“Think nothing of it,” I returned hastily, and then, observing how the Puritan drew back from beside him, added, “Master Cairnes, you might busy yourself hunting more food—­it will be exactly in your line—­while I attempt to bathe the limbs of the priest, and see what little may be done toward alleviating his pain.”

The mere thought of eating was sufficient to put the Puritan in good humor, and he was soon diligently scouring nooks and corners with scent for provender as keen as that of a pointer dog.  I noticed with curiosity how the motionless Jesuit followed the movements of his hulking figure as he passed back and forth amid the shadows, his dark eyes filled with wonder and aversion.

“’Tis truly a strange thing, Monsieur,” the latter remarked soberly, “to meet with one pretending love for Christ, yet who hateth Mother Church, and dares make open mock of Her most holy offices.  Thou didst name thy comrade Puritan?”

“Ay, of the same breed as the Huguenots of your country, rebels against the Pope.”

He made the sign of the Cross.

“The curse of Holy Church is upon them all; they are condemned to hell,” he exclaimed with fervor.  “A vile pestilence to be stamped out; yet it would afford me joy beyond words could I save this man’s soul from eternal torture, and lead him back into the true faith.  Mother of God! what was it moved yonder?”

I glanced quickly about toward where he pointed, seeing the shadowed figure of our forgotten prisoner.

“’Tis only one of the savages we have captured and bound.  He guarded this altar, ministering to the superstition of the tribe; an old man, perchance the very chief priest who held you in the flame.”

I anticipated seeing the light of revenge leap into his eyes, but, instead, a rush of pity softened them, and before I could extend my hand to interfere, he crept across the intervening space, and bent over the fellow.

“A most cruel turn on the rope, Monsieur,” he exclaimed, busying himself at the knot.  “Surely the man will rest easier, and no less safely, with back propped against the rock.  Nay, have no fear; I will keep him tied fast if that be your wish, yet I seek to relieve his pain so I may profitably converse with him upon the needs of his soul.”

“With him!  Saint George! he had small enough mercy on you.”

“That is of the past, and abideth not in memory,” and the white hands held up the crucifix into the light.  “He who died on this Cross prayed, ‘Father forgive, they know not what they do,’ and who is Andre Lafossier, to be harsher than his Master?”

Not until after he had prayed long and earnestly, holding the silver cross ever before the wicked eyes of the unrepentant savage, did he permit me to bathe his disfigured limbs, dressing them as best I could with what rude materials I found at hand.  Even while I worked he seemingly thought nothing of himself, but, oblivious to pain, his face was ever turned to the prisoner, his lips moving in petition for his soul.  I caught but scattered sentences.