There was for these two men a peculiar fascination attached to that
grey garment, of which neither could rid himself, try as he would.
Upon a time it had represented ten thousand livres, a secure head, and
a woman's hand if not her heart.
Once Victor thoughtlessly clasped his hands, and a gasp of pain escaped
him.
"Does it pain you much, lad?" asked the Chevalier, turning his head.
"I shut them, not thinking. I shall be all right by morning."
The Chevalier dropped his head upon his knees and dozed. The vicomte
and the poet alone were awake and watchful.
A sound. It drifted from afar. After a while it came again, nearer.
The sleeping braves stirred restlessly, and one by one sat up. A dog
lifted his nose, sniffed, and growled. Once more. It was a cry, human
and designed. It consisted of a prolonged call, followed by several
short yells. The old chief rose, and putting his hands to his mouth,
uttered a similar call. It was immediately answered; and a few minutes
later three Indians and two Jesuit priests pushed aside the bearskin
and entered the hut.
"Chaumonot!" exclaimed the Chevalier.
The kindly priest extended his hands, and the four white men
respectfully brushed them with their lips.
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