him and forced his ashen lips to speak the word:  “Father.”

“Yes, your father, unhappy boy; unlettered, old and broken with the burden of your disgrace, but loyal still to God and country.  I have guarded those great virtues well, for God gave them to me, and I would have transmitted them to my posterity, and linked the name of Deschamps forever with patriotism and Faith.  But your treachery has destroyed my hope and smirched the memory of your brothers, whose names are written on the roll of martyrs to their Faith and country.  Ah, Pascal, how I loved you!  And your son?  An English Deschamps you say!  A son born to perpetuate his father’s degradation!  No, Pascal, I shall save my honor!  Your traitor blood shall never taint posterity.  You may live your life of misery, but you shall live it alone.”

And snatching the child from its nurse’s arms the old trapper passed from the house and had reached his canoe before the stupefied revelers were roused into pursuit.  But they had no boats.  The old trapper had driven holes through the sides of every one but his own.