But if man were absent, there was at least no want of life. It buzzed and chirped21 and chattered22 all round them from marsh13 and stream and brushwood. Sometimes it was the dun coat of a deer which glanced between the distant trunks, sometimes the badger23 which scuttled24 for its hole at their approach. Once the long intoed track of a bear lay marked in the soft earth before them, and once Amos picked a great horn from amid the bushes which some moose had shed the month before. Little red squirrels danced and clattered25 above their heads, and every oak was a choir26 with a hundred tiny voices piping from the shadow of its foliage27. As they passed the lakes the heavy gray stork28 flapped up in front of them, and they saw the wild duck whirring off in a long V against the blue sky, or heard the quavering cry of the loon29 from amid the reeds.
That night they slept in the woods, Amos Green lighting30 a dry wood fire in a thick copse where at a dozen paces it was invisible. A few drops of rain had fallen, so with the quick skill of the practised woodsman he made two little sheds of elm and basswood bark, one to shelter the two refugees, and the other for Ephraim and himself. He had shot a wild goose, and this, with the remains31 of their biscuit, served them both for supper and for breakfast. Next day at noon they passed a little clearing, in the centre of which were the charred32 embers of a fire. Amos spent half an hour in reading all that sticks and ground could tell him. Then, as they resumed their way, he explained to his companions that the fire had been lit three weeks before, that a white man and two Indians had camped there, that they had been journeying from west to east, and that one of the Indians had been a squaw. No other traces of their fellow-mortals did they come across, until late in the afternoon Amos halted suddenly in the heart of a thick grove33, and raised his hand to his ear.
“Listen!” he cried.
“I hear nothing,” said Ephraim.
“Nor I,” added De Catinat.
“Ah, but I do!” cried Adele gleefully. “It is a bell—and at the very time of day when the bells all sound in Paris!”
“You are right, madame. It is what they call the Angelus bell.”
“Ah, yes, I hear it now!” cried De Catinat. “It was drowned by the chirping34 of the birds. But whence comes a bell in the heart of a Canadian forest?”
“We are near the settlements on the Richelieu. It must be the bell of the chapel35 at the fort.”
“Fort St. Louis! Ah, then, we are no great way from my friend’s seigneury.”
“Then we may sleep there to-night, if you think that he is indeed to be trusted.”
“Yes. He is a strange man, with ways of his own, but I would trust him with my life.”
“Very good. We shall keep to the south of the fort and make for his house. But something is putting up the birds over yonder. Ah, I hear the sound of steps! Crouch36 down here among the sumach, until we see who it is who walks so boldly through the woods.”
They stooped all four among the brushwood, peeping out between the tree trunks at a little glade4 towards which Amos was looking. For a long time the sound which the quick ears of the woodsman had detected was inaudible to the others, but at last they too heard the sharp snapping of twigs37 as some one forced his passage through the undergrowth. A moment later a man pushed his way into the open, whose appearance was so strange and so ill-suited to the spot, that even Amos gazed upon him with amazement38.
He was a very small man, so dark and weather-stained that he might have passed for an Indian were it not that he walked and was clad as no Indian had ever been. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, frayed39 at the edges, and so discoloured that it was hard to say what its original tint40 had been. His dress was of skins, rudely cut and dangling41 loosely from his body, and he wore the high boots of a dragoon, as tattered42 and stained as the rest of his raiment. On his back he bore a huge bundle of canvas with two long sticks projecting from it, and under each arm he carried what appeared to be a large square painting.
“He’s no Injun,” whispered Amos, “and he’s no Woodsman either. Blessed if I ever saw the match of him!”
“He’s neither voyageur, nor soldier, nor coureur-debois,” said De Catinat.
“‘Pears to me to have a jurymast rigged upon his back, and fore6 and main staysails set under each of his arms,” said Captain Ephraim.
“Well, he seems to have no consorts43, so we may hail him without fear.”
They rose from their ambush44, and as they did so the stranger caught sight of them. Instead of showing the uneasiness which any man might be expected to feel at suddenly finding himself in the presence of strangers in such a country, he promptly45 altered his course and came towards them. As he crossed the glade, however, the sounds of the distant bell fell upon his ears, and he instantly whipped off his hat and sunk his head in prayer. A cry of horror rose, not only from Adele but from everyone of the party, at the sight which met their eyes.
The top of the man’s head was gone. Not a vestige46 of hair or of white skin remained, but in place of it was a dreadful crinkled discoloured surface with a sharp red line running across his brow and round over his ears.
