The priest had risen, speaking passionately, his hands clasped, his eyes raised to the towering oak-tree, through whose branches the sunbeams filtered about him like a glory. Robert, still busy with his gun, glanced at the inspired face, and with a sigh went on with his work.
"Madame Bienveillance is right," he said to himself; "he is a saint already."
Meanwhile the boy had finished his task; and after building a fire in the hollow stump of a tree, proceeded to broil the game after the approved Indian fashion. When it was ready, he laid the table,—a service which was speedily accomplished, for the best of reasons. When the simple preparations were complete, the child, whose reverence for the inspired moods of the priest was not equal to Robert's, who would never have dared to call that pure spirit from its lofty communings, pulled the missionary by the arm and pointed silently to the table.
"Robert, I have not fared so well since thou wert last here. Tell me, does the New Orleans market afford such trout as these, such a pair of ducks?"
"Yes, father, I think it does," answered Robert, eying the smoking viands hungrily; "it is the appetite that is lacking in the city."
He moved toward the table.
"See the delicate markings on this fish!"
