The Life and Times of Kateri Tekakwitha Part 11

After Kateri's long sojourn among pagans, what a joy it was to her to share in the ideal Christian life of these Iroquois converts!

Three times a day the Angelus sounded from the little belfry; and each time the beaders of moccasins and the tillers of corn-fields, the hunter starting out with his weapons or bringing in the trophies of the chase, the children, the warriors, and the wrinkled squaws bowed their heads in prayer. They knew the Angelus by heart, and said it faithfully. Kateri knew this and more. She had already learned the Litanies of the Blessed Mother, and recited them at night. All carