Francis
once more in our village."
"Oh! I dare be bound the canaille of St. Anne are lost dogs like
yourselves--catuli catulorum."
The habitans thought this sounded like a doxology, and some crossed
themselves, amid the dubious laughter of others, who suspected
Father de Berey of a clerical jest.
"Oh!" continued he, "if fat Father Ambrose, the cook of the convent,
only had you, one at a time, to turn the spit for him, in place of
the poor dogs of Quebec, which he has to catch as best he can, and
set to work in his kitchen! but, vagabonds that you are, you are
rarely set to work now on the King's corvee--all work, little play,
and no pay!"
The men took his raillery in excellent part, and one, their
spokesman, bowing low to the Superior, said,--"Forgive us all the
same, good Father. The hard eggs of Beauport will be soft as lard
compared with the iron shells we are preparing for the English
breakfast when they shall appear some fine morning before Quebec."
"Ah, well, in that case I must pardon the trick you played upon
Brothers Mark and Alexis; and I give you my blessing, too, on
condition you send some salt to our convent to cure our fish, and
save your reputations, which are very stale just now among my good
Recollets.
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