A light open carriage drawn by two stout ponies passed them at an
amazing pace considering the steepness of the street, and they saw in it
a florid young man in a splendid costume, his powdered hair tied in a
queue.
"De Mezy," said the priest, who was just behind them.
Then they knew that it was the young man, the companion of Bigot in his
revels, against whose chateau Father Drouillard had raised his
threatening hands. Now the priest spoke the name with the most intense
scorn and contempt, and Robert, feeling that he might encounter de Mezy
again in this pent-up Quebec, gazed at his vanishing figure with
curiosity. They had their gay blades in New York and Albany and even a
few in Boston of the Puritans, but he had not seen anybody like de Mezy.
"It is such as he who are pulling down New France," murmured Father
Drouillard.
A moment or two later the priest said farewell and departed in the
direction of the cathedral.
"There goes a man," said Willet, as he looked after the tall figure in
the black robe.
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