The novitiate of Jean Baptiste was at an end; and now he was about to renounce all that he had held dear in his past life; and to take the final vows of the wilderness. It was as though the spirit of some remote ancestor had taken possession of him, body and soul, and was leading him back and down to the primitive savagery out of which the race, by long effort and much pain, had gradually ascended. He was a willing captive, feeling neither surprise nor regret; and it was with a sigh of relief that he cast the burden of civilisation away; and laid him down to sleep upon his bed of fragrant balsam; to dream of the green trees, clear streams, placid lakes and purple hills of that pleasant summer land. But in his dreams the former self of Jean Baptiste awoke, and came unto his own. He had wandered far; and was almost lost in the wilderness; but suddenly he found himself walking along the familiar valley road, passing the old landmarks, and approaching the old home. The night was dark; but the house was lighted; and as he entered by the open door, he saw a company of neighbours and friends sitting in a circle around the spacious kitchen; the men smoking, and the women knitting, as they often used to do in the good old days. But now there was no telling of stories; and neither song nor jest nor laughter; but a subdued and orderly conversation, like a memorial service in honour of one who was dead. No one looked up as Jean entered, walked across the room and took the vacant chair; and there he sat as a ghost, seeing and hearing everything, but himself an unseen and unbidden guest. His mother rose to pass the spruce-beer and cakes; and when she came to Jean’s place she paused and smiled as though she saw him sitting there and smiling in return. "Oh!" she said, "I think that Jean is not very far away. We shall see him soon, I am sure." "Let us hope so," said Father Paradis, gently, "but I fear that he will never return. He is a disappointed man. He has missed his vocation, he who might have become a bishop, an archbishop, a cardinal, even, in the course of time. What a pity!" "Yes," said Michel Gamache, "to miss the path like that, he who might have been a great man in the parish, a seigneur, a member of Parliament--anything. And now he is a failure, a _coureur des bois_, like me." "And all for the sake of a girl!" broke in Blanchette. "As though there were only one girl in the parish, in the Province. What folly! No woman is worth it. He is a fool, that Jean Baptiste." "He is more than that!" cried Pamphile, who sat by the fire, pale and haggard, his head bound up in a shawl. "He is a coward, that little priest. A coward, I say; and he fears the law. The law, yes, and this little whip across the face. _Sacré_! If he returns he shall suffer. I say it; I, his ancient enemy."