and pitiless are often without real courage!"

"O!" laughed the old sergeant, "I'll wager my boots that His Reverence
is not in the fight at all. It's likely one of his understrappers, Father
Germain, perhaps, or that cutthroat half-breed, Etienne Le Batard,
or Father Laberne, or the big Chief Cope himself, is leading the fight
and carrying out the saintly abbe's orders."

"Fools! Fools and revilers!" exclaimed a deep and cutting voice behind
them; and turning with a start they saw the dreaded Le Loutre standing
in their midst. Lecorbeau and Pierre became pale with apprehension and
superstitious awe, while the old sergeant laughed awkwardly, abashed
though not dismayed.

The abbe's sallow face worked with anger, and for a moment his narrow
eyes blazed upon Lecorbeau and seemed to read his very soul. Then, as
he glanced across the marsh, his countenance changed. A fanatic zeal
illumined it, taking away half its repulsiveness.

"Nay!" he cried, "I am _not_ there in the battle. France and the Church
need me, and what am I that I should risk, to be thought bold, a life
that I must rather hold sacred. Should a chance ball strike me down
which of you traitors and self-seekers is there that could do my work?
Which of you could govern my fierce flock?"

To this tirade, which showed them their tormentor in a new light, Pierre
and his father could say nothing. Wondering, but not believing, they
exchanged stolen glances. It is probable that the abbe, in his present
mood, was sincere; for in a fanatic one must allow for the wildest
inconsistencies. The old sergeant, more skeptical than the Acadians,