"Alas!" he went on, "because you are menaced by a terrible misfortune."
The squatter turned pale. "It is but just," he muttered, with a frown; "the expiation is beginning."
"Courage, my children," the missionary said, affectionately, "your enemies have discovered your retreat, I know not how; they will be here tomorrow—perhaps today—you must fly—fly at once."
"For what good?" the squatter remarked; "the hand of God is in this—no man can escape his destiny; better to wait."
Father Seraphin assumed a serious air, and said in a stern voice—
"God wishes to try you; it would be cowardice, suicide, to surrender yourself to those who desire your death, and Heaven would not pardon you for doing so. Every living creature must defend life when attacked. Fly—I bid you—I order you."
The squatter made no reply.
"Besides," Father Seraphin continued, in a tone he strove to render gay, "the storm may blow over; your enemies, not finding you here, will doubtless abandon the pursuit; in a few days, you will be able to return."
"No," the squatter said disconsolately, "they desire my death. As you order me to fly, father, I will obey you, but, before all, grant me one favour."
"Speak, my son."