Prisoners of Chance

"The sun is still sufficiently high for considerable travel, my son," he remarked quietly, "and you will require daylight for the earlier part of your journey."

"It was upon my mind, but I scarcely knew how best to proceed."

"Possibly my experience may guide you. The way should not prove unduly fatiguing after you pass the falls," with a wave of the hand downward, and a slight smile. "I wandered here alone up that valley, seeking the Indian village somewhat blindly, discovering much of interest on the way. Would that my own future path led me through such ease; but 'tis mine to go whithersoever the Lord wills. However, my discoveries will be of value. Slightly below the falls, concealed beneath an outcropping rock, you will find several stanch Indian boats. The lightest one will transport safely the two of you, together with what provisions you require. The current runs swiftly, yet a strong, skilful hand on the steering oar should bring you through without mishap."

We both stared at him, greatly puzzled by his strange speech. Eloise was first to speak in protest.

"What do you mean by two of us? Do you deem us dastards enough to leave you here alone?"

He smiled into her face with the tender smile of a woman, and held up his shining silver crucifix.

"Daughter," he said modestly, "my work is not yet done. Upon this symbol I took solemn oath to live and die in faithful service to the heathen tribes of this river. Would you have me retreat in cowardice? Would you have me false to the vows of my Order? to the voice of the Master?"

"But you are crippled, helpless, in continual pain!" She crossed hastily to him, dropping upon her knees at his side. "Oh, père, we cannot leave you; it would mean death."

His slender fingers stroked her brown hair, his eyes alight with the fire of enthusiasm.

"Whether or not I am worthy of martyrdom, God knows. All I see is my plain duty, and the beckoning hand of the bleeding Christ. Daughter, you are a child of the true Church; your pleading should never retard the labor of the priesthood. My suffering is nothing, my life nothing, if only through such sacrifice souls may be rescued from the consuming flames of hell."

She could not speak, but sobbed, her face hidden.

"Where do you go seeking other tribes?" I asked hoarsely, scarcely believing his words.

He arose with difficulty to his feet, holding himself erect on the rude crutches. I noticed now, for the first time, a bag of woven grass hanging at his girdle.