“Doesn’t the king ship enough maids to Montreal?” inquired the priest, smiling at Jacques’s downcast figure. “It is a strain on loyalty when a bachelor has to travel so far to wive himself, to say nothing of putting a scandal upon our own town, to the glorifying of Quebec.”
“I came with my seignior,” muttered the censitaire, “and this ship-load was promised from Rouen.”
“My bride is my sword,” said Dollard. “The poor lad may perhaps find one as sharp. Anyhow, he must grab his Sabine and be gone.”
“Come, my son,” rallied Father de Casson, dropping a hand on the subaltern’s shoulder, “marriage is an honorable state, and the risks of it are surely no worse than we take daily with the Iroquois. Pluck up heart, pick thee a fine, stout, black-eyed maid, and if the king’s priest have his hands over-full to make that haste which the commandant desires, bring her to the cathedral presently, and there will I join ye. And thus will Montreal Sulpitians steal one church service out of the hands of Quebec Jesuits!”
“Are you returning directly up river, father?” inquired Dollard over Jacques’s mumble.
“Yes, my son; but this day only so far as the remote edge of one of our parishes, lying this side of Three Rivers.”
“Why not go in our company? It will be safer.”
“Much safer,” said Dollier de Casson. “I have only my servant who rows the boat.”
“I know you are a company of men in yourself, father.”
“Military escort is a luxury we priests esteem when we can get it, my son. Do you leave at once?”