“‘I will rejoice, and divide Sichem: and mete out the valley of
Succoth.’
“Hush! Hush!” he said to himself in reproach. “These things must be. The country must be opened up. That is why I came—to bring the Truth before the trader.”
Now another traveller came riding out of Lebanon towards him, galloping his horse up-hill and down. He also was young, but nothing about him suggested power, only self-indulgence. He, too, raised his hat, or rather swung it from his head in a devil-may-care way, and overdid his salutation. He did not speak. The priest’s face was very grave, if not a little resentful. His salutation was reserved.
“The tyranny of gold,” he murmured, “and without the mind or energy that created it. Felix was no name for him. Ingolby is a builder, perhaps a jerry-builder; but he builds.”
He looked across the prairie towards the young man in the buggy.
“Sure, he is a builder. He has the Cortez eye. He sees far off, and plans big things. But Felix Marchand there—”
He stopped short.
“Such men must be, perhaps,” he added. Then, after a moment, as he gazed round again upon the land of promise which he had loved so long, he murmured as one murmurs a prayer:
“Thou suferedst men to ride over our heads: we went through fire and
water, and Thou broughtest us out into a wealthy place.”