CHAPTER XLVI

THE FORGOTTEN MAN

It was Easter morning, and the good sunrise of a perfect spring made
radiant the high hill above the town. Rosy-fingered morn touched with
magic colour the masts and scattered sails of the ships upon the great
river, and spires and towers quivered with rainbow light. The city was
waking cheerfully, though the only active life was in the pealing bells
and on the deep flowing rivers. The streets were empty yet, save for an
assiduous priest or the cart of a milkman. Here and there a window
opened and a drowsy head was thrust into the eager air. These saw a
bearded countryman with his team of six dogs and his little cart going
slowly up the street. It was plain the man had come a long distance--
from the mountains in the east or south, no doubt, where horses were few,
and dogs, canoes, and oxen the means of transportation.

As the man moved slowly through the streets, his dogs still gallantly
full of life after their hard journey, he did not stare about him after
the manner of countrymen. His movements had intelligence and freedom.
He was an unusual figure for a woodsman or river-man--he did not wear
ear-rings or a waist-sash as did the river-men, and he did not turn in
his toes like a woodsman. Yet he was plainly a man from the far
mountains.

The man with the dogs did not heed the few curious looks turned his way,
but held his head down as though walking in familiar places. Now and