“Go on, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, gelding, in spite of himself, to the deepest dejection.  “Alas!  I was right in opposing your travel to America.”

“And yet it was the will of Providence, in that new, productive, and free country, that, enlightened by a singular chance, on past and present, my eyes were at length opened.  Yes!” cried Gabriel, “it was in America that, released from the gloomy abode where I had spent so many years of my youth, and finding myself for the first time face to face with the divine majesty of Nature, in the heart of immense solitudes through which I journeyed—­it was there that, overcome by so much magnificence and grandeur, I made a vow—­” Here Gabriel interrupted himself, to continue:  “Presently, father, I will explain to you that vow; but believe me,” added the missionary, with an accent of deep sorrow, “it was a fatal day to me when I first learned to fear and condemn all that I had hitherto most revered and blessed.  Oh!  I assure you father,” added Gabriel, with moist eyes, “it was not for myself alone, that I then wept.”

“I know the goodness of your heart, my dear son,” replied Father d’Aigrigny, catching a glimpse of hope, on seeing Gabriel’s emotion; “I fear that you have been led astray.  But trust yourself to us, as to your spiritual fathers, and I doubt not we shall confirm your faith, so unfortunately shaken, and disperse the darkness which at present obscures your sight.  Alas, my dear son, in your vain illusions, you have mistaken some false glimmer for the pure light of day.  But go on.”

Whilst Father d’Aigrigny was thus speaking, Rodin stopped, took a pocket book from his coat, and wrote down several notes.  Gabriel was becoming more and more pale and agitated.  It required no small courage in him, to speak as he was speaking, for, since his journey to America, he had learned to estimate the formidable power of the Company.  But this revelation of the past, looked at from the vantage-ground of a more enlightened present, was for the young priest the excuse, or rather the cause of the determination he had just signified to his superior, and he wished to explain all faithfully, notwithstanding the danger he knowingly encountered.  He continued therefore, in an agitated voice: 

“You know, father, that the last days of my childhood, that happy age of frankness and innocent joy, were spent in an atmosphere of terror, suspicion, and restraint.  Alas! how could I resign myself to the least impulse of confiding trust, when I was recommended to shun the looks of him who spoke with me, in order to hide the impression that his words might cause—­to conceal whatever I felt, and to observe and listen to everything?  Thus I reached the age of fifteen; by degrees, the rare visits that I was allowed to pay, but always in presence of one of our fathers, to my adopted mother and brother, were quite suppressed, so as to shut my heart against all soft and tender emotions.  Sad and fearful