 Chapter 20 of the Life and Times of Caterie Techaquitha, the Lily of the Mohawks, by Ellen Walworth, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Montreal and the Île-aux-Zérans, 1678 It is certain that Caterie Techaquitha visited the French settlement on the north side of the river, for Cholenec thus writes, while passing some days at Montreal, where for the first time she saw the nuns, she was so charmed with their modesty and devotion that she informed herself most thoroughly with regard to the manner in which these holy sisters lived, and the virtues which they practised. Caterie and Therese, for the two were inseparable, with other Indians from the Sioux, probably laden with goods to barter, must have crossed over to Montreal in canoes. They paddled out into the broad smooth waters of the St. Lawrence, below the great rapid, where the river widens out like a lake. They left far behind them their village, with its tall wooden cross on the river bank, and the wild Île-aux-Zérans, bearing up its sturdy clump of foliage in the midst of the splashing foam. They passed at a distance the Jesuit Chapel at La Prairie, where a few Frenchmen had built houses, and formed the nucleus of a settlement, and then moved quietly and rapidly on in their light canoes, until they neared the Île-Sampoules. The southern shore of the river swept away in a great curve as they left the Sioux, and the prairie lands stretched away towards Lake Champlain, while Mount Royal blocked the northern horizon. Finally after rounding the Île-Sampoules, they approached near enough to the northern bank to see where the first French fort had been built by the Sioux de Maison-Nouvelle, on level land at the mouth of a little stream. The spot is now called Custom House Square, and the wild Île-aux-Normandins has been transformed into Island Wharf. This fort had fallen into disuse, and a second one was built on higher ground. The great French guns that were pointed toward the river meant no harm to the Christian Indians, who passed safely by, and landed on vacant ground in the rear of a cluster of fortified buildings, fronting on the Rue-Sampoules. This was the principal thoroughfare of the infant city of Via Marie. Every house on the island of Montreal was strongly built for defense. Each farm in the vicinity was connected with the town by a chain of read-outs. Not only the fort and the governor's mansion, but the mills, the brewery, the hospital, or Hôtel-Dieu, and the chief residences had high walls and outlying defenses. These buildings were so placed along the Rue-Sampoules that a crossfire from them and from the bastioned fort across the little stream, which has since disappeared in the maze of modern streets, could be maintained in a way to render the position of the colonists impregnable against an Indian assault. This had all been done under the leadership of the first governor. At the time of Caterie's visit, the Chevalric des Maisons-Douèves had been recalled to France and de Crocelle was Governor-General. The Sulpicians, whose seminary was centrally located on the principal street, were lords of the Signorie of Montreal and could give grants of land, though the recently arrived officers of the King disputed their right to dispense justice and to appoint the governor of Via Marie. Marguerite Bourgeois was still a leading spirit in the colony and was actively engaged in founding and conducting her schools for the Indian and Canadian children. Her convent of Sisters of the Congregation of Notre-Dame, after much delay and many trials, was at last successfully established opposite the Hôtel-Dieu on the Rue-Sampoules. Monsignor de Laval, Bishop of Quebec, on his visit to Via Marie in 1676, had formally recognized and approved her new order. There were at this time ten nuns in all associated with her in the work of teaching. They taught day scholars free of charge and worked diligently out of school hours to support themselves. In 1657, the Sieux des Maisons-Nouvelles had given Marguerite Bourgeois a tract of land near the Hôtel-Dieu, on which was a well-built stable, which she used for her first school-house. The classes were assembled in the lower part of the building, while this indefatigable schoolmistress and her first assistants slept in the loft, to which they ascended by an outside staircase. As her school and community increased, she built a house that would shelter twelve persons. This also had proved insufficient, and she was now established in a fine large stone building where a number of girls were safely housed and taught to read, write, and so. The King of France allowed her a certain amount each year for the support of her Indian pupils. These were mostly at the school of the newly founded Sulpition Mission on the mountain side. There the number of Indians was daily increasing. Monsieur Bermain, a Sulpition, taught the boys, and two of the congregation sisters had charge of the girls. Their favorite pupil, Marie Therese Ganon-Sagwas, meaning she takes the arm, was in a few years to become herself a successful teacher in the Indian school, and a gentle, lovable nun. At this time she was about eleven years old. Even still younger she had come with her aged grandfather from the Seneca country. He was a Christian, having been baptized in the Huron country by the Great Missionary Brebuf. The little Ganon-Sagwas was adopted by Governor de Cressel, and placed under the care of Marguerite Bourgeois in the convent on the Rue Saint-Paul. When the school of the mountain was opened in 1676 she was sent there. In one or other of these two places she spent the remainder of her life as pupil, novice, and then schoolmistress. Her memory has sometimes been confused with that of Kateri-Tekakwita, though she was ten years younger than the Mohawk, and led a very different sort of life. Ganon-Sagwas grew up, lived and died in a convent, and was the first real Indian nun. A tablet to her memory is preserved in one of the towers of the old fort at the Mission on Mount Royal. This stone tower stands in the same enclosure with the costly modern buildings of the Sulpicians, and a beautiful part of the present city of Montreal. At the time of Kateri's visit, however, this same tower and fort was in the woods. For the buildings of the old town extended no farther from the river than the Rue Saint-Jacques. From there to the Indian schools of the mountain was a lonely road, leading past a solitary fortified farm belonging to the Sulpicians, called Ferme Saint-Gabriel. It was there that a priest, M. Le Mette, had been tomahawked in August 1661. He was on guard while the labourers gathered in the harvest. His tragic death warned them to withdraw at once from the fields and defend themselves within the farmhouse. Such incidents as this were then fresh in the minds of the people, and gave pathetic interest to many a spot near Via Marie. The 1678 Rue Notre-Dame was a new street not yet built up, and the foundations of the parish church were uncompleted. But already the Hôtel-du had a long history. Just five years had passed since Mademoiselle Mance, the former friend of Marguerite bourgeois, and the one who founded the Hôtel-du and brought the hospital nuns from France to conduct it, had been laid to rest. She died in 1673. Her last request was that her body might be buried at the Hôtel-du, and her heart be placed under the sanctuary lamp in the new church of the parish. It was but right that this should be done, for she had given her whole life to founding not only the hospital but the city and colony at Mount Royal. Till the new church of Notre-Dame should be finished, the heart of the brave lady encased in a metal vase was hung in the chapel of the Hôtel-du. It was there for many years. But the building of the church was delayed so long that the transfer of the precious deposit never took place. The relic was lost at the time of a fire that destroyed the old chapel and hospital in 1695. Cateri may have seen the metal vase in the chapel of the hospital, but could scarcely have had time to learn its significance. Mademoiselle Mance had fulfilled a two-fold task. She had distributed guns and ammunition to the colonists, and had nursed the wounded soldiers and Indians. Her life was often in danger. At times she was quite alone in the hospital. Her courage, enthusiasm, and womanly care for the sick and suffering were a mainstay of the colony, all through what has well been called its heroic age, founded in a spirit of religious zeal for the conversion of the savages. Its struggle for existence in a wild country of warring races fills up a strange and interesting chapter in early American history. Quebec, Three Rivers, and Montreal were for a long time the only settlements of any consequence in Canada. Quebec was the great stronghold and starting point of French trade and colonization. There too the Jesuit missionaries had their headquarters and sent their reports, which were combined into the famous relations, so valuable now as history. Three Rivers, the next important trading post, was a long stride up the St. Lawrence and into the wilderness. There as elsewhere the French sought to share their faith with the Indians. Caterie's Algonquin mother, it will be remembered, had been baptized at Three Rivers before her capture by the Iroquois. On that point no permanent settlers had ventured until Montreal. The strange, solitary island city was established for no other purpose than to convert the Redmen to Christianity. The whole plan was made in France by a company of devout and wealthy persons. Two of the leading spirits not yet mentioned were Monsieur Eulier, an ecclesiastic, and Monsieur de la Doversière, a pious layman. The site for the city was chosen and the island bought by men who had no practical knowledge of the country. It was far inland and depended entirely on its own resources when the Indians were at war. The people of Quebec did not always know whether Montreal existed or not. So beset were its inhabitants at times by the unconverted war-like kindred of Caterie. The raids of the Mohawks were checked by Détrocy in 1666. But after all they were only one of five unfriendly nations who were liable to brandish the tomahawk at any time against the French. In 1678 there was a general peace along the whole line except for local and religious persecutions such as Caterie had endured before coming to the Sioux. The worst days for Montreal had been about twenty years before when their allies, the Hurons, were annihilated as a nation by the terrible Iroquois. At that time the French lived in a whirlwind of war and havoc. The remnant of Hurons that remained with them after the war were gathered together in the mission village of Lorette, near Quebec. Celerie, in