Once more Father Drouillard stood on the step, holding a lamp in his hand.
"It is over, Father," said Willet.

"We've driven off part of 'em and the others lie here." "I heard the noise of the battle from within," said Father Drouillard calmly, "and for the first time in my life I prayed that the Bostonnais might win." "If you don't mind, Father, bring the lamp, and let us see the fallen.
There must be at least fifteen here." Father Drouillard, holding the light high, walked out upon the lawn with steady step.
"Here is a Montagnais," said Willet, "and this a St.Regis, and this a St.Francis, and this a Huron, and this an Ojibway from the far west! Ah, and here is a Frenchman, an officer, too, and he isn't quite dead! Hold the lamp a little closer, will you, Father ?" The priest threw the rays of the lamp upon the figure.
"Jumonville!" exclaimed Robert.
It was in truth Francois de Jumonville, shot through the body and dying, slain in a raid for the sake of robbery and murder.

When he saw the faces of white men looking down at him, he raised himself feebly on one elbow and said: "It is you again, Willet, and you, too, Lennox and Tayoga.

Always across my path, but for the last time, because I'm going on a long journey, longer than any I ever undertook before." Father Drouillard fell on his knees and said a prayer for the dying man.
Robert looked down pityingly.

He realized then that he hated nobody.
Life was much too busy an affair for the cherishing of hate and the plotting of revenge.