“Yes, it is a wonderful country.  It is not France; it is better than the mother country.  Ambition has a finer aim; charity is without speculation; and a man must be a man here, else he can not exist.”

“That is an illusion,” replied the vicomte.  “Only the women have what you call a finer ambition.  The men are puling as in France.  The Company seeks riches without working; the military seek batons without war; and these Jesuits . . .  Bah!  What are they trying to do?  To rule the pope, and through him, the world.  My faith, I can barely keep from laughing at some of the stories these priests tell all in good faith.”

“My thought did not include the great,” said the Chevalier, quietly.  “I meant the lower orders.  They will eventually become men and women in the highest sense.  There is no time for dalliance and play; labor is the monitor best suited to hold back, to trim and regulate a man’s morals and habits.  There is no idleness here, Vicomte.”

“I do not know but you are right.”

“Shall you remain here long?” asked the Chevalier.

“Who can say?  I would return to France on the next boat were my neck less delicately attached to my shoulders.  Let us say six months; it will have quieted down by then.  Devil take me, but I should like to feel that paper crackling between my fingers.  And you meet D’Herouville in two days?”

“In two days.”

“Will you not join me in a glass of the governor’s old burgundy as a toast to your success?”

“Thank you, but I am on duty.  They are bringing some Mohawks up from the lower town, and I am to take charge of them.”

“Good luck to you;” and the vicomte waved a friendly hand as he started off toward the citadel.

The Chevalier with a dozen men started for the lower town.  But his mind was not on his duty.  He was thinking of Diane, her gay laughter, her rollicking songs, the old days.

“Monsieur, are we to go to Sillery?” asked a trooper, respectfully.

“Sillery?” The Chevalier shook himself, and took the right path.

The Chevalier and Victor sat on their narrow cots that night.  Brother Jacques had just gone.  The windows were open, and the balmy air of summer drifted in, carrying with it forest odors and the freshness of the rising dew.  Fireflies sparkled in the grass, and the pale stars of early evening pierced the delicate green of the heavens.  A single candle flickered on the table, and the candlestick was an empty burgundy bottle.  The call of one sentry to another broke the solemn quiet.

“And you have not grown sick for home since you left the sea?” asked the Chevalier.

“Not I!” There were times when Victor could lie cheerfully and without the prick of conscience.  “One hasn’t time to think of home.  But how are you getting on with your Iroquois?”

“Fairly.”

“You are determined to meet D’Herouville?”