road. His face was grave, and for a long time he stood motionless as a statue. What a whirlwind of tempestuous emotions, what a conflict between right and wrong was raging in the breast of that savage! Yet the most astute reader of physiognomy could not have determined from the fixed and immovable face that his soul was not as calm

as a summer sea.

Olacatora was fighting a battle which has to be fought by more than half of Mother Eve's sons- a conflict requiring more heroism than he displayed when, alone and single-handed, he charged the gunner of Fort St. Mattheo. Jealous passion and reason were arrayed against each other, and at times, when his hand convulsively clutched his weapon, it seemed as if hate would conquer. Reason and gentleness in the end prevailed, however, and, with his face as mild as the holy morn, he gazed long at the lodge and murmured:

"It is better. He is of her race and I am only her red brother."

Then he turned slowly about and plunged into the forest in an opposite direction to that taken by Francisco Estevan.

CHAPTER XX.

CONCLUSION.

TIME sped swiftly on.

St. Augustine lay on the shore of the river where her great fort and bristling guns seemed defying the armies and navies of the world. It was about six o'clock in the evening. The heat of the day had gradually decreased and a light evening breeze arose, seeming like the respiration of nature on awaking from a burning siesta of the south. A small Spanish sloop, chaste and elegant in form, was gliding into the peaceful harbor. The motion resembled that of a swan with its wings opened toward the wind. By the skilful manouvring of the man at the helm it swept gracefully into the bay, leaving behind a glittering track. By degrees the sun disappeared behind its western horizon; but, as though to prove the truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen mythology, its indiscreet rays reappeared on the summit of each wave, seeming to show that the god of fire had enfolded himself in the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vain en

deavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle. The little vessel moved rapidly on, though there did not seem to be sufficient wind to ruffle the curls on the head of a young girl. Standing in the bow was a tall man of dark complexion, whose dress and air indicated the Spanish sailor of the period. He observed with dilating eyes that they were approaching the dark mass, bristling with cannon, known as the Fort of St. Augustine.

Sitting in the stern of the little vessel thus gliding toward the Spanish fort were Francisco Estevan and Hortense De Barre, peaceful and smiling as the skies above them and the gentle sea about them. All the storm clouds seemed to have rolled away from their horizon, and the sorrows of the past were but a dark background on which was to be painted the golden happiness of the future. Their marriage made in heaven, despite the bigotry of the age which had so long kept two loving hearts apart, was soon to be celebrated on earth. They had grown like two trees, whose roots and branches are intertwined and whose perfume rises together to the skies.

Francisco Estevan on his arrival at St. Augustine, after leaving Hortense as related in the last chapter, had found Melendez quite changed. He received with kindness his countryman whom he

had so greatly wronged. The terrible lesson of De Gourges had humbled the pride of the haughty bigot, who knew that his harsh and inhuman conduct toward the Huguenots had been severely criticised by the best nations of Europe, for the age of bigotry was on the wane. Though he justified himself for the atrocious act by the remembrance that the men, women, and children whom he had ruthlessly swept out of existence were heretics, and that he acted under the orders of his king, he could but feel that the retribution visited upon him by the French was to have been expected.

He was in an humble, almost penitent mood when Mendoza came to him with Francisco Estevan, who had just come in from the forest, whither, it was represented, he had fled at the approach of the French. In the great whirlpool of exciting events which had followed the attack on the forts, Melendez had almost, if not quite, forgotten Francisco Estevan. As he had not appeared after his release, it was generally thought that he had perished in the attack, and Mendoza had offered up many prayers for his soul. The Spanish admiral was pleased to find him alive and congratulated him on his escape.

Francisco told briefly the story of his wrongs and the deceptions practised by John Gyrot, who had met his fate at his own hands in the forest.

Melendez listened calmly, with but little show of emotion, and when he had finished said:

"It is but human to err, and often we may find in this transitory life a demon in the deceitful guise of a man. It was so in this case."

Before going to Melendez, Francisco had made a full and complete confession to Mendoza of his love for Hortense De Barre, and expressed his wish that she be allowed to come to the Spanish settlement to be made his wife according to the ceremonies and rules of the Catholic Church. Though living in that age of bigotry, Mendoza was a person who could accommodate his conscience and religion to suit the circumstances and wishes of his friends; and though general custom, if not church law, forbade the marriage of a Catholic to a Protestant, he gave the match his approval, and was quite sure that, after so many wonderful events combining to bring about the happy union of Francisco and Hortense, it must be the will of God. There is no doubt that Mendoza hoped to proselyte the fair Huguenot when once she was the wife of such a firm Catholic as Francisco Estevan. It was Mendoza who made the plea for the French maiden to the Spanish admiral and asked that she who had been an object of Gyrot's persecution from childhood be permitted to come to St. Augustine to dwell.