“All respect to you, Father! But we can’t do it,” said the spokesman. “We’re Latisan’s men. The rest of the gang will laugh us out of the crew if we go back.”
“I’ll have Latisan himself on the job inside of a few days, my men,” declared the priest, stoutly.
He had promised to them another who would take the drive master’s place; now he promised Latisan. The men were merely puzzled; they were not convinced.
“Will you go back?”
“We can’t go back.” It was said with conviction, and a mumble of voices indorsed him. “Still, all respect to you, Father! But Latisan won’t fit any longer even if he does go back. He has let himself be goofered.”
Father Leroque had set up his temporary altar in many a lumber camp; he knew woodsmen; therefore, he knew that argument with those men would be idle.
“You have heard,” he said to Lida when the two walked away deeper into the shadows. “I’m sorry. But so the matter stands.”
“But if I go now and talk to them—confess to them——”
“They are Latisan’s own men, and the story is fresh, and their resentment is hot. You will not prevail, mam’selle. And if you fail to-night with those men you risk failing with all. You must go on to the drive—talk to the others who are still loyal. I fear much, I must warn you, but I will not try to keep you from what seems to be your duty. It would be too great unhappiness for you if you should go back now, feeling that you had not done your best.”
The bandsmen had eaten of the wedding feast and were again valorously making gay music outside the workshop building from whose windows poured light and laughter.