SACRAMENTAL.
The military routine of the fortress continued that day as usual, and
the approach of night brought no suspicion of the forthcoming assault.
The absence of La Salle was alone commented upon, yet without
apprehension, for the priest was notoriously lax in the performance of
his ecclesiastical duties, and only Laroche was seriously troubled in
mind for his brother priest. Roussilac indeed breathed more freely
when La Salle was not present in the fortress. At eventide two little
bells rang out, that to the east of the citadel being the bell of the
chapel of Ste. Anne, presided over by the junior priest, St Agapit,
that to the west the bell of Ste. Mary Bonsecours upon the hill. Here
Laroche, in the absence of La Salle, officiated to recite vespers and
hear confessions.
Laroche, though a fighting bully lacking in every priestly quality,
was, among the soldiers at least, more popular than St Agapit. The
latter was a scholar, a man too learned, and somewhat too honest, for
his age, an ascetic, and a priest in every sense. It was well known
that he looked with a stern eye upon drunken brawls or vengeful
threats, whereas Laroche, himself a brawler when in his cups, judged
such offences leniently. St Agapit had no ambition, apart from the
faithful performance of his duty, the carrying out of which rarely
brought him into even remote contact with either of his colleagues.
It was good to feel the cool breath of the evening after the heat and
burden of the afternoon. The little stone church of Ste. Mary upon the
brow of the hill darkened, and an aged crone passed into the sanctuary
to light the strong-smelling lamps. Laroche entered to recite vespers,
and rolled away to divest his great body of cope and alb; but as he
appeared again within the church his eyes fell upon some half-dozen
men, who waited to obtain an easier conscience by confession of their
sins.
"A plague on ye," the priest grumbled as he stumbled into his box.
"Why are ye all such miserable sinners? Ha! is it you that I see,
Michel Ferraud? What sin now, you rogue?"
The keeper of the cabaret in the Rue des Pecheurs fell straightway upon
his knees, and began to whimper:
"The former wickedness. I am driven to the act, my father. Wine is
scarce, as your holiness knows, and great is the demand therefor. I
must eke out the supply against the coming of each ship, and it has
ever been but a little aqua puralis added to each keg; but to-day,
father, the devil jogged my elbow, and that which is blended cannot be
separated. The wine remains a rich colour, holy father, as you shall
see, and none shall know----"
"Vile and shameless sinner that you are," the priest interrupted. "To
dilute a wine which is already too thin to gladden the heart of man and
make him a cheerful countenance--to do so, I say, is to commit a most
deadly sin."
"Exact not so heavy a fine as at last confession, good father. Would
not have me close my tavern? The wine is a good wine," Michel added
professionally, "and the little water added is methinks an aid to
virtue."
"Art so fond of water?" replied the confessor grimly. "Water you shall
have. Go down now to the river, swim across, and return in like
manner, and afterwards come to me again. Go now! I have lesser
sinners to absolve."
"The river will be villainous cold, my father. And I cannot swim."
"Learn," said the inexorable priest. "Come not to me again till you
have crossed the river as I have said. May you take into your evil
stomach an abundance of cold water while learning."
The taverner retired dissatisfied, and when outside the church rubbed
his head and ruminated. "The confession was ill-timed," he muttered.
"His reverence is in an evil humour. The devil shall seize me body and
soul before I set one foot into that accursed river. But there is
Father St Agapit. I will go forthwith and confess to him."
The taverner's propitious star was in the ascendant. When he reached
the chapel of Ste. Anne vespers had not concluded, for the office was
there recited with greater reverence and detail than in the church of
Ste. Mary Bonsecours. Michel pushed himself into a front place and
hastened to make himself conspicuous by various fussy acts of outward
devotion. The office over, he lingered until St Agapit came to him,
and the taverner then repeated the confession which he had already
made, with such disastrous consequences, to Laroche.
"Since the evil nature of man drives him to drink much wine, let him
partake of it as weak as may be, for his soul's health," said the
sincere priest. "But, my son, it behoves you to make known to your
patrons the truth."
"I dare not," said Michel, rejoicing at heart because he saw a prospect
of cheating the devil.
