. . . . . . . . .
Night had fallen on the Athabasca when they passed out of the wood
across the field, and they walked together hand in hand.
A great round moon was rising over the eastern forest, silvering the
hills with shining crowns.
Peace brooded on the world.
"And here I found him, M'sieu," Maren Le Moyne was saying sadly, "in
that low mound, cared for and worshipped by these peaceful beings who
till the land and follow his teachings. They were his people. He taught
them purity and peace, the use of plough and tool, the creed of love
and kindness. Here was his dream of empire, his plan of progress. He of
the Good Heart they called him, these Indians who were his people, and
mourn him as a chief. That was his castle yonder, the older cabin to
the east. Here is the fruit of his labour." She motioned over the new-
ploughed land.
"Beyond the trees yonder are bigger fields, a wider holding. And yet
they are poor, these people of peace. The tribes despise them and scoff
at their worship...He taught them the prayers,--the rosary. I have come
after him...Who knows? This is my dream also, my fulfilment.
Pages:
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324