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Samuel,” he said. “They have travelled far, just like Champlain himself.”
    The Jesuit leaned down. “Like Champlain, you say,” he said, looking at the two scruffy black hens. “Thank you, we will be happy to have their eggs.”
    â€œI will take them,” Douart, the scruffy lay brother said, placing his hand on the battered cage.
    â€œYou can’t just throw them in the coop,” Etienne protested. “They have to be put on a roost at night. Then when they wake, they’ll think they’ve always lived there.”
    â€œMonsieur Le Coq,” one of the men at the next table asked in a loud voice, “is it true?”
    â€œIt didn’t happen to me,” a voice replied, and a roar of laughter followed.
    â€œWhat is it that you have come to do, my son,” the Father Superior asked kindly.
    â€œExplore and hunt,” Etienne answered enthusiastically.
    â€œYou probably will,” the Father Superior said, “but how will you serve God?”
    Etienne thought of the chores he’d left behind. “I know how to raise chickens and tend a garden,” he said. Then he remembered a phrase he’d heard his father say often and repeated it. “I come from a long line of farmers.”
    â€œAnd what long line might that be?” Father Rageuneau asked.
    Etienne stared at the priest blankly. He could not remember the boy’s last name.
    â€œYour family name,” the man seated beside Father Rageuneau prompted. “We want to know your father’s family name.”
    Etienne stared at the ruddy-skinned man with black hair and brown eyes. “Hébert,” he blurted suddenly, taking the name of the family at the next farm. “All the men of the Hébert family are farmers.”
    â€œSurely you are not a descendant of the great Louis Hébert,” the black-haired man said, putting down his spoon. “Why, he was much more than a farmer. He was a famous apothecary.”
    Etienne had not heard of this particular Hébert, but he guessed by the glint in this man’s eyes, it would be a good heritage to have.
    â€œYou must mean my Uncle Louis,” he said, nodding. “My mother speaks of him often.”
    â€œBut,” Father Bressani said, “Father Lejeune wrote you were an orphan.”
    Etienne lowered his head, studying the black leather boots before him. “I meant my father and mother used to speak of him often,” he said in a whisper.
    â€œHe will work with me,” the man beside FatherRageuneau stated. He reached across the table and shook Etienne’s shoulder. “You can help out in the apothecary.”
    â€œGood,” said Father Ragueuneau. He leaned into Etienne and whispered, “But I must warn you, Master Gendron is very particular about work done around the hospital.”
    â€œWhat about the chickens?” Etienne asked, giving Francine and Samuel a tender look.
    The Father Superior smiled. “You can tend to your chickens as well,” he said.
    â€œYou can sleep with them if you like,” Douart added, returning to his meal.
    Etienne sat down to eat. The meal, nothing more than rabbit stew, tasted delicious.
    After dinner, he carried his chickens with pride to the long, low building beside the palisade. “Tonight we sleep apart,” he told them as he put them on a roost. “There will be no more canoes, no more rapids and no more fires.”
    Etienne clutched the rope handrail as he made his way up the steep ladder-like stairs of the barn. In the low-beamed loft, he paused in front of the rows of narrow plank beds to select a spot. He placed his bedroll on the empty bed directly across from the small square window. From here he would be able to see the night sky and gaze out at the moon. It was the work of a minute to throw off his jacket and stow his bag below.
    Etienne opened the shutters and looked out. He caught the smell of the livestock