"It is not altogether completed," he said, nervously. "Of course the detail will be worked out more fully, and the cross should be given a warmer radiance. Perhaps a light showing through the windows of the chapel--" "Who is it?" asked Menard. "It is Catherine Outasoren, the Lily of the Onondagas," replied the priest; "the noblest woman that ever rose from the depths of Indian superstition." Menard's eyes rested on an obscure signature in a lower corner, "C. de C." "You certainly have reason to be proud of the work. But may I ask about the perspective? Should the maiden appear larger than the chapel?" The priest gazed at the painting with an unsettled expression. "Yes," he said, "perhaps you are right, M'sieu. At any rate I will give the matter thought and prayer." "And the Indians," Menard questioned, "in the canoe; are they coming toward the chapel or going away from it? It seems to me that any doubt on that point should be removed." "Ah," said the priest; "that very doubt is allegorical. It typifies the workings of the human mind when first confronted by the truth. When the seeker first beholds the light, as shown through the devotion of such a woman as Catherine Outasoren, there arises in his mind--" "Very true, very true! But I never yet have seen a canoe-load of Indians in doubt whether they were moving forward or backward." Father Claude held the canvas at arm's length and gazed long at it. "Tell me, M'sieu," he said at last, "do you think it deserving of a place in the College?" "I do not see why not." "And you think I would be justified in laying a request before the Superior?" Menard shrugged his shoulders. "That is your decision, Father." "I never can fully thank you, my son, for your kindness in looking on my humble work. I will not decide to-day. First I must add foliage in the foreground. And I will give it my earnest prayer." Menard said farewell and went out, leaving the priest gazing at the picture. He strolled back toward the citadel, stopping now and then to greet an old friend or a chance acquaintance. When he arrived at the headquarters in the citadel he found Danton, a brown-haired young lieutenant of engineers, gazing at a heap of plans and other papers on the table. "Well, Captain Menard," was his greeting, "I'd give half of last year's pay, if I ever get it, to feel as lazy as you look." "You are lazy enough," growled Menard. "That begs the question. It is not how lazy a man is, but how lazy he gets a chance to be." "If you'd been through what I have this spring, you'd deserve a rest." "You must have had a stirring time," said the Lieutenant. "Major Provost has promised to let me go out with the line when the campaign starts. I've not had a brush since I came over." Menard gave him a quizzical smile before he replied, "You'll get brushes enough." "By the way, the Major wants to see you." "Does he?" said Menard. He lighted his short pipe with a coal from the fire and walked out.