the same vicinity, was a settlement of the Christian Algonquins. In Caterie's time these two missions nestled under the protecting guns of Quebec. Just as the Indians of the Praying Castle where Caterie lived and the Iroquois of the Sulphysian Mission on the slope of Mount Royal felt bound to maintain a close friendship for defense as well as through inclination with their French neighbours at Montreal. The people of the Sioux and the people of the mountain were always welcomed and graciously received by the colonists of Viamari. There were many things for them to see and learn there. But if the Hôtel Dieu and the Convent were at one end of the town, the brewery and the fort were at the other, and on the whole the Jesuit fathers at the Sioux liked it better when their Indians stayed at the mission. The trader of Mount Royal was much the same sort of man as the trader of Fort Orange. The early colonial town of the Frenchmen, however, differed in many respects from the town of the Dutchmen. It will be interesting, therefore, to follow Caterie as she leaves her canoe on the pebbly shore and wander with her through the strange new streets of the Canadian town, just as we followed her uncle long ago on his journey to Albany on the shore of the Hudson. His pack of beaver skins was examined and handled by the well-to-do traders of Handelaire Street. So do the companions of Caterie disposed of their Indian wares with equal ease in the long and important Housampel. Like the Dutch thoroughfare it runs parallel with the river. All the dwellings on one side have their backs turned to the water. But their gardens do not extend all the way to the water's edge as at Albany. There are vacant building-lots in the rear on the riverbank. The houses built of wood, pies sur pies, or of rounded pebbles stuck together with cement, are all in the same style, a rectangle covered with a steep roof slightly overtopped by the stone chimney. Two skylights to admit light into the garret on the long sides, a door set between two windows, and the walls pierced with loop holes for defence against the Uracoy. The interior is not less simple, one large hall where all the family live, as in Batanya. A bed or lounge, a sort of long coffer or chest with a cover that is opened out in the evening into which a mattress is spread, and where the children sleep. Some chairs or small benches, the extra clothing and the gun hung up on the wall. This extra clothing was as unpretentious in style as the dwelling. A plain woollen garment, with capo, girdle, and tuc, was the uniform of the Canadian colonists. Even the first governor, Sirdib Maison Nueve, wore it in the greater part of the year, except on state occasions. Of course in the hottest weather this warm outer garment was exchanged for a cooler shirt and a broad brimmed hat. Then the woollen coats with snowshoes and other winter belongings of the settler were hung on pegs against the wall. The home-trained garrison of Montreal felt proud to hear the viceroy d'étrassis call them his capos blues, for they knew right well he could scarcely have triumphed over the Mohawks without their assistance. His veterans, scarred in the Turkish wars, were indeed a sorry sight to behold on the expedition of 1666 when they stumbled about in the snow and lost their way in the forest of northern New York. Kateri remembered these soldiers well. She saw them in her childhood when they were enemies and invaders of her home, and so she did not care to see them again. A glance at the fort and the fortified houses, the mills, the governor's house, and the seminaire, was enough for her. Already she stood at the corner of the Hues Saint Paul and the Hues Saint Joseph. If she chose to follow up the latter street it would take her to the great square where the foundations of the new church of Notre-Dame had been laid. But the chapel of the Hotel Jus was right before her and she entered there. The hospital sisters were chanting their office behind a wooden grating. Why were they out of sight? What did it all mean? She questioned her comrades and they told her what little they themselves knew about the nuns. Not content with visiting the chapel they gained permission to enter the hospital. What Kateri saw at the entrance on Hues Saint Paul was a great heavy wooden door opening into a small building. Behind this was a large enclosure or yard surrounded by a high stockade wall for defense and containing several buildings, mostly of wood and somewhat out of repair. The hospital sisters, though chiefly of noble rank, were poorly lodged and suffered many privations. The hospital was endowed by a lady of fortune in Paris, but it had been built and equipped under the eyes of Madame Moussel Mance, who cared for the sick herself till the sisters came from France. After that she had dwelt close by them and continued in charge of their financial affairs until her death. The nuns possessed some cows and other domestic animals. There was also a little bakery in one part of the enclosure. In another place Sudebre Sol had a garden marked off where she cultivated medicinal drugs. It was all very simple and primitive, but strange and marvelous to the eyes of Kateri. She saw how good the sisters were to the sick, and how simply and poorly they lived themselves. Their own beds were in a rough attic above the wards for the sick. Their linen was spotless, but the observant Kateri could not fail to see that their dresses were patched in many places. Though each of these ladies brought a dot with her to the convent when she entered the order in France, they were often left with no resources, save what their own industry brought them in the wilds of Canada, and even the hospital fund was lost to them through bad management over the sea. But no Miss Fortune could daunt them in their work of curing and converting the Indians and caring for the disabled colonists. They refused every overture to return to Europe and shared in all the vicissitudes of the struggling colony, rich at least in the goodwill of its people. In the convent across the street from the Hotel Dieu, Kateri and her friend were warmly welcomed by Marguerite Bouchois and the Sisters of the Congregation. It is probable that the two young Indian girls stayed overnight at the convent, for Bouchois delighted in entertaining just such guests to shield them from all harm while in the city and to win them to the practice of virtue and piety. There is every reason to believe that Kateri was much influenced and stimulated in her spiritual aspirations by what she saw there, and above all by coming in contact with the strong and saintly character of the woman who had founded so useful an order. Marguerite Bouchois and her companions were successful in doing good from the very first, and to-day the great Via Maria, which is the outgrowth of her humble but earnest efforts, is set like a queenly diadem on the brow of Mount Royal. There the young girls of America are still attracted, sheltered, taught, and incited by the nuns of her order to a life of virtue and good deeds, in much the same spirit that the early colonial bells and Indian maidens were gathered together long ago by Marguerite Bouchois herself, the very first schoolmistress of the town. She was accustomed to wear a plain black dress, with a deep- pointed linen collar, almost a little cape. Besides this, something that might be called either a short veil worn like a hood, or a large black kerchief, was drawn over her head and knotted loosely under her chin. In her later days the edges of a white cap which she wore under this somber head-dress showed about her face. Her nuns still wear a costume which she prescribed for them. There is nothing peculiar about their black dress, or the usual nun's veil, which falls in loose folds from the head and shoulders. But they wear an odd linen head-dress, with three points, which is drawn together under the chin and projects downward in a stiff fold. Some of the sweetest of faces may be seen framed in this ungainly gear. The hooded kerchief of Marguerite Bouchois is more pleasing, but she did not choose that it should be very comfortable. A sister of hers discovered one day that the cap she wore under this kerchief was all bristling with bent pins. She was perhaps allowing them to prick her into a remembrance of her sins. At the very time she received Caterie and her friend with a gracious smile and led them into the convent. Several of the nuns were teaching their classes. Most of the children at the school were Canadians, but there were also Indian girls under her care, younger than Caterie, who could read and write and spin. Several of these were boarding pupils supported by pensions from the King Louis XIV. These became, under the care of the sisters, like demure little convent girls, scarcely to be distinguished from the Canadian children except by their Indian features. The studious and modest little gun and saguas, though now sent to the new school at the mountain for a time, fell to more at home in the Housample where she had spent four or five years. An onondaga girl, a tauntinon, called Mary Barbara at her baptism, was nearer Caterie's age. She also aspired to join the sisterhood, but was as yet too recently converted from heathenism to be admitted. Caterie felt shy and out of place, no doubt, among the little scholars whom she saw at Viamahi, even though some of them were Indians. She felt perhaps as a wild deer of the forest might who chanced to stray into a park where petted fawns look knowingly up at the half-frightened intruder as they quietly nibbled grass from the hands of the keepers. If the young Mohawk girl did not turn suddenly about and take the nearest path to the woods and thickets, it was only because her timidity was held in check by a great eagerness to learn all she could about the life of those beautiful quiet nuns. She knew they had come far away from their own country to teach the Iroquois and the Algonquins, as well as the Canadian children, to live like Christians. Caterie did not ask all the questions that came into her mind, but this much she certainly learned that the sisters lived unmarried, apart from the rest of the people, and spent much time in prayer. She had an opportunity also to observe some of their daily exercises and little practices of piety. It is more than likely that she went with them on a visit of devotion to the Stone Chapel of Bon Secours, a little way out of the town. It was just finished at that time, and a small statue of our lady, brought from France by Sir Bourgeois, had been placed there. The officials of the town secured the garret of the church for a temporary arsenal to store their ammunition. There was no other place as yet in Via