It was, in truth, a kindly face that turned towards the young couple as they passed—smooth, clean-shaven, with a pair of soft eyes, crested by wavy hair. At that time it bore a tired, anxious expression, result of recent incessant toil. The privations he had suffered for the country of his adoption had been great. Through heat and cold, by river, prairie and forest, he had travelled; on horse, on foot, by boat, for many days and weeks. Often without food, always lacking rest, until the great work was accomplished, and he had won. A truly noble-hearted man that.'
'God bless you, my children,' he said, in the quiet, thrilling voice which all knew so well, as he smiled upon them.
'I couldn't speak,' said Marie, breathlessly. 'It is strange that one should be overawed by such a good man. I couldn't thank him, or anything.'
'He was the last I expected to meet along here. I didn't know he had returned.'
'Doesn't Father Lecompte look ill? You know he accompanied the Archbishop on his travels, and it has broken his health.'
There was a silent pause, while they came slowly towards the brilliant lights of the inner fort. Then she said musingly, 'So Riel is dead.'
'What made you think of him?' he asked quickly.
She raised a hand to point towards the grey tower, into the shadow of which they now entered.
He thought of the dead that lay around, and shuddered. Then there came back to him the recent execution at Regina; the dark figure, champion of a hopeless cause; the lines of mounted police; the cosmopolitan crowd; the dreary plain. He thought also on a certain figure in that crowd, one who had watched the mournful and dramatic scene with almost a wild interest. It was only a disreputable loafer, with ragged garments and dirt-begrimed features. It was, in short, a man with identity fearfully concealed.
'Come,' he said suddenly, drawing her gently on, 'let me take you home. It is late, and to-morrow will be busy.'