The marquis opened his eyes.  “When Messieurs the Jesuits come, show them in at once.  The hypocrites come on a begging errand.  After I have humiliated them, I shall give them money, and they will say, ‘Absolvo te.’  It is simple.  And they will promise to pray for the repose of my soul when I am dead.  My faith, how easy it is to gain Heaven!  A thousand livres, a prayer mumbled in Latin, and look!  Heaven is for the going.  The thief and the murderer, the fool and the wise man, the rich and the beggared, how they must jostle one another in the matter of precedence!  Poor Lucifer!  Who will lend Lucifer a thousand livres and an ’Absolvo te’?”

Jehan crossed himself, for he was a pious Catholic.

“Hypocrite!” snarled the marquis; “Have I not forbidden you this mummery in my presence?  Begone!”

The Swiss clock on the mantel had chimed the first quarter after eight ere the marquis was again disturbed.  He turned in his seat to witness the entrance of his unwelcome guests.  He smiled, but not pleasantly.

“Be seated, Messieurs,” he said, waving his hand toward the chairs, and eying the Iroquois with that curiosity with which one eyes a new species of animal.  Next his gaze fell upon Brother Jacques, whose look, burning and intense, aroused a sense of impatience in the marquis’s breast.  “Monsieur,” he said peevishly, “have not the women told you that you are too handsome for a priest?”

“If so, Monsieur,” imperturbably, “I have not heard.”  And while a shade of color grew in his cheeks, Brother Jacques’s look was calm and undisturbed.

“And you are Father Chaumonot?” said the marquis turning to the elder.  His glance discovered a finely modeled head, a high benevolent brow, eyes mild and intelligent, a face marred neither by greed nor by cunning; not handsome, rather plain, but wholesome, amiable, and with a touch of those human qualities which go toward making a man whole.  There was even a suspicion of humor in the fine wrinkles gathered around the eyes.  The marquis pictured this religious pioneer in the garb of a soldier.  “You would be a man but for that robe,” he said, when his scrutiny was brought to an end.

“I pray God that I may be a man for it.”

The marquis laughed.  He loved a man of quick reply.  “What do you call him?” indicating the Indian, whose dark eyes were constantly roving.

“The Black Kettle is his Indian name; but I have baptized him as Dominique.”

“Tell him for me that he is a man.”

“My son,” said Chaumonot, speaking slowly in French, “the white chief says that you are a man.”

The Iroquois expanded under this flattery.  “The white chief has the proud eye of the eagle.”

“Devil take me!” cried the marquis; “but it seems that he talks very good French!”

“It took some labor,” replied Chaumonot; “but he was quick to learn, and he is of great assistance to me.”