Marie that was fireproof. The church at Bon Secours has always been a favorite shrine. Caterie's devotion to the Blessed Virgin would naturally lead her there, before she left the city. She was both interested and attracted during her stay in Montreal, by everything she saw at the convent of Notre-Dame and at the Hôtel-du, but she gave no intimation of a wish to remain with the nuns at either of these establishments. Her whole life had been the life of an untamed Indian. She had accepted Christianity in the only way in which, under the circumstances, it could possibly have been offered to her. Not as to say Christianity pure and simple with few of the trappings of European civilization. She was a living proof that an Indian could be thoroughly Christianized without being civilized at all in the ordinary sense of the word. She was still a child of the woods and out of her element elsewhere. It was with scarce a regret then that she returned with her friend to the Sioux and resumed her usual life there. But her visit to Montreal had given her an intimation of something well known to the Christians of Europe, which had not been taught at the mission. The married state was frequently praised there and always recommended to the Indians. The black gowns did not venture to give the Council of St. Paul concerning virginity to a people that were but just learning to walk in the way of the commandments. But Cateri had been struck by the example of the Jesuit Fathers themselves, and her penetrating mind had already guessed that something was withheld from her on this point. After her visit to the nuns at Montreal she was confirmed more than ever in her resolve to remain unmarried. Cateri and Therese talked a matter over when she returned to the Sioux and together they formed a plan for carrying out their idea of living a perfect life. It was a romantic rather than a practical project, but so quaint and beautiful that it is well worth telling. In the first place Therese was discreet enough to recommend that they should have an older woman with them who would know all about the affair from the first. She said she knew just the right sort of a person, a good Christian, advanced in years, who had lived for some time at Quebec and also at Lorette, the older Huron mission which was conducted on the same plan as the Iroquois mission at the Sioux. The name of this woman was Marie Scari-Chions. Cateri agreed to what her friend suggested and on a certain day they all three assembled at the foot of the tall cross on the riverbank that they might consult together without interruption. It was a quiet, dreamy spot and always the favourite resort of Cateri for prayer and meditation or confidential interviews with her friend. No sooner were they seated there than the old woman began to talk and to tell them that she also would gladly live as they wished to live, that she had been taken care of once by the sisters at Quebec when she was sick, that she knew just how they lived for she had noticed them particularly. She went on to say that she and Therese and Cateri must never separate, that they must all dress just alike and live together in one lodge. Cateri listened eagerly to all this talk, hoping to gather some profit from it and begging the woman not to conceal from her anything she knew that would make her soul more pleasing to God. As their imaginations grew more and more excited and picturing to one another the ideal life they would lead in their little community shut off from everything that might distract them from prayer and holy thoughts, their eyes fell naturally enough upon the solitary unfrequented Île-aux-Zérans which lay off in the midst of the rapids. There they said with sudden enthusiasm as they pointed to the island, there's the place for our lodge of prayer. And they began to portion it off in their thoughts and to plan an oratory with a cross under the trees. They also tried to make out a rule of life for themselves. But all at once they remembered Frémain, the head of the mission, and wondered what he would think of their project. Cateri had great respect for authority and a true spirit of obedience. They agreed to do nothing without the consent of the Blackgown. One of them went at once to find him and told him why they were assembled asking him at the same time if he did not approve of their plan. But alas the unfortunate messenger came back to the other two covered with confusion. The Blackgown, she said, had only laughed heartily at all their beautiful projects and made light of them, saying that they were too young in the faith to think of such a thing as founding a convent. It was too much out of the ordinary way and quite unsuitable. The Île-aux-Zérans was altogether too far from the village. The young men going back and forth from Montreal would be always in their cabin. On further consideration they concluded that, after all, what the father said was reasonable, and they thought no more of their convent of the Île-aux-Zérans. But Cateri, for her part, was determined to see the father herself a little later and get from him, if possible, some further information about the life she wished to lead. Unforeseen circumstances obliged her much sooner than she expected to seek the counsel and advice of Fr. Leneck on this very subject. For the adopted sister of Cateri was even then forming plans of her own for the disposal of her young relative. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of the Life and Times of Cateri Tecaguita, the Lily of the Mohawks, by Ellen Walworth. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I am not any longer my own. Cateri Tecaguita had already refused to be united to a heathen brave, but a Christian marriage, said her sister to Anastasia, is a very different affair. The matchmakers were again lying in wait for her. It is Fr. Sholeneck who gives us the best account of this final contest with Tecaguita on the matrimonial question. He was her spiritual director at the time, and was consulted by the parties on both sides. While Fremont was absent in France, he had charge of the mission with Chauchatier as assistant. The following version of what occurred to disturb Cateri in the fall of 1678 is taken entire from Sholeneck's letter dated the 27th of August 1715. Interested views inspired her sister with the design of marrying her. She supposed there was not a young man in the mission desu who would not be ambitious of the honour of being united to so virtuous a female, and that thus having the whole village from which to make her choice, she would be able to select for her brother in law some able hunter who would bring abundance to the cabin. She expected indeed to meet with difficulties on the part of Catherine, for she was not ignorant of the persecutions this generous girl had already suffered and the constancy with which she had sustained them, but she persuaded herself that the force of reason would finally vanquish her opposition. She selected there for a particular day, and after having shown Catherine even more affection than ordinary, she addressed her with that eloquence which is so natural to these Indians when they are engaged in anything which concerns their interests. I must confess, my dear sister, said she, with a manner full of sweetness and affability, you are under great obligations to the Lord for having brought you, as well as ourselves, from our unhappy country, and for having conducted you to the mission desu where everything is favourable to your piety. If you are rejoiced to be here, I have no less satisfaction at having you with me. You, every day indeed, increase our pleasure by the wisdom of your conduct, which draws upon you general esteem and approbation. There only remains one thing for you to do to complete our happiness, which is to think seriously of establishing yourself by a good and judicious marriage. All the young girls among us take this course. You are of an age to act as they do, and you are bound to do so even more particularly than others, either to shun the occasions of sin or to supply the necessities of life. It is true that it is the source of great pleasure to us, both to your brother-in-law and myself, to furnish these things for you, but you know that he is in the decline of life and that we are charged with the care of a large family. If you were to be deprived of us, to whom could you have recourse? Think of these things, Catherine. Provide for yourself a refuge from the evils which accompany poverty, and determine as soon as possible to prepare to avoid them while you can do it so easily, and in a way so advantageous both to yourself and to our family. There was nothing which Catherine less expected than a proposition of this kind, but the kindness and respect she felt for her sister induced her to conceal her pain, and she contended herself with merely answering that she thanked her for this advice, but the step was of great consequence, and she would think of it seriously. It was thus that she warded off the first attack. She immediately came to seek me to complain bitterly of these importunate solicitations of her sister, as I did not appear to exceed entirely to her reasoning, and for the purpose of proving her, dwelt on those considerations which ought to incline her to marriage. Ah, my father said she, I am not any longer my own, I have given myself entirely to Jesus Christ, and it is not possible for me to change masters. The poverty with which I am threatened gives me no uneasiness. So little is requisite to supply the necessities of this wretched life that my labour can furnish this, and I can always find something to cover me. I sent her away, saying that she should think well on the subject, for it was one which merited the most serious attention. Scarcely had she returned to the cabin when her sister, impatient to bring her over to her views, pressed her anew to end her wavering by forming an advantageous settlement. But finding from the reply of Catherine that it was useless to attempt to change her mind, she determined to enlist Anastasia in her interests, since they both regarded her as their mother, and this she was successful. Anastasia was readily induced to believe that Catherine had too hastily formed her resolution, and therefore employed all that influence which age and virtue gave her over the mind of the young girl, to persuade her that marriage was the only part she ought to take. This measure, however, had no greater success than the other, and Anastasia, who had always until that time found so much docility in Catherine, was extremely surprised at the little deference she paid to her councils. She even bitterly reproached her, and threatened to bring her complaints to me. Catherine anticipated