It is the
first kind word Maxime has heard. The boy's heart is full, so he
speaks freely to the mild-mannered visitor. Padre Francisco listens
to the recital. His eyes sparkle strangely when Valois speaks of
New Orleans.
"Then you understand French?" cries the padre joyously.
"It is my native tongue," rejoins Valois proudly.
"My name before I took orders was Francois Ribaut," says the
overjoyed father. "Hold! I must see Don Miguel. I am a Frenchman
myself." He flies over the plaza, his long robe fluttering behind
him. His quickened steps prove a friendly interest. Maxima's heart
swells within him. The beloved language has unlocked the priestly
heart.
In five minutes the curate is back. "Come with me, 'mon fils,'" he
says. Guided by the priest, Maxime leaves his prison, its unlocked
door swinging open. They reach the head of the square.
By the chapel is Padre Francisco's house, school-room, and office.
A sacristy chamber connects chapel and dwelling.
The missionary leads the way to the chancel, and points to the
altar rails.
"I will leave you," he whispers.
There, on his knees, where the wondering Indians gaze in awe of
the face on the Most Blessed Virgin, Maxime thanks God for this
friend raised up to him in adversity.
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