“There is so much of you, monsieur, you can easily do without a hand.”
[III.]
FATHER HENNEPIN.
“Thou art a comfort to a soldier, mademoiselle,” said Tonty, heartily.
“But not to a priest,” observed Barbe. “For last birthday when I was eleven my uncle Abbé stuck out his lip and said I was eleven years bad. But my uncle La Salle kissed my cheek. There goeth François le Moyne.” Her face became suddenly distorted with grimaces of derision beside which Tonty could scarcely keep his gravity. A boy of about her own age ran past, dropping her a sneer for her pains.
“Monsieur, these Le Moynes and Sorels and Bouchers and Varennes and Joliets and Le Bers, they are all against my uncle La Salle. The girls talk about it in the convent. But he hath the governor on his side, so what can they do? I have pinched Jeanne le Ber at school, but she will never pinch back and it only makes her feel holier. So I pinch her no more. Do you know Jeanne le Ber?”
“No,” said Tonty, “I have not that pleasure.”
“Oh, monsieur, it is no pleasure. She says so many prayers. When I have prayers for penances they make me so tired I have to get up and hop between them. But Jeanne le Ber would pray all the time if her father did not pull her off her knees. My father and mother died in France. If they were alive they would not have to pull me off my knees.”
“But a woman should learn to pray, even as a man should learn to fight,” observed Tonty. “He stands between her and danger, and she should stand linking him to heaven.”