her in this, and after having related the pains they forced her to suffer to induce her to adopt a course so little to her taste, she prayed me to aid her in consummating the sacrifice she wished to make of herself to Jesus Christ, and to provide her a refuge from the opposition she had to undergo from Anastasia and her sister. I praised her design, but at the same time advised her to take yet three days to deliberate on an affair of such importance, and during that time to offer up extraordinary prayers that she might be better taught the will of God. After which, if she still persisted in her resolution, I promised her to put an end to the importunities of her relatives. She at first acquiesced in what I proposed. But in less than a quarter of an hour came back to seek me. It is settled, said she as she came near me. It is not a question for deliberation. My part has long since been taken. No, my father, I can have no other spouse, but Jesus Christ. I thought that it would be wrong for me any longer to oppose a resolution which seemed to me inspired by the Holy Spirit, and therefore exhorted her to perseverance, assuring her that I would undertake her defense against those who wished henceforth to disturb her on that subject. This answer restored her former tranquility of mind, and reestablished in her soul that inward peace which she preserved even to the end of her life. Scarcely had she gone when Anastasia came to complain in her turn that Catherine would not listen to any advice, but followed only her own whims. She was running on in this strain when I interrupted her by saying that I was acquainted with the cause of her dissatisfaction, but was astonished that a Christian as old as she was could disapprove of an action which merited the highest praise, and that if she had faith she ought to know the value of a state so sublime as that of celibacy which rendered feeble men like to the angels themselves. At these words Anastasia seemed to be in a perfect dream, and as she possessed a deeply seated devotion of spirit she almost immediately began to turn the blame upon herself. She admired the courage of this virtuous girl, and at length became the foremost to fortify her in the holy resolution she had taken. As for Catherine, feeble as she was, she redoubled her diligence in labour, her watchings, fastings, and other austerities. It was then the end of autumn when the Indians are accustomed to form their parties to go out to hunt during the winter in the forests. The sojourn which Catherine had already made there, and the pain she had suffered at being deprived of the religious privileges she possessed in the village, had induced her to form the resolution, as I have already mentioned, that she would never during her life return there. I thought however that the change of air and the diet which is so much better in the forest would be able to restore her health which was now very much impaired. It was for this reason that I advised her to follow the family and others who went to the hunting grounds. She remained therefore during the winter in the village, where she lived only on Indian corn, and was subjected indeed to much suffering. But not content with allowing her body only this insipid food, which could scarcely sustain it, she subjected it also to austerities and excessive penances, without taking counsel of anyone, persuading herself that while the object was self-mortification, she was right in giving herself up to everything which could increase her fervor. She was incited to these holy exercises by the noble examples of self-mortification which she always had before her eyes. The spirit of penance reigned among the Christians at the Sioux, fastings, discipline carried even unto blood, belts lined with points of iron, these were their most common austerities, and some of them by these voluntary macerations prepared themselves when the time came to suffer the most fearful torments. One in particular among them, named Etienne, signalized his constancy and faith. When environed by the burning flames at Onondaga, he did not cease to encourage his wife, who was suffering the same torture, to invoke with him the holy name of Jesus. Being on the point of expiring, he rallied all his strength, and in imitation of his master, prayed the Lord with a loud voice for the conversion of those who had treated him with such inhumanity. Many of the savages, touched by a spectacle so new to them, abandoned their country and came to the mission to Sioux, to ask for baptism, and live there in accordance with the laws of the Gospel. The women were not behind their husbands in the ardour they showed for the life of penance. They even went to such extremes that when it came to our knowledge we were obliged to moderate their zeal. Besides the ordinary instruments of mortification which they employed, they had a thousand new inventions to inflict suffering upon themselves. Some placed themselves in the snow when the cold was most severe. Others stripped themselves to the waste in retired places, and remained a long time exposed to the rigor of the season on the banks of a frozen river, and where the wind was blowing with violence. There were even those who, after having broken the ice in the ponds, plunged themselves in up to their neck, and remained there as long as it was necessary for them to recite many times the ten beads of their rosary. One of them did this three nights in succession, and it was the cause of so violent a fever that it was thought she would have died of it. Another one surprised me extremely by her simplicity. I learned that, not content with having herself used this mortification, she had also plunged her daughter, but three years old, into the frozen river, from which she drew her out half dead. When I sharply reproached her in discretion she answered me with a surprising naivety, that she did not think she was doing anything wrong, but that knowing her daughter would one day certainly offend the Lord, she had wished to impose on her, in advance, the pain which her sin merited. Although those who inflicted these mortifications on themselves were particular to conceal them from the knowledge of the public, yet Catherine, who had a mind quick and penetrating, did not fail from various appearances to conjecture that which they held so secret, and as she studied every means to testify more and more her love to Jesus Christ, she applied herself to examine everything that was done pleasing to the Lord, that she might herself immediately put it in practice. Chauchatier, alluding to the events of this same fall and winter, 1678 and 1679, gives some details of her life not mentioned by Sholanak. He says, as soon as she learned from Father Fremont that God left every Christian free to marry or not to marry, she lost no time in choosing a state of life for herself, and furthermore, if the fear that she had of appearing virtuous had not restrained her, she would have cut off her hair. She contented herself with dressing like those who were the most modest in the village. Father Fremont gave her some rules of life more special than those he gave to the others. He directed her to keep herself in retirement, above all during the summertime when the canoes of the Ottawa's came down, to remain in her cabin and not go to the water's edge to see them arrive like the rest. She also regarded what he said about not going to Montreal. In a word it was only necessary to tell her a thing once, and she put it in practice. It was a common saying in the village that Catherine was never elsewhere than in her cabin or in the church, that she knew but two paths, one to her field and the other to her cabin. But to come in particular to the rules that she prescribed for herself, here are a few of them. Being a young Indian, twenty-two or twenty-three years old, she must naturally have liked to be well and properly dressed like the others, which consists in having the hair well oiled, well tied, and well parted, in having a long braid, a queue behind, and in adorning the neck with wampum. They like to have beautiful blankets and beautiful chemises, to have the leggings or mittens well made and above all to have just the right kind of a moccasin. In a word vanity possesses them. Catherine thought she could do away with all that without eccentricity, but one could see by her dress what her thought was. She was not looking for a husband. She gave up all bright red blankets and all the ornaments that the Indian girls wear. She had a blue blanket, new and simple, for the days when she went to communion. But more than that she had an interior, very perfect, which was known only to God, but which she could not hide so well but that her companion knew of it at the times of their greatest fervour. Marie Therese Tegallia Aguenta once told Catherine of certain movements of indignation that she had against herself and her sins, and that when she was going one day into the woods, feeling herself oppressed with grief at the thought of her sins, she had taken a handful of switches and had given herself heavy strokes with them on her hands, and that another time having climbed a tall tree to get Birchbark for a piece of work, when she was at the top she was seized with fear, casting her eyes to the foot of the tree where there were many stones. She believed with reason that if she fell she would break her head. But a good thought came to her then, which confirmed her more than ever in all the good resolutions she had already made to serve God. For reflecting on her fear, she blamed herself for fearing to die and not fearing even more than that, to fall into hell. Tears came into her eyes as she descended, and when she reached the ground she sat down at the foot of the tree, throwing her bark aside, and giving way to the good feeling that had taken possession of her. Caterie did not forget what her companion told her about the switches, and resolved to make a daily practice for herself which she could keep up during the time of the chase. While her sister with her family were off at the hunting camp, Caterie had as much time as she could wish to satisfy her devotion at the village chapel. She remained there so many hours on her knees in the coldest winter weather that more than once some one or other of the black gowns, moved with compassion at sight of her half frozen condition, obliged her to leave the chapel and go warm herself. Caterie had at last learned, by repeated inquiries, all she wanted to know about the nuns whom she had seen at Montreal. She was now aware that they were Christian virgins consecrated to God by a vow of perpetual continence. Choleneck says, She gave me no peace till I had granted her permission to make the same sacrifice of herself. Not by a simple resolution to guard her virginity, such as she had already made, but by an irrevocable engagement which obliged her to belong to God without any recall, I would not however give my consent to this step until I had well proved her and been anew convinced that it was the spirit of God acting in this excellent girl which had thus inspired her with a design of which there had never been an example among the Indians. