Father Drouillard,
tall in his black robe, gazed fixedly at the rock, and raised his hand
in a gesture much like that with which he had cursed the chateau of
Count Jean de Mezy. His eyes were set and stern, but, as the sun fell in
floods of burnished gold on the cathedral and the convents, his accusing
look softened, became sad, then pitying, then hopeful.
"A wonderful sight, Father Drouillard," said Willet, who stood at his
elbow and who also gazed at Quebec with feelings quite his own. "I've
seen it before, but I can never see it too often."
"Mr. Willet," said the priest, "you and I are greater in years than
these youths, and perhaps for that reason we can look farther into the
future. Youth fears nothing, but age fears everything. You come to
Quebec now in peace, and I trust that you may never come in war. I can
feel, nay I can see the clouds gathering over our two lands. Why should
we fight? On a continent so vast is there not room enough for all?"
"Room and to spare," replied the hunter, "but as you say, Father
Drouillard, you and I have lived longer than these youths, and age has
to think.
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