Father Seraphin was a man of twenty-four at the most, although the fatigues he supported, the harsh labours he had imposed on himself, and which he fulfilled with more than apostolic abnegation, had left numerous traces on his face, with its delicate features, its gentle and firm expression, imprinted with a sublime melancholy, rendered even more touching by the beam of ineffable goodness which escaped from his large, blue and thoughtful eyes. His whole person, however, exhaled a perfume of youth and health which disguised his age, as to which a superficial observer might have been easily deceived.
Father Seraphin was a Frenchman, and belonged to the order of the Lazarists. For five years he had been traversing as an indefatigable missionary, with no other weapon than his staff, the unexplored solitudes of Texas and New Mexico, preaching the gospel to the Indians, while caring nothing for the terrible privations and nameless sufferings he incessantly endured, and the death constantly suspended over his head.
Father Seraphin was one of those numerous soldiers, ignored martyrs of the army of faith, who, making a shield of the Gospel, spread at the peril of their lives the word of God in those barbarous countries, and die heroically, falling bravely on their battlefield, worn out by the painful exigencies of their sublime mission, aged at thirty, but having gained over a few souls to the truth, and shed light among the ignorant masses.
The abnegation and devotion of these modest men, yet so great in heart, are too much despised in France, where however, the greater number of these martyrs are recruited. Their sacrifices pass unnoticed; for, owing to the false knowledge possessed of beyond-sea countries, people are far from suspecting the continual struggles they have to sustain against a deadly climate. And who would credit it? The most obstinate adversaries they meet with in the accomplishment of their mission are not among the Indians, who always nearly welcome them with respect, if not joy, but among the men whom their labours benefit, and who ought to aid and protect them with all their might. There is no vexation or humiliation which they do not endure from the agents of Mexico and the American Union, to try and disgust and compel them to abandon the arena in which they combat so nobly.
Father Seraphin had gained the friendship and respect of all those with whom accident had brought him into contact. Charmed with meeting a fellow countryman in the midst of those vast solitudes so distant from that France he never hoped to see again, he had attached himself closely to Valentine, to whom he vowed a deep and sincere affection. For the same motives, the hunter, who admired the greatness of character of this priest so full of true religion, felt himself drawn to him by an irresistible liking. They had frequently taken long journeys together, the hunter guiding his friend to the Indian tribes across the desolate regions of Apacheria.
So soon as Father Seraphin had taken his place near the fire, Eagle-wing and Curumilla hastened to offer him all those slight services which they fancied might be agreeable to him, and offered him a few lumps of roast venison with maize tortillas. The missionary gladly gratified the two chiefs, and accepted their offerings.
"It is a long time since we saw you, father," the hacendero said. "You neglect us. My daughter asked me about you only two days ago, for she is anxious to see you."
"Doña Clara is an angel who does not require me," the missionary replied gently. "I have spent nearly two months with the Comanche tribe of the Tortoise. Those poor Indians claim all my care. They are thirsting for the Divine Word."
"Are you satisfied with your journey?"
"Sufficiently so, for these men are not such as they are represented to us. Their instincts are noble, and, as their primitive nature is not adulterated by contact with the vicious civilization that surrounds them, they easily understood what is explained to them."