"I remembered that you were in Paris three years ago," she explained, "and that our king—yes, our king, Father Nouvel, although a king in exile—talked sometimes with you. There was often one of your order at the meetings at Meudon."
The father looked at her. "I could almost think that age and loneliness have undone my mind," he said slowly. "You talk of kings and courtiers. Who are you?"
I waited, perhaps more eagerly than the priest himself, for her reply. None came. I thought she gave a flitting look toward me, and so I shrugged my shoulders and thrust myself again into the priest's thought.
"If we were kings, courtiers, and Jacobites all in one," I said as airily as might be in view of my aching muscles, "the titles would yet clink dully as leaden coins, travel-worn as we are. Can you marry us this evening, Father Nouvel?"
He looked at me keenly, not altogether pleased. "And you are"—he asked.
"Armand de Montlivet, from Montreal."
He relaxed somewhat. "I have heard of you. No, I cannot marry you to-night. I will find a lodge for this demoiselle, and we will talk of this to-morrow. Come now and let me bring you to the chief," and with a beckoning of the hand he led the way into the lodge behind him.
We followed closely. The lodge was large, and was roofed and floored with rush mats. The smoke hung in a cloud over our heads, but the air around us was sufficiently clear for us to see,—though with some rubbing of the eyes. An aged Indian sat close to the blaze, and Father Nouvel walked over to him.
"Onanguissé," he said, "two strangers lift the mat before your door,—strangers with white faces. Do you bid them take broth and shelter?"
The old chief nodded. He had lacked curiosity to look out at us while we had stood talking before his door, and now he scarcely lifted his eyes.