Dunlap.
At dusk, also, the fireflies again scattered over the lake, without
waiting for a belated moon. Jean Lozier stood at the top of the bluff,
on his old mount of vision, and watched these boats finishing the work
of the day. They carried the only lights now to be seen in Kaskaskia.
He was not excited by the swarming life just below him. His idea of
Kaskaskia was not a buzzing encampment around a glittering seigniory
house, with the governor's presence giving it grandeur, and Rice Jones
and his sister, waiting their temporary burial on the uplands, giving it
awe. Old Kaskaskia had been over yonder, the place of his desires, his
love. The glamour and beauty and story were on the smothered valley, and
for him they could never be anywhere else.
Father Olivier came out on the bluff, and Jean at once pulled his cap
off, and looked at the ground instead of at the pale green and
wild-rose tints at the farther side of the world. They heard the soft
wash of the flood. The priest bared his head to the evening air.
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