As for the Chevalier, what the devil! his fingers have been
sunken into my throat."
A mile from the mission, toward the north, of the lake, stood a hut of
Indian construction. It had been erected long before the mission. It
served as a half-way to the savages after days of hunting in the
northern confines of the country of the Onondagas. Here the savages
would rest of a night before carrying the game to the village in the
hills. It was well hidden from the eyes, thick foliage and vines
obscuring it from the view of those at the mission. But there was a
well worn path leading to it. It was here that tragedy entered into
the comedy of these various lives.
Indian summer. The leaves rustled and sighed upon the damp earth. The
cattails waved their brown tassels. Wild ducks passed in dark flocks.
A stag sent a challenge across the waters. The lord-like pine looked
lordlier than ever among the dismantled oak and maple. The brown nuts
pattered softly to the ground, and the chatter of the squirrel was
heard. The Chevalier stood at the door of the hunting hut, and all the
varying glories of the dying year stirred the latent poetry in his
soul.
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