“Has my cousin Marc gone yet?” I asked heavily.
“He waits and wastes in the chapel.”
“And my almost-father, Father Fafard?”
“No,” said Grûl, “his trouble is but for others. He has ever counselled men to keep their oaths. He has opposed a face of steel to Quebec intrigue. The English reverence him. He blesses those who are taken away. He comforts those who wait.”
Of Yvonne I had no excuse for asking more. What more I would know I must go and learn. To go and learn I must get strong. To get strong I must sleep. I turned my face to the wall.
Chapter XXII
Grûl’s Case
On the following day, being alone all day, I walked out, shaking at first, but with a step growing rapidly assured. Not far from the cave I passed a clear pool, and saw my face amid the branches leaning over it. A pretty cavalier, I thought, to go a-wooing. A little further on I came to a secluded cabin, where a young woman bent over the wash-tub in the sunny doorway. I went up and saluted her courteously. The alarm died from her face, and compassion melted there instead.
“I have been long wounded, in the woods,” I said. “Give me, I pray you, the charity of a cup of milk, and lend me your scissors and a glass.”
At this the compassion ran away in laughter, and she cried merrily:
“Sit here on the stoop, monsieur, till I get them for you.”