“Rest tranquil, cousin, it is about your fate I would concern myself. And, oh! there are a thousand things I would know. If Armand is soon to rise in the army?—we have indeed need of a larger income—and Diane? and the Chevalier? and the Sieur d’Ordieux?—yes, I would know what their fortunes are to be—and whether those wolves of Iroquois will end by devouring us all? I would know all.” Madame de St. Rochs would not include Lydia, whose beauty and tractability had never won her favor, and against whom she had conceived a blind and inveterate prejudice. “Are you so determined to obtain a glance into futurity, Cecile?” Diane’s eyes sparkled with a glance of audacious fun. “Lydia will become a nun of the Congregation of Notre Dame. Cecile will be a great-grandmother before she is forty. The Chevalier will receive a command and win honor and renown. The Sieur d’Ordieux will regain his rights and appear as a great noble at the Court. Armand will be a General.” “And my cousin du Chesne?” “Du Chesne will be Governor-General of New France, and subdue the Iroquois and discover new countries for the King,” said Diane, with a momentary stirring of impatience, quick and vital. CHAPTER XVII. _THE MATSHI SKOUÉOU._ AS the party came out into the street the flambeaux of the servants flared wildly against the solemn sky of night. “It is against the rules of the Church, this expedition,” hazarded Lydia, raising the most beauteous of anxious eyes. “Then risk it not,” counselled Madame de St. Rochs, briskly. “There is always a danger of being attacked by the savages, but we shall be well protected. For us, that promenade takes place to-morrow. Just fancy, a witch who talks to the devil face to face! It is assuredly a sin, but we will do ample penance afterwards, and Father Denys is never severe to those who are contrite for their sins.” “There is but evil to be found with the witch of the woods and all others of her tribe, I answer to you for that, Mesdames and Messieurs.” Bras de Fer removed the pipe from his mouth and gazed around reflectively at the circle of eager faces. Here, where he could pose as an authority, he found no difficulty in expressing his views. “Trust to the experience of a coureur de bois to whom the silence of the forest has taught much that is not found in books. Tales of the most exciting I could tell you of the Lady of the Iris, whom the redskins call Matshi Skouéou.” “Tell us, then, I pray thee, good Baptiste,” implored Madame de St. Rochs. “It is in such tales we delight.”