“By the eternal!” cried Amos, “the man has lost his scalp!”
“My God!” said De Catinat. “Look at his hands!”
He had raised them in prayer. Two or three little stumps47 projecting upwards48 showed where the fingers had been.
“I’ve seen some queer figure-heads in my life, but never one like that,” said Captain Ephraim.
It was indeed a most extraordinary face which confronted them as they advanced. It was that of a man who might have been of any age and of any nation, for the features were so distorted that nothing could be learned from them. One eyelid49 was drooping50 with a puckering51 and flatness which showed that the ball was gone. The other, however, shot as bright and merry and kindly52 a glance as ever came from a chosen favourite of fortune. His face was flecked over with peculiar53 brown spots which had a most hideous54 appearance, and his nose had been burst and shattered by some terrific blow. And yet, in spite of this dreadful appearance, there was something so noble in the carriage of the man, in the pose of his head and in the expression which still hung, like the scent55 from a crushed flower, round his distorted features, that even the blunt Puritan seaman was awed56 by it.
“Good-evening, my children,” said the stranger, picking up his pictures again and advancing towards them. “I presume that you are from the fort, though I may be permitted to observe that the woods are not very safe for ladies at present.”
“We are going to the manor-house of Charles de la Noue at Sainte Marie,” said De Catinat, “and we hope soon to be in a place of safety. But I grieve, sir, to see how terribly you have been mishandled.”
“Ah, you have observed my little injuries, then! They know no better, poor souls. They are but mischievous57 children—merry-hearted but mischievous. Tut, tut, it is laughable indeed that a man’s vile58 body should ever clog59 his spirit, and yet here am I full of the will to push forward, and yet I must even seat myself on this log and rest myself, for the rogues60 have blown the calves61 of my legs off.”
“My God! Blown them off! The devils!”
“Ah, but they are not to be blamed. No, no, it would be uncharitable to blame them. They are ignorant poor folk, and the prince of darkness is behind them to urge them on. They sank little charges of powder into my legs and then they exploded them, which makes me a slower walker than ever, though I was never very brisk. ‘The Snail62’ was what I was called at school in Tours, yes, and afterwards at the seminary I was always ‘the Snail.’”
“Who are you then, sir, and who is it who has used you so shamefully63?” asked De Catinat.
“Oh, I am a very humble64 person. I am Ignatius Morat, of the Society of Jesus, and as to the people who have used me a little roughly, why, if you are sent upon the Iroquois mission, of course you know what to expect. I have nothing at all to complain of. Why, they have used me very much better than they did Father Jogues, Father Breboeuf, and a good many others whom I could mention. There were times, it is true, when I was quite hopeful of martyrdom, especially when they thought my tonsure65 was too small, which was their merry way of putting it. But I suppose I was not worthy66 of it; indeed I know that I was not, so it only ended in just a little roughness.”
“Where are you going then?” asked Amos, who had listened in amazement to the man’s words.
“I am going to Quebec. You see I am such a useless person that, until I have seen the bishop67, I can really do no good at all.”
“You mean that you will resign your mission into the bishop’s hands?” said De Catinat.
“Oh, no. That would be quite the sort of thing which I should do if I were left to myself, for it is incredible how cowardly I am. You would not think it possible that a priest of God could be so frightened as I am sometimes. The mere68 sight of a fire makes me shrink all into myself ever since I went through the ordeal69 of the lighted pine splinters, which have left all these ugly stains upon my face. But then, of course, there is the Order to be thought of, and members of the Order do not leave their posts for trifling70 causes. But it is against the rules of Holy Church that a maimed man should perform the rites71, and so, until I have seen the bishop and had his dispensation, I shall be even more useless than ever.”
“And what will you do then?”
“Oh, then, of course, I will go back to my flock.”
“To the Iroquois!”
“That is where I am stationed.”
“Amos,” said De Catinat, “I have spent my life among brave men, but I think that this is the bravest man that I have ever met!”
“On my word,” said Amos, “I have seen some good men, too, but never one that I thought was better than this. You are weary, father. Have some of our cold goose, and there is still a drop of cognac in my flask72.”
“Tut, tut, my son, if I take anything but the very simplest living it makes me so lazy that I become a snail indeed.”
“But you have no gun and no food. How do you live?”
“Oh, the good God has placed plenty of food in these forests for a traveller who dare not eat very much. I have had wild plums, and wild grapes, and nuts and cranberries73, and a nice little dish of tripe-demere from the rocks.”
The woodsman made a wry74 face at the mention of this delicacy75.
