He had been with the Indians all the day,
But sat with us at eve,
Chatting and laughing in his genial way,
Till came the hour to leave;
And then he rose, we with him, for we loved
Our good old parish priest,
Who all his lifetime in our midst had moved
At death-bed and at feast.

He raised his hand for silence, and each head
Was bowed as though in prayer,
Expectant of his blessing, but instead
He stood in silence there.
Thrice he essayed to speak, and thrice in vain,
And then his voice came back,
Vibrating in a deep, triumphal strain
That it was wont to lack.

'My children, we must part. My task is done.
God calls me to His rest,
And though my labors seem scarce yet begun,
Surely He knoweth best.
I have grown old in laboring for Him,
My hair with age is white,
My footsteps feeble, and my eyesight dim--
But all shall change to-night.

'When strikes the hour of twelve, my weary soul
On earth shall cease to dwell,
As sign of which the chapel bell shall toll
Its slow funereal knell.
Then seek me, if you will, and you shall find
Upon the altar stair
The prison-house my soul will leave behind,
Kneeling as though in prayer.

'Seek, then, Père Compain, on the Isle aux Coudres,
Nor fear the rising gale,
For Heaven will guide you through the angry flood,
And it shall not prevail.
He will be waiting for you on the sands,
Amid the morning gloom,
To be your comrade, and, with kindly hands
Consign me to my tomb.'

He ceased, and left us, as though turned to stone,
All motionless and still:
And faintly fell his footsteps, as alone
He slowly climbed the hill.
Then we awoke, and all so wondrous seemed,
His words so strange at best,
We almost fancied we had slept and dreamed
That he had been our guest.

We turned unto our merriment anew,
With some kind thoughts for him;
Yet as the hour of midnight nearer drew,
And waxed the hearth fire dim,
A silence fell upon us, and in fear
We stopped and held our breath,
As though more clearly through the gloom to hear
The promised knell of death.

There had been something in his face that night
That thrilled our hearts with fear,
An undefinable, mysterious light,
Which told us Heaven was near.
He had a deeper lustre in his eyes,
His smile had seemed more bright,
Till, looking in his face, all Paradise
Seemed opened to our sight.

Soon chimed the clock. And scarcely had it ceased,
Than tolled the chapel bell,
As though for some long-suffering soul released,
Its slow funereal knell,
And on its ebon wings the rising gale
Swept landward from the sea,
And mingled with the chapel bell's long wail
Its own sad symphony.

We found him lying lifeless, as he said,
Before the altar, prone,
Nor laid our sinful hands upon the dead,
But left him there alone,
And launched our frail canoe upon the tide,
Not marvelling to behold
Before our prow the billows fall aside,
Like the Red Sea of old.

On every hand the screaming waters flung
Their great, white arms on high,
And over all the thundering storm-clouds hung
And battled in the sky.
Yet fearless we sailed on, until when day
Broke, panting, through the night,
The fertile Isle aux Coudres before us lay,
Its beach with breakers white.

And there, upon that tempest-beaten strand,
Waiting, Père Compain stood
And beckoned to us with uplifted hand
Across the raging flood.
No need to tell our errand, for that night
Père Brosse had sought his cell,
And told him all, then faded from his sight,
Breathing a kind farewell.