“The Spanish, under O’Reilly.”

“’Tis what they told me above, yet I believed they lied.  Those with you are French?”

“Ay.”

“And you?”

“Of Louisiana birth and English blood; five years I have been a hunter in the Illinois country.”

He groaned as though the mention of the word awoke unpleasant memories.

“’Tis an unholy land, no fit abiding place for the elect, as I learned, having passed through its settlements seeking prayerfully to bear an evangel unto that stiff-necked people.  Friend, thou hast an honest face, and I will say in confidence I have been ofttimes blessed of the Spirit in the conversion of souls; yet this people laughed at my unctuous speech, making merry regarding that head-covering with which the Almighty chose to adorn his servant.  Dost thou know the French settlement on the Kaskaskia?”

“I have been there often.”

“Ah! ’tis verily a stronghold of popish superstition.  Recall you the humble cabin of Gabriel La Motte, the Huguenot, close by the ravine?  It was there I abode in much spiritual and temporal comfort with that godly man, until certain mad roisterers took offence at plain gospel speech, driving me forth into the wilderness, even as Jehovah’s prophets of old.  Since that hour I have been a wanderer on the face of the earth, finding small comfort in this life; yet Ezekiel Cairnes is merely the poor servant of the Lord, the chief of sinners, and must abide in travail until He cometh.”

He cast up his eyes in pious affectation, his lips moving as though he meditated in prayer.

“Then your name is Cairnes?”

“Ezekiel Cairnes, late of the Connecticut colony, and am permitted by the Lord’s mercy to write Reverend before my unworthy appellation.”

“A Puritan preacher!” I exclaimed in some disgust.  “I have heard of your sort before, yet have been spared a meeting until now.  Where do you propose going?”

“The Lord leadeth His anointed, young man.  Even as Jonah abode in the belly of the whale, so doth the water bear me onward as the Almighty willeth.”

His wandering eyes rested thoughtfully upon my companion, now returning toward us, sauntering listlessly along the sandy shore.

“I know not, friend, who you may be, save as you have seen fit to reveal,” he said shrewdly.  “Yet I would venture a guess as to yonder gayly attired cavalier.”

“A guess?” I echoed, taken completely by surprise.  “It is small chance you would hit right—­what might your guess be?”

“Chevalier Charles de Noyan.”

“How know you that?”

He chuckled grimly, evidently well pleased at my astonishment.

“’Tis no work of the evil one, friend.  I am but just escaped also from the hands of the Philistines,” he explained, becoming angry at the thought, and ducking his red head vehemently.  “While in their unhallowed company, a gray-bellied son of Belial questioned me much regarding yonder fine gentleman, ere he waxed exceedingly wroth at my plain speech in matters of the spirit, bidding his jabbering crew of papists to heave me overboard.”