“I had as soon eat a pot of glue,” said he. “But what is this which you carry on your back?”
“It is my church. Ah, I have everything here, tent, altar, surplice, everything. I cannot venture to celebrate service myself without the dispensation, but surely this venerable man is himself in orders and will solemnise the most blessed function.”
Amos, with a sly twinkle of the eyes, translated the proposal to Ephraim, who stood with his huge red hands clenched76, mumbling77 about the saltless pottage of papacy. De Catinat replied briefly78, however, that they were all of the laity79, and that if they were to reach their destination before nightfall, it was necessary that they should push on.
“You are right, my son,” said the little Jesuit. “These poor people have already left their villages, and in a few days the woods will be full of them, though I do not think that any have crossed the Richelieu yet. There is one thing, however, which I would have you do for me.”
“And what is that?”
“It is but to remember that I have left with Father Lamberville at Onondaga the dictionary which I have made of the Iroquois and French languages. There also is my account of the copper80 mines of the Great Lakes which I visited two years ago, and also an orrery which I have made to show the northern heavens with the stars of each month as they are seen from this meridian81. If aught were to go amiss with Father Lamberville or with me, and we do not live very long on the Iroquois mission, it would be well that some one else should profit from my work.”
“I will tell my friend to-night. But what are these great pictures, father, and why do you bear them through the wood?” He turned them over as he spoke82, and the whole party gathered round them, staring in amazement.
They were very rough daubs, crudely coloured and gaudy83. In the first, a red man was reposing84 serenely85 upon what appeared to be a range of mountains, with a musical instrument in his hand, a crown upon his head, and a smile upon his face. In the second, a similar man was screaming at the pitch of his lungs, while half-a-dozen black creatures were battering86 him with poles and prodding87 him with lances.
“It is a damned soul and a saved soul,” said Father Ignatius Morat, looking at his pictures with some satisfaction. “These are clouds upon which the blessed spirit reclines, basking88 in all the joys of paradise. It is well done this picture, but it has had no good effect, because there are no beaver89 in it, and they have not painted in a tobacco-pipe. You see they have little reason, these poor folk, and so we have to teach them as best we can through their eyes and their foolish senses. This other is better. It has converted several squaws and more than one Indian. I shall not bring back the saved soul when I come in the spring, but I shall bring five damned souls, which will be one for each nation. We must fight Satan with such weapons as we can get, you see. And now, my children, if you must go, let me first call down a blessing90 upon you!”
And then occurred a strange thing, for the beauty of this man’s soul shone through all the wretched clouds of sect91, and, as he raised his hand to bless them, down went those Protestant knees to earth, and even old Ephraim found himself with a softened92 heart and a bent93 head listening to the half-understood words of this crippled, half-blinded, little stranger.
“Farewell, then,” said he, when they had risen. “May the sunshine of Saint Eulalie be upon you, and may Saint Anne of Beaupre shield you at the moment of your danger.”
And so they left him, a grotesque94 and yet heroic figure, staggering along through the woods with his tent, his pictures, and his mutilation. If the Church of Rome should ever be wrecked95 it may come from her weakness in high places, where all Churches are at their weakest, or it may be because with what is very narrow she tries to explain that which is very broad, but assuredly it will never be through the fault of her rank and file, for never upon earth have men and women spent themselves more lavishly96 and more splendidly than in her service.
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1
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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4
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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6
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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aster
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| n.紫菀属植物 | |
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8
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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9
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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10
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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12
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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14
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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15
alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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17
crimsons
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| 变为深红色（crimson的第三人称单数形式） | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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21
chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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26
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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stork
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| n.鹳 | |
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loon
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| n.狂人 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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41
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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consorts
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| n.配偶( consort的名词复数 )；（演奏古典音乐的）一组乐师；一组古典乐器；一起v.结伴( consort的第三人称单数 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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44
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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45
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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46
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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47
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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49
eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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50
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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51
puckering
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 )；小褶纹；小褶皱 | |
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52
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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53
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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54
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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55
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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56
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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59
clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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60
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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61
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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62
snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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63
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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64
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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65
tonsure
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| n.削发；v.剃 | |
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66
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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68
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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69
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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70
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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71
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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72
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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73
cranberries
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| n.越橘( cranberry的名词复数 ) | |
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74
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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75
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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76
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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78
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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79
laity
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| n.俗人；门外汉 | |
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80
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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81
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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82
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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83
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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84
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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85
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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86
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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87
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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88
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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89
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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90
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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92
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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93
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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94
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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95
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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