“Qui es in cœlis.”
“Sanctificetur nomen tuum;” the voice was growing very faint.
“Sanctificetur nomen tuum;” the girl gathered strength and repeated the words distinctly, following the whispered sentences till one could no longer hear them, and she finished the prayer alone.
Every one was kneeling. The cold light of a winter’s sun touched the white hair of the old man with faint gold like a halo of glory. Alaine with bowed head now sobbed unrestrainedly, not yet aware that upon the lips of Father Bisset the Angel of Death had set his seal.
CHAPTER XIII
A DAUGHTER OF THE WOODS
For some moments no one spoke, then there was a stir among the men, who, one by one, filed out, until of them only Petit Marc was left. He, with the half-dozen others, had made their winter quarters near by, too indifferent to the affairs of war to care to mix with the more zealous community, yet ready to take up a cause at any time when there seemed sufficient promise for adventure. A short time before they had been joined by the man Victor Le Roux, who had the name of being a hot-headed, quarrelsome fellow, and a reckless one. Over some matter concerning the division of the spoils of a day’s hunt had begun the quarrel with Antoine. Victor had recognized in Antoine an early acquaintance with whom he had never been upon very good terms, even in the old days of their youth, and he lost no opportunity of showing his feeling. So little value was set upon life in these wilds of America that a touch, a word, and the swords would fly out, the pistols would be drawn, and the man least on his guard would come off worst.
Petit Marc reflected upon this as he stood regarding Antoine, who, with burning gaze, did not remove his eyes from the peaceful face of Father Bisset. “He shall die,” at last said Marc.
Antoine looked up. “He shall die,” he repeated.
Marc held his pistol in his hand; he turned it over and looked at it critically. “I promise you that,” he said. “As for you, Antoine.”
“I must live to return to France to face them there.”