"Then are you guilty of deceit," said the priest. "Mix water with your
wine no more, and for your deceit you shall say the litany of St.
Anthony of Padua six times before the altar of Ste. Anne. But see that
you wash before approaching the holy shrine, because I perceive upon
you the odour of wine-casks."
Having brought his duty to an end, St Agapit drew his cloak round him
and went out. While studying that day the work of a German philosopher
he had been confronted by the startling theory that the brain and
stomach of the human system were possibly connected by means of nerves.
He desired to procure from one of the settler-soldiers a dead rabbit
which he might dissect for his own enlightenment.
As he went a woman met him.
"Father," she cried, "a soldier lies at my house at the point of death,
praying for a priest to confess him."
"Follow me to the church," said St Agapit.
He passed back into the little log-building, took the reserved Host and
the sacred oils from an inlaid case, and wrapping these consolations of
the Church in his cloak accompanied the woman.
Upon a palliasse in one of the cabins on the eastern slope a young man
lay dying of pneumonia, that fell disease which the medical science of
the day could only fight by sage shakings of the head and a judicious
use of the cupping-glass. The commandant's own doctor stood there, a
man with some knowledge of medicinal plants and skilled by long
experience in the treatment of sword-cuts, helplessly watching the
exodus of his patient.
"I resign him to your charge, good father," he said, bending his back
to the priest. "He has passed beyond the help of science. Had I been
summoned earlier"--he shrugged his shoulders--"a discreet use of the
lance might well have relieved the fatal rush of blood to the brain and
saved a life for the king."
"Perchance an incision in the stomach to release the foul vapours----"
began St Agapit.
"Useless, my father. The disease, I do assure you, is in the blood."
The abbe knelt and administered the last sacraments of his Church. The
young soldier remained entirely conscious and his confession came in a
steady whisper.
"Father," he concluded, "I would speak with the commandant."
St Agapit looked at the physician by the flickering light of a pine
torch. The latter shook his head.
"'Tis impossible. Roussilac is at supper. But I may leave a message
as I pass."
"Say that Jean-Marie Labroquerie calls on him with his dying breath,"
whispered the soldier.
The physician left; the woman who owned the cabin moved silently in
preparation for the carrying out of the body, because people were
practical in the days when death by violence occurred almost hourly.
St Agapit lowered his thin face to catch the message of the passing man.
"Hidden in the straw you shall find a roll of parchment. I pray you
take it and use it as you will. It is the work of my father, a learned
man. We quarrelled. I stole his work and left my home. I repented
and would have taken it back. It was of no service to me. I cannot
read. If it be of value, let my old father gain the profit."
"Does he live within the New World?"
"Two days' journey beyond the river. In a log cabin surrounded by a
palisade which these hands erected. My father healed some Indians who
were sick, and thus obtained their friendship. There was I brought up
with my sister, my fair sister. Oh, my father, I would see again my
sister. I would feel the touch of her hand, and see her bright hair
that flamed in the sun. I would give these my last moments for the
sight of her eyes, and the sound of her voice, saying as she was wont,
'Jean-Marie, my brother! Life is a glorious gift.' Ah, my father!"
"Peace, son. Set your mind upon this suffering."
The abbe held a crucifix into the glow of the torch.
"Jesus is not so jealous, father, that He forbids us to love our own.
I was going back when I could obtain my conge, like the prodigal, to
seek my father's forgiveness. My mother was to blame for our
unhappiness. Solitude and disappointment had embittered her life. She
had a cruel tongue and her hand was rough. I was a coward. I fled.
My sister's eyes have pursued me. I made myself a profligate, to
forget. But memory is a knife in an open wound."
The minutes passed punctuated by the gasps of the sufferer. The torch
burnt down to its knot, and another was kindled by the pale woman. The
sound without was the wash of the tide.
"He comes not," moaned the soldier. "Bear me a message, father."
The dry rattling of beads broke the silence.
"Speak, my son."
The soldier uttered a piteous cry: "Madeleine! Madeleine!"
"Oh, son! Call rather on the name of Mary."
