“Great Jehovah,” he muttered, “look there!”

How he ever made it I know not; how he ever crept on tortured stumps down those rude steps, and along the dark, rocky tunnel; how he ever succeeded in penetrating unscathed that howling mob of savages—­yet there, in the very midst of them, fully revealed in the torch glare, his pallid, girlish face uplifted, but concealed beneath the shadow of his cowl, the silver cross gleaming in the light, beside Eloise, knelt the black-robed Jesuit.  Amid the sudden hush of surprise I overheard his voice, fearless, calm, unfaltering, as he gave the weeping woman sacrament of the Church.  A great brute struck at him; the frail figure reeled sideways to the force of the blow, but the words of prayer did not cease, nor his grasp on her hand relax.  Rallying from their astonishment, the warriors crowded in upon them, and a fanatical priest hurled the pere headlong to the floor.  I saw a brandishing of clubs, a glitter of spears, yet the poor fellow came erect once more, his arm resting for support on the woman’s shoulder.  It was all in a flash of time, like some swift transformation on the stage we could scarcely comprehend.  At the instant a voice spoke, ringing above the babel, which ceased suddenly.  I glanced involuntarily toward Naladi.  She stood leaning forward, her hands gripping the stone parapet, conflicting emotions playing across her face.

As the torches, uplifted, gleamed brighter upon the motionless Queen, they revealed a look of perplexity, almost fear, in her cold eyes.  What held her speechless?  Was it remembrance of another life, when the stern word of the Church had been law? or was she merely troubled by so mysterious an appearance, her guilty soul swayed by superstitious terror?  She was all too strange a riddle for my reading, but some occult power held her helpless, silent.  The vengeful cries of her savage followers died away into threatening murmurs; the pere remained motionless, one hand on Eloise’s bowed head, his white face shadowed by the hood, calmly fronting her who had commanded quiet.  Slowly he lifted one arm, the loose sleeve lending dignity and power to the simple gesture, his white extended hand seeming to have in it the authority of command.  A moment, heedless of the scowling, painted faces all about, the slight figure stood erect and firm, the dark eyes bearing witness to his earnestness, and never wavering from Naladi’s scornful face.

“Woman,” he said calmly, even as I imagine Christ may have spoken of old, “release this prisoner, and make thy peace with God.”

She endeavored to laugh mockingly, yet only a hollow semblance came from between her white lips.  “Pah!” she cried nervously, “you speak bravely; pray, who gave you authority to give orders to the Daughter of the Sun?”

“One greater than the Sun, woman,” he answered.  “I speak to you in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, and by authority of the Holy Catholic Church.”