feet uncovered, and make thy confession, and I will pardon thy sins." I departed, but my heart accused me, for leaving behind the unsuspicious Canadian. Yet I knew that Father Paul would command nothing but what was right, and he was to me in the place of God. Every autumn, when the harvest moon lifted her horn, I have gone to him with my bleeding feet, beseeching him to absolve me, and have returned to my cave when the white man traces his first furrow on the earth. My last pilgrimage was performed with difficulty. Thorns mangled my feet, and the stormy blasts scattered my few white hairs. I arrived, but he whom I sought was not there. Three days and nights I lay upon his grave, until I saw high visions, and heard voices which I may not utter. Methought I stood in the midst of a pale assembly, and was about to speak. Chilling eyes gazed on me, and I saw that I was surrounded by the dead. Yet they clamoured with hollow voices "he is one of us," and a fearful tone from beneath said,—"Come!" Then I knew I was to die. I returned to my cavern, and increased my penance. Withered roots, and water were my sustenance, and every hour in the day, and night, I told my beads. Ah! little do ye know the torments of a sinful soul, propitiating its Maker. I have prayed, until my cavern was thick set with faces, and with fiery eyes; so that midnight was light about me. Sometimes they have deafened me with peals of hellish laughter, but when they have tried to rivet their burning
