At length Brother Jacques pushed the canoe into the water and came toward the women.  He spoke to them cheerily, all the while his melancholy thoughts drawing deeper lines in his face.  Madame noted his nervous fingers as they ran up and down his beads, and she was puzzled.  Indeed, this black gown had always puzzled her.

“I must go,” he said presently.  Whither did not matter; only to get away by himself.  He strode rapidly into the eternal twilight of the forest, to cast himself down full length on the earth, to hide his face in his arms, to weep!

Ah, cursed heart to betray him thus!  That he should tremble in the presence of a woman, become abstracted, to lose the vigor and continuity of thought . . . to love!  Never he stood beside her but his flesh burned again beneath the cool of her arms; never he saw her lips move but he felt the sweet warm breath upon his throat.  He wept.  Who had loved him save Father Chaumonot?  None.  Like an eagle at sea, he was alone.  God had given him a handsome face, but He had also given him an alternate—­starvation or the robes.  He was a beggar; the gown was his subsistence.  By and by his sobs subsided, and he heard a voice.

“So the little Father grows weak?” And the Black Kettle leaned against a tree and looked curiously down upon the prostrate figure in black.  “Is he thinking of the house of his fathers; or, has he looked too long upon Onontio’s daughter?  I have seen; the eagle’s eye is not keener than the Black Kettle’s, nor his flight swifter than the Black Kettle’s thought.  Her cheeks are like the red ear; her eyes are like the small blue flower that grows hidden in the forest at springtime; her hair is like the corn that dries in the winter; but she is neither for the Black Kettle nor for his brother who weeps.  Why do you wear the black robe, then?  I have seen my brother weep!  I have seen him face the torture with a smile—­and a woman makes him weep!”

Brother Jacques was up instantly.  He grasped the brawny arms of the Onondaga and drew him toward him.

“The little Father has lost none of his strength,” observed the Onondaga, smiling.

“No, my son; and the tears in his eyes are of rage, not of weakness.  Let Dominique forget what he has seen.”

“He has already forgotten.  And when will my brother start out for the stone house of Onontio?”

“As soon as possible.”  Aye, how fared Monsieur le Marquis these days?

“But not alone,” said the Black Kettle.  “The silence will drive him mad, like a brother of his I knew.”

“The Great Master of Breath wills it; I must go alone,” said Brother Jacques.  He was himself again.  The tempest in his soul was past.

“I should like to see Onontio’s house again;” and the Indian waited.

“Perhaps; if the good Fathers can spare you.”