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 of the Life and Times of Caterie Techaquitha, The Lily of the Mohawks by Ellen Walworth. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Caterie's vow on Lady Day and the summer of 1679. Caterie's soul was indeed of the rarest and costliest mold. Of this Father Choleneck was now fully aware. He also knew her quiet determination of spirit and he no longer resisted her pleadings to be allowed to consecrate herself to God by a vow of perpetual virginity. This she did with all due solemnity on the Feast of the Blessed Virgin, the 25th of March 1679. However others might look upon her act, this solemn engagement with God gave her a feeling of freedom rather than of thralldom. At last she had an acknowledged right to live her own life in her own way. She was Rawa Nio's bride. The black gown had approved of her vow and no relative of hers at the Sioux ventured afterwards to question or disturb her. From that time, says Choleneck, she aspired continually to heaven where she had fixed all her desires. But her body was not sufficiently strong to sustain the weight of her austerities and the constant effort of her spirit to maintain itself in the presence of God. She tested her powers of endurance to the utmost. Her constant companion Therese afterwards told of her that on one occasion, as they were coming from the field into the village carrying each of them a heavy load of wood, Kateri slipped on the frozen ground and fell, causing the points of an iron belt which she was accustomed to wear to penetrate far into her flesh. When Therese advised her on account of this accident to leave her bundle of wood until another time, Kateri only laughed, and lifting it quickly, carried it to the cabin where she made no mention of her hurt. When summer came and the others laid aside their blankets for a time, she continued to wear hers over her head even in the hottest weather. Anastasia said that she did this not so much to shield her eyes from the light as from modesty and a spirit of mortification. Kateri and Therese found a deserted cabin near the village where they were now in the habit of going every Saturday afternoon to prepare themselves in a suitable manner as they supposed for receiving the sacrament of penance. Chauchetier relates how this custom of theirs originated and how they employed themselves while in this retreat. It was only by questioning Therese after the death of Kateri that the full extent of their austerities became known, for they were careful to conceal them from the knowledge of all. Father Frémont was away at this time, having gone on a voyage to France, and Father Stolenek had full charge of the mission during his absence. As his time was filled with new cares and responsibilities, he had but little opportunity to notice or discover that Kateri Techekwitha, the treasure confided to his keeping by Father de Lambreville, was in all simplicity and earnestness wrecking her health and strength by undergoing fearful penances, suggested to her either by the remorseful and penitent mind of Therese, or the stern instructions of Anastasia, they were carried out with the utmost severity by Kateri on her frail and innocent self, as though she bore on her own shoulders the sins of the whole Iroquois nation. It may be well to give a full account of how she was accustomed to make her preparation for confession, and where the plan originated. One Saturday afternoon, while waiting for the bell to ring for benediction, she sat in the cabin of Therese, talking, confidentially, with her friend, on matters of conscience. Therese happened to mention the bundle of switches with which she had scourged herself on a certain occasion. And Kateri, quick to put a pious thought into practice, hastened at once to the cemetery, which was near at hand, and returned with a handful of stinging little rods. These she hid adroitly under the mat on which she was sitting, and waited eagerly for the first stroke of the bell. Then, hurrying the people of the cabin as fast as possible to the church, the two were no sooner alone than they fastened the lodge securely on the inside, and gave full vent to their devotion. Kateri was the first to fall upon her knees, and handing her companion the switches begged her not to spare her in the least. When she had been well scourged, she in turn took the switches and her resnout down to receive the blows. With bleeding shoulders, they set a short prayer together, and then hastened to the chapel, joyous and happy at heart. Never before had the prayers seemed shorter or sweeter to them than on that evening. Their next thought was to choose a place where they might continue this exercise. The unfrequented cabin already mentioned seemed to them a most favorable spot. It belonged to a French trader who only came at long intervals to the village. It stood always open, and had become gradually surrounded by graves so that it was now within the cemetery. There the two friends went every Saturday. After making an act of contrition, they proceeded as follows. They recited the act of faith, which they were accustomed to say at the church. Then Kateri, who wished always to be the first in penitence, would kneel and receive the scourging, begging her companion all the while to strike harder her, even though blood appeared at the third stroke. When they came to a pause, they recited the chaplet of the Holy Family, which they divided into several parts, at each of which a stroke was given with the switches. But towards the end of the exercise their devotion knew no bounds. It was then that Kateri laid bare the sentiments of her heart in such words as these, My Jesus, I must risk everything with you. I love you, but I have offended you. It is to satisfy your justice that I am here. Discharge upon me, oh my God. Discharge upon me your wrath. Sometimes tears and sobs choked her voice so she could not finish what she was saying. At these times she would speak of the three nails which fastened our saviour to the cross, as a figure of her sins. When Kateri was thus touched she did not fail to move her companion, who with equal fervour underwent the same voluntary punishment. Therese assures us that the worst fault that Kateri could ever find to accuse herself of on these occasions, when she opened her heart most freely, was the carelessness in which she had lived after her baptism. This consisted in not having resisted those who had forced her to go to work in the fields on Sundays and feast days. That is, in not having rather suffered martyrdom at their hands. She reproached herself with having feared death more than sin. That this saintly girl suffered everything short of absolute martyrdom in her efforts to keep holy the Lord's day, we already know from the record of her life in the Mohawk Valley. It must be remembered, too, that at that time she had not made her first communion or been fully instructed. It would be a long and harrowing task to give a full account of all the austere fasts and penances that Kateri Tekakwita underwent during the course of the year 1679. Many of them belonged to the age and the place in which she lived, and were in common practice then and there. Others go to prove the rude Spartan spirit of her race, which gloried in exhibitions of fortitude under torture. But the tortures that her people knew how to endure so well through pride, Kateri endured in a spirit of penance and atonement. Her greatest excesses of self-inflicted pain came like sparks of fire from her intense love of the crucified redeemer. She wished to prove herself the slave of his love. She had seen the Iroquois warriors brand their slaves with coals of fire. So she could not resist the impulse which came to her one night to seize a red-hot brand from the hearth fire and to place it between her toes. She held it there while she recited an Ave Maria. When the prayer was over she was indeed branded. Such inflections as these by their incessant expenditure of energy soon wore out her frail body and brought of their own accord a speedy answer to her never-flagging prayer that Rauanio, the beautiful god of the Christians whom she had learned to love so well, would take her to his lodge. Kateri had great and special devotion both for the passion of our savior and for the holy Eucharist. These two mysteries of the love of the same god concealed under the veil of the Eucharist and his dying on the cross, ceaselessly occupied her spirit and kindled in her heart the purest flames of love. One day after having received the Holy Communion she made a perpetual oblation or solemn offering of her body to Jesus attached to the cross and of her soul to Jesus in the most holy sacrament of the altar. As Kateri knew but two paths while she lived at the Sue, one leading from her cabin to the field where she worked and the other to the chapel where she prayed, her friends could easily find her. There at the church day after day and many times a day any one who chanced to stray in might see a muffled figure kneeling near the altar rail facing the tabernacle. At such times she saw nothing, heard nothing, of what was taking place around her or behind her, and front of her was the sacred presence she could not leave unless were some urgent call of duty or charity. A touch on the shoulder, a whispered word, You are wanted, Kateri. And no hand or heart was more willing than hers to assist or relieve as the case might be. Often she did not wait for this. A sudden inspiration and impulse of sympathy carried her where she was needed. When the good deed was done the love within her heart drew her again to the foot of the tabernacle. When she entered the church in taking the blessed water she recalled her baptism and renewed the resolution she had taken to live as a good Christian. When she knelt down in some corner near the balustrade for fear of being distracted by those who passed in and out she would cover her face with her blanket and make an act of faith concerning the real presence in the blessed sacrament. She made also several other interior acts of contrition, of resignation, or of humility, according to the inspiration which moved her, asking of God light and strength to practice virtue well. In the fourth place continues Chauchatier, she prayed for unbelievers and above all for her Iroquois relatives. She finished her devotion by saying her beads. She confided this exercise to her companion who made it known. Except for her habit of hiding the beautiful practices taught her by the Holy Spirit we might have occasion to admire still more the rapid progress which faith made in her soul. She had regulated the visits which she made to our Lord to five times a day without fail. But it can be said that the church was the place where she was ordinarily found. Spiritual riders are accustomed to divide the Christian life into three progressive grades, namely the purgative, the illuminative, and the unitive. Chauchatier declares that Cateri's life at the Sioux might well serve as an example to the most fervent Christians of Europe and compares her spirit with that of St. Catherine of Siena. Then he sums up in a few words her exalted spiritual attainments by saying that she was already in the unitive way before having well known the other, too, and of Chapter 22. Chapter 23 of the Life and Times of Cateri Tecaquitha, the Lily of the Mohawks, by Ellen Walworth. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Cateri ill. Therese consults the Black Gown. Feast of the Purification. The Bed of Thorns. Cateri's health was fast failing, and those with whom she lived, perceiving this, watched her more closely and sought to check her in her fasts and penances. They saw that on Wednesdays and Saturdays she ate nothing. At these times she would spend the whole day in the woods gathering fuel. They were careful after this to have the soup ready before she started out in the morning. But even then she would occasionally find an excuse to slip away without her breakfast. When it was the turn of one of the other women of the same lodge fire to go for wood, Cateri sometimes interfered, saying that the woman in question had a baby to nurse and ought to stay in the cabin. As for herself there was nothing to keep her. She could just as well go as not. Before they noticed that she had not yet taken a mouthful she would be off to the woods and at work. When she could no longer fast without attracting notice she still kept up the practice of mingling ashes with her food, or denying herself in some other way. About this time a child of her adopted sister died. As Cateri was assisting the other women to make a grave for her little nephew, one of them said to her, laughing, Where is yours, Cateri? It is there. She answered, pointing to a certain spot. The incident was soon forgotten, but Cateri was not mistaken, as was proved later. The place she indicated was near the tall cross by the river, where she was accustomed to pray, and where she had her first long talk with Therese Tiga Iagüenta. Her only pleasure now was in prayer, or in spiritual conversations with her friend Therese, or with Anastasia, for both of them spoke often, of God. All other companionship had become distasteful to her. Her natural gift of ready and witty conversation, as well as her helpful disposition, won her many friends without effort. She was beloved as well as reverenced, by the whole population, while careful to shine more and more, all intercourse that did not help her heavenward. In her humility it did not occur to her that she, on her part, could perhaps do something towards lifting others to the high plain of her own thoughts. Chochetier relates the following incident of how she was once called on for advice, much to her own surprise. Two young married people, François, the Seneca, and his wife Marguerite, had watched Cateri's way of life with much interest and admiration. They knew she had made a vow of virginity, and one day they called her into their cabin with the idea of learning from her how a good Christian ought to live in this world. In order that she might be less embarrassed and speak freely, they sent at the same time for her companion Therese. When both were seated the door was closed as a token that what they were about to ask, Cateri, was a great secret, and that they were ready to keep it sacred. François the Seneca, called by the French La Grosse Bush, began the conversation. He addressed himself both to Cateri and to Therese, saying first that he knew what they had done and the state of life they had embraced. This he said that they might speak out. As for himself, he wished to be a good Christian and to give himself entirely to God. His wife was of the same mind. He spoke for both. Cateri was much surprised at this discourse. She was silent for some time and then asked her companion to speak. It would take too long to tell all that was said on both sides concerning the state of life that was most pleasing to God. It is enough to say that they gave no advice to the young married couple other than that they should go to the black gown and propose their plan to him. The woman was not more than twenty and the man scarcely older. This good François, it seems, wished to live with his wife as with his sister. He did so for some years and would have continued to do so had he not been advised to the contrary. His wish was to repair as far as possible the evil he had done before his baptism. He was an excellent hunter and a good warrior. He was afflicted later in life with a painful disease from which he suffered severely for fourteen years. Cateri was at all times his model. He endeavored to imitate her patience and resignation as well as her other virtues. After death he wore about his neck a little chaplet which he called Cateri's Beads. Strung next to the cross on which the credo was to be said were two Beads, one for Apater and one for Anave. Then there were three other little Beads on which he was accustomed to say the Gloria Patrie three times, to thank the Blessed Trinity for the graces bestowed upon Cateri. Always cheerful and contented himself, he consoled and encouraged his wife, who, although a great devotee, was apt to complain of her poverty. When his health no longer permitted him to go to the chase, he mended kettles, made pipes, and did what work he could about the village. He brought up his children strictly, taught them the catechism with care, and was always on hand to sing in the church. He had a book or scroll of pictures in which all the chief events recorded in the Old and New Testaments were depicted. Copies of this ingenious form of Indian Bible are still to be seen at Kanawaga and elsewhere. Francois the Seneca, by these means, won many converts to Christianity. He was accustomed, however, to give Cateri the credit for his success. He besought her intercession with God in all his undertakings, and endeavored to imitate her as far as possible in his life and in his death, which occurred in 1695. As Cateri had a great love for virginity, a fact of which her whole life is a proof, she did not fail to cultivate a deep and tender devotion to the virgin mother of Christ, whom she regarded in a special manner as her queen and mistress. Each day in reciting the litany, she had occasion to call upon her as the queen of virgins. To Cateri this was one of the sweetest and dearest of her many beautiful titles. To prove herself a devoted follower of this virgin of all virgins, she would gladly have cut off her hair, as the nuns do, but the fear of appearing singular and eccentric deterred her. Though she thus tried as much as possible to hide from observation by accommodating herself to the ways and rest of those with whom she lived, there grew to be a something about her, a je ne sais quoi, says Sochetier, an atmosphere of purity and sanctity that almost amounted to a visible halo. Even her directors sometimes wondered at the impression of personal sanctity, which she made upon the people. If we consider her lonely, long, and frequent prayers, not only in the chapel, but at the foot of the tall cross by the river bank, there is nothing to be wondered at. Even the roughest and gittiest of the young people of Conawaga were awed to a respectful demeanor as she passed near them. Not only Indians, but occasionally the French from La Prairie hovered about and watched for her as she came or went from her cabin or field, in order to get a look at the young Mohawk girl who, as they said, lived like a religious. Of this reverential admiration, however, Kateri was quite unconscious. Unquestioned and undisturbed, she followed her own course, the details of which were known only to her bosom friend, Therese. At last Kateri was seized with a dangerous illness. A violent fever came on, and she lay at the point of death. Therese, pale and trembling with alarm, now thought of their weekly scourgings in the deserted cabin. She feared to have her friend die without letting the black gown know what they had been doing, and besought Kateri to allow her to go to Father Sholenek and tell him all. To this, Kateri willingly assented. The black gown concealed his astonishment at what he heard from Therese, and blamed both her and her friend for their want of discretion. Kateri, however, recovered from this attack. As soon as she was well, she began at once and did not cease to impertune her confessor to have pity on her, and allow her at least some of her accustomed austerities, in order, as she said, that her body might not have the victory over her. Whether undergoing self-inflicted pains or those that came directly from the hand of God, her fortitude was extraordinary, even for an Indian. Though subject to many and frequent bodily infirmities, she never for a moment lost her patience, or uttered the least complaint. On the contrary, she seemed always desirous of increasing her sufferings, rather than of alleviating them. But only from this one motive, that she might bear a closer resemblance to the crucified savior. When she was ill and her confessor had forbidden her too fast, she would put herself in a painful position. Anastasia, whom she called mother, perceiving this reproached her, saying that she would kill herself. Kateri only reminded her with a smile that our Lord was much more ill at ease on the cross, that she was not suffering at all in comparison with him. During the last winter of her life, Kateri had frequent attacks of illness severe enough to keep her in the cabin. No sooner was she on her feet, however, than she was again at work. She did not spare herself or shorten her devotions. When she was too weak to kneel, she could still be seen at her prayers in the church, supporting herself against a bench. On one occasion, when her health was restored for a time, she accompanied Therese to La Prairie, whether she was sent to carry certain articles from the village at the Sioux. On the way there or back, Kateri, falling a little behind the others, took off her moccasins and walked barefooted on the ice. She was noticed and hastily put on her shoes again. She soon overtook the others and would willingly have let them suppose she had been delayed by a little accident of some sort. Therese, who knew her best, thought otherwise. On the feast of the purification of the Blessed Virgin, most of the villagers were away at the hunting-camp. Kateri chose to walk through her field on that day with bare feet, as if in a sort of procession, while she recited her beads several times over, the snow being more than knee-deep. As Lent approached, she increased her austerities. Till at last she reached the climax of all, thinking that she had not much longer to live and must hasten to do penance while on earth, she looked about for some new instrument of pain. It was then the beginning of Lent and she had been meditating on the passion of our Lord. She was gathering wood. Near at hand she saw a great thorny briar. In a transport of fervor she seized it. The thorns were sharp and cutting. Had she looked far and near she could not have found anything better suited to her purpose. She eagerly and hurriedly conceals it in her bundle of faggots, then lifts the scraggie mass to her back, adjusts the burden strap on her forehead, and starts at once for the lodge of Anastasia. Finding her own lodge seat, she loosens the thorny briar from the faggots, covers it quickly with a large mat, and then proceeds to stow the wood in its proper place. The evening drags. But at length the inmates all come in for the night and soon the evening meal is over. The prayers have been said. The lodge fires flicker and die out. The Indians fall asleep. All but Cateri. She has no thought of rest. She prays far into the night. Her bed is made, and a cruel bed it is. At last she looks towards it. She lifts the rug that covers it. Clasps tightly in her hand a little crucifix she always wears about her neck, and with a fervent aspiration of love to God throws herself upon the thorns. As she rolls from side to side she grows faint and her lips are parched with thirst. But still she has no desire to leave her thorny couch. She murmurs prayer after prayer, and waits for the daylight to come before rising from her bed to hide the brambles. Now reflect with blood. Cateri is as busy as usual the next day, and her blithe smile comes and goes as freely as ever. Still when night settles down on the village she does not sleep, but tosses again on her bed of thorns. On the following day Therese observes that Cateri is tired and weak. She draws her breath quickly as they walk over the rough ground together, and her head droops low at her prayers. Her friend tries to coax her to take more rest, to leave this or that task for another day. But all in vain to Cateri every moment is precious now, and not one daily duty is left undone when she retires for the third time to her bed of thorns. When day dawns she is up as usual and Therese comes early to see her. Gladly would she escape the searching eye of her friend. But it is of no use. Cateri is ghastly pale, and Therese, suspecting the truth, will not be put off. She espies the thorns, and Cateri confesses all. A pang went to the heart of Therese when she thought of Cateri's innocence, and of her own sins. How could she have slept, while this pure-hearted one whom she loved so well was rolling upon thorns? The next thought of the impulsive, warm-hearted Therese was one of concern for the life of her friend. She spoke quickly and vehemently to Cateri, declaring that she would certainly offend God if she inflicted such sufferings on herself without the permission of her confessor. This aroused the scruples of Tecac with the Catherine who trembled at the very appearance of sin, says Sholeneck, came immediately to find me to confess her fault and ask pardon of God. I blamed her in discretion, and directed her to throw the thorns into the fire. This she did at once. When it was simply a question of obedience to one who held rightful authority over her, Cateri did not hesitate. Her confessor testifies that she never showed the least attachment to her own will, but was always submissive to his direction. She found herself very ill, he continues, towards the time that the men are accustomed to go out to the hunting grounds in the forest, and when the females are occupied from morning until evening in the fields. Those who are ill are therefore obliged to remain alone through the whole day in their cabins, a plate of Indian corn and a little water having in the morning been placed near the mat. It was thus that Cateri Tecac with had passed through her last illness during the Lent of 1680. She lay helpless in the lodge of Anastasia while the corn was being planted in the fields, and the birds were flying northward across the Mohawk River. These little friends of hers brought back to her many a thought of her native valley as they stopped to dip their bills in the St. Lawrence, and to sing a while to Cateri in her pain. The children too came in to see her now and then. The black gown, whose task it was to teach them, gathered them close to her mat one day. She was too ill to move, but when he unrolled the pictures of the old and new Testaments which he had with him, and began to explain them to the eager bright-eyed little ones, a glow of interest came into the weary eyes that were dull with suffering a moment before. Forgetting all else but her insatiable desire for true knowledge, Cateri with great effort raised herself on her elbow that she might see and understand better what was going on. A question now and then from her drew out a fuller explanation from the black gown. The children themselves, with quick sympathy, caught from her low earnest tones a keener relish for the truth, and listened with rapt attention to the lesson drawn from the sacred story. At the stroke of the Angelus the instruction was over, and also the children's visit. How quickly the time had passed. Cateri thanked the black gown, and begged him to come again with his class to the lodge that he might teach both her and them. For well, Cateri! the children cry as they hasten out to their sports. Quickly they forget her, and she too has forgotten them. She has clasped her crucifix in her hands, and is still buried in prayer when the women begin to come in from the field. CHAPTER XXIV For nearly a year Cateri had been slowly losing strength. She had a continuous, low fever. But during the last two months of her life her sufferings were very acute, and she could not change her position without severe pain. It was in passion week that the children were instructed by the black gown at her bedside for the last time. Anastasia and the other women of the lodge continued to attend to her few wants, morning and evening, before and after their work in the fields. They knew, however, by this time that the young girl could not recover. Anastasia drearily watched her sinking day by day. She had never fully understood Cateri, but she had loved her very much, and did all that would have been expected of an Indian mother under the circumstances. The dish of Indian corn and a pot of fresh water were left beside her each day, and towards the last women were appointed to watch with the sufferer at night. These watchers belonged to the association of the holy family. Cateri was not more neglected than others who were ill at these busy times. She, however, was perfectly content and even glad to be left alone with God. This relish for solitude did not prevent her from greeting with a smile or a gay bright word any or all who came to her side. There was one in the village at whose coming her heart bounded. It is needless to say that this was Therese Tega Iagüenta. Of all hearts at the Sioux San Louis hers was the saddest throughout the days that Cateri lay dying. It was hard to work in the cornfield. It was hard not to be with her in the lodge. On Palm Sunday, at least, they could have a few hours together between Mass and benediction. Whenever Therese knelt at prayer in the chapel, she felt that Cateri, lying on her mat, joined her in spirit. But when she prayed for her friend's recovery, she knew that Cateri's lips were unresponsive. They murmured, No, amen. The only prayer they could form at such times was like unto this. God pity Therese and give her the strength she needs. On Monday in Holy Week, she asked for permission to fast in honour of our saviour's passion. She wished to pass the whole day without food. They told her that this she could not do, that she had not long to live, and that she ought to be thinking of other things. Not long to live? Was this in truth what they said? She could not conceal her happiness at the thought of death. The angel with shadowy wings was close at hand, waiting to show her the face of Rawanio. On Tuesday she failed rapidly in strength. They feared she would die, and prepared to give her the last sacraments. Father Sholanak did not intend for a moment that she should be deprived of the viadakum, that strength of the wayfarer, and bread of angels, so needful to the dying. But just how it should be administered was a question. Thus far the blessed sacrament had never been carried to an Indian's cabin. The sick were put on a bark litter and borne to the door of the church, where they received Holy Communion. Kateri was too weak for this. The two fathers at the mission consulted together and quickly resolved to make an exception in her case. No one, either then or afterwards, murmured at this distinction accorded to the lily of the Mohawks. Father Sholanak at once entered the sanctuary, took the sacred particle from the tabernacle, and passed out of the church, following the shortest road to Anastasia's cabin. All who were then in the village assembled to accompany him and knelt about the door of the lodge, leaving a passage for the black gown to enter. In the meantime Kateri heard of the honoured guest whom she was to receive, whose sacramental presence had been so long denied her on account of her inability to drag herself to the chapel. This had not been possible since the first weeks of Lent. She was now overjoyed at the good news they brought her. Her face lighted up with happiness. Then all at once she remembered the miserable condition and great poverty to which long-continued sickness had reduced her. So she held fast to the hand of Therese, who was then at her side, and begged her earnestly not to leave her. As soon as they were left alone for a moment she confided to her friend that she owned no decent garment in which to receive her Lord, who was about to visit her, having only those she now wore. Therese touched at this avowal from one who knew so well how to care for herself and others when she had been able to work, quickly brought a chemise of her own for Kateri, and dressed her properly for the great event so near at hand. Kateri had hidden her poverty even from Anastasia. All is at last in readiness, both within the lodge and without, her heart's desire is at hand. Behold, he cometh, leaping over the mountains. The black gown, with the sacred viaticum, entered the rude bark cabin, which was crowded with kneeling Indians. The confidier was recited. Kateri Tecquita renewed her baptismal vows, and the solemn offering she had made of her body to Almighty God. She recalled the graces bestowed upon her, and especially such as had enabled her to preserve her chastity through life. She then received the body and blood of Christ, and after a few moments of silent adoration, all present joined with her in prayer. Throughout the afternoon, other Indians of the village, as they came in from the hunt or the field, were constantly going back and forth to the lodge where she lay, all wished to see her and to hear her dying words. Not one was indifferent to the passing of her soul. Many were the signs of love and of reverence shown for her on that day. It would seem as if she had been to each one of them like a favorite sister. All were eager to gain a remembrance in her prayers. The father, profited by this occasion, says Chochetier, and obliged Catherine to exhort some persons who needed to be encouraged in virtue. He adds that the words of the dying always had great effect at the mission in converting those who could not be brought otherwise to be baptized or to confess their sins. If this were the case ordinarily, how doubly effective must have been the words thus rung from Catherine, despite her humility, by the command of her director. But after all it was her example in life and in death that preached most forcibly to them. The effort she made to speak, for indeed it was more natural for her to be silent, exhausted her very much, thinking she was about to expire. Father Choleneck wished to anoint her at once and ran in haste as far as the church. But her calm assurance to Therese, to the father and to others, that there was no occasion for hurry, caused them to believe afterwards that the hour of her death, as well as the place of her burial, had been privately revealed to her by God. During the evening of Tuesday Therese left her friend for a time. In the night she was again watching by Catherine's side with another woman. The sufferer asked them to take turns in order to get more rest, or they would be too weary the next day. When Therese remained alone with her, Catherine, who had looked forward to this moment, said, I know very well, my sister, what I am saying. I know the place from which you came, and I know what you were doing there. Take courage. She continued with great tenderness. You may be sure that you are pleasing in the eyes of God, and I will help you more when I am with him. The eyes of Therese opened wide at these words, and then filled with tears. How could Cateri have known what she had done? She had stolen off to the woods without saying a word to anyone, and had cruelly scourged herself as she prayed from her heart for her dying friend. But Cateri, it seems, did know about it. And in the morning early, when Therese wished to stay by her lest she should not be there at the last, she said, in a decided tone, You may go to the field, Therese. Do not fear. You will be back in time. In this, too, she was not mistaken. Father Martin, in describing these last hours of Cateri, gives the following conversation which took place that same morning, and which shows the touching simplicity of her Indian friends. If we must go, they said to her, Ask God not to let you die while we are away. Cateri again assured them that there was time enough. On your return you will find me still living, she said. They went away satisfied, and God blessed their confidence. It will be remembered that this was the morning of Wednesday in Holy Week. What follows is from Chochetierre, who says that the companion of the dying girl was sent for about ten o'clock that day. Marie Therese Tegallia Guenta arrived in the cabin shortly before extreme unction was given. After she, Cateri, had received all the sacraments, she conversed with her companion. She was failing, however, all the time, and at last speaking with difficulty and unable to raise her voice, seeing her comrade weeping bitterly, she bade her this last farewell. I leave you, said Catherine. I am going to die. Remember always what we have done together since we knew one another. If you change, I will accuse you before the judgment seat of God. Take courage. Despise the discourse of those who have no faith. When they would persuade you to marry, listen only to the Fathers. If you cannot serve God here, go away to the mission of Lorette. Never give up mortification. I will love you in heaven. I will pray for you. I will help you. The Father, who was nearby on his knees to say the prayers for the dying, heard a little of what Catherine was saying. He kept his eyes fixed upon the face of Catherine to notice what was passing, and at the same time he encouraged them both. Catherine had her face turned towards heaven and her companion embraced her with one hand, having the other resting on the cheek of Catherine, and listening with attention to the last words of the dying one. This blessed girl in saying to her companion, I will love thee in heaven, lost the power of speech. It had been a long time since she closed her eyes to created things. Her hearing, however, still remained and was good to the last breath. It was noticed several times that when some acts were suggested to her, she seemed to revive. When she was excited to the love of God, her whole face seemed to change. Everyone wished to share in the devotion inspired by her dying countenance. It seemed more like the face of a person contemplating than like the face of one dying. In this state she remained until the last breath. Her breathing had been decreasing since nine or ten o'clock in the morning, and became gradually imperceptible, but her face did not change. One of the fathers who was on his knees at her right side noticed a little trembling of the nerve on that side of her mouth, and she died as if she had gone to sleep. Those beside her were for a time in doubt of her death. When they felt certain that all was over, her eulogy was spoken in the cabin to encourage others to imitate her. What her father confessor said, together with what they had seen, made them look upon her body as a precious relic. The simplicity of the Indians caused them to do more than there was need for on this occasion, as for instance to kiss her hands, to keep as a relic whatever had belonged to her, to pass the evening and the rest of the night near her, to watch her face, which changed little by little in less than a quarter of an hour. It inspired devotion, although her soul was separated from it. It appeared more beautiful than it had ever done when she was living. It gave joy and fortified each one of them in the faith he had embraced. It was a new argument for belief, with which God favoured the Indians, to give them a relish for the faith. Thus died Kateri Tekakwita on Wednesday, April 17th, 1680. She was twenty-four years of age. The change in her countenance after death, mentioned by Shoshetier, is described at some length by Sholeneck. He recalls the fact that, when Kateri was four years old, she was attacked by the smallpox, and that some marks of it were left on her face. It had been much more disfigured, however, by her austerities and by her last illness. But this face, says Sholeneck, thus emaciated and marked, changed all at once about a quarter of an hour after her death, and it became in an instant so beautiful and so fair that, having perceived it at once, for I was in prayer near her, I gave a great cry. So much was I seized with astonishment, and I had the father called, who was working on the repository for Thursday morning. He ran to see it at once, and with him, all the Indians, at the news of this prodigy, which we had leisure to contemplate until her burial, I must admit, frankly, her confessor continues, that the first thought which came to me was that Catherine might have indeed entered at that moment into heaven, and that on her virginal body was reflected in advance a small ray of the glory which was dawning on her soul. The spirit of Cateri Tecquitha rejoiced in leaving its casket of clay. But the friend who had known her best still lingered disconsolate by her mat, till at last the crowd was scattered and none remained but those who belonged to the cabin wherein she died. Then the body was cared for in the usual manner. Therese, whose loving task it was to bring the necessary garments, now assisted Cateri's adopted sister and the good matron Anastasia in their last sad duties to the gentle inmate of their lodge. Her hair was oiled and braided, new moccasins were put on her feet, she was tenderly laid out on a mat, and the entrances of the lodge were again left open for visitors. A moving throng passed in and out. Many lingered for a long, long time, unable to withdraw their eyes from the face of the Iroquois maiden so long hidden by her blanket, and now so wondrous fair to behold. It was a glow with a miraculous beauty that gave deep joy to those who looked upon it. With the joy came also a longing to be pure and holy and to possess the happiness reflected on those noble features. As she lay thus motionless on her mat, two Frenchmen from La Prairie, who had come to the Indian village to be present at the services there on Holy Thursday, wandered idly into the cabin, they passed close to the body of Cateri. How peacefully that young woman sleeps! said one of them. It did not occur to them that she was dead, and they were about to pass on. But they were very much surprised, writes Sholeneck, when they learned a moment after that it was the body of Catherine who had just expired. They immediately retraced their steps and casting themselves on their knees at her feet, recommended themselves to her prayers. They even wished to give a public evidence of the veneration they had for the deceased by immediately assisting to make the coffin which was to enclose those holy relics. Thus it happened that Cateri's body, instead of being born to the grave, according to the Indian custom, on an open beer of bark, covered only with a blanket, was enclosed in a wooden coffin after the custom of the white men. This made it easier to identify her remains later, when they were carried to the new village site farther up the river, to which the Indians of the Sioux moved some years later. They took Cateri's bones with them as their most