A gust of dark air swept into the cabin, the torch flame waved like a
flag, and a man stood behind muffled to the eyes, breathing as though
he had come with speed. He threw aside his martial cloak, and
straightway stood revealed.
"Jean-Marie," he muttered.
"Arnaud. Stand aside, my father. Let me meet my cousin face to face."
The priest moved back, and the two soldiers, the officer and the
fighting-man, stared into each other's eyes.
"Had I known this, Jean-Marie----" began the commandant; but the figure
upon the palliasse, straining from death as a dog from the leash, broke
in upon him.
"Cousin, you knew. When I have passed have you not averted your eyes,
ashamed of the man who has had neither the wit nor the opportunity to
rise? You have made yourself great, and I--but this is no time for
calling up the past. I am spent. Come to me, cousin--nearer. Why,
commandant, art afraid of a dying man?"
"Is he dying?"
"He is in God's hands," the priest answered; and the woman grumbled:
"Yes, yes, and a long time lying there, keeping me from my bed."
"Out!" said Roussilac, turning upon her. "Out, and repeat not what you
may have heard."
The woman slunk away frightened.
"Ah, cousin, that old manner," smiled Jean-Marie. "So spoke you as a
boy. They said you would find greatness. My father would say, 'He is
a Brutus. Would condemn his own son.' I know not who Brutus was, but
my father was a learned man."
He coughed terribly and lay back gasping.
"Say what lies upon your mind and have done," reproved St Agapit. "I
would have you die with better thoughts."
"Cousin," panted Jean-Marie, "I forgive you as I hope for mercy. Place
now your hand on mine."
Roussilac did so, shrinking at the freezing contact.
"Your aunt and uncle and Madeleine your cousin dwell in this land, two
days' journey beyond the river. My father was hunted for his life.
They called him a wizard. You know? Yes, once at home you might have
shielded him, but there was your advancement to be thought on. Swear
to me to find them. Tell Madeleine how I died. Be good to her. Ah,
cousin, be a brother to Madeleine. You shall find her the fairest
sister in all this world. Swear to bring them from their solitude, to
protect my father. Swear before this holy priest to feed and clothe
them if they be in want, to care for them, and be to them a brother and
a son."
Roussilac, who had softened for the moment, grew again stern. His
position was not so sure that it could withstand the attacks of tongues
that might whisper at home that the young governor of the new colony
sheltered a heretic uncle. Jean-Marie was quick to note the change.
He knew the hardness of his cousin's heart.
"Swear to me, or have my shadow cursing you through life."
The priest put out his arm with a word of adjuration.
"The crucifix," the commandant muttered.
St Agapit held it over the dying man.
"Touch not the sacred symbol without a prayer, my son. Beware God's
wrath!"
With one hand grasping the cold fingers, the other pressed fearfully
upon the metal figure thrilling in the priest's grasp, Roussilac took
the oath that was required of him.
"And that I will keep it, I call God, our Lady, and the blessed saints
to witness!" he concluded in a hushed voice.
Hardly had he spoken, and while he still watched his cousin lying white
with the light fading from his eyes, the fortress from end to end
became tumultuous. A gun roared, a din of shouting, the thud of flying
feet, the shriek of women, the cry of his soldiery swept up the slope
in wave upon wave of uproar.
"An attack!" he cried. "And I am from my post!"
"Peace!" said St Agapit, with a frown. "The God of battles is not
here."
"Arnaud," came the hollow whisper out of the tumult, "I have more to
say. My voice goes. I pray you bend your head."
"I came secretly," said Roussilac wildly. "I cannot stay. Father,
duty is calling me. My reputation, my position----"
"Your family," said the priest, pointing sternly.
The night air became a storm with the shout: "The Iroquois! The
Iroquois are upon us!"
"Cousin!" whispered the dying man.
"My position!" cried the commandant; and turning with the confession he
caught up his cloak, saying: "I will return. I will come back to you,
Jean-Marie. My country calls me."
"His ambition!" murmured the lean priest, as the door swung back, and
the tumult rolled in like a raging sea flung upon a cave.