The priests with their captivating story of the Cross had a large influence in softening savage natures and averting many an awful danger; but when everything else failed, rum always came to the rescue of a threatened French post.
We need not wonder, then, when we are told that Father Beret made no sign of distress or disapproval upon being informed of the arrival of a boat loaded with rum, brandy or gin.

It was Rene de Ronville who brought the news, the same Rene already mentioned as having given the priest a plate of squirrels.

He was sitting on the doorsill of Father Beret's hut, when the old man reached it after his visit at the Roussillon home, and held in his hand a letter which he appeared proud to deliver.
"A batteau and seven men, with a cargo of liquor, came during the rain," he said, rising and taking off his curious cap, which, made of an animal's skin, had a tail jauntily dangling from its crown-tip; "and here is a letter for you, Father.

The batteau is from New Orleans.
Eight men started with it; but one went ashore to hunt and was killed by an Indian." Father Beret took the letter without apparent interest and said: "Thank you, my son, sit down again; the door-log is not wetter than the stools inside; I will sit by you." The wind had driven a flood of rain into the cabin through the open door, and water twinkled in puddles here and there on the floor's puncheons.

They sat down side by side, Father Beret fingering the letter in an absent-minded way.
"There'll be a jolly time of it to-night," Rene de Ronville remarked, "a roaring time." "Why do you say that, my son ?" the priest demanded.
"The wine and the liquor," was the reply; "much drinking will be done.
The men have all been dry here for some time, you know, and are as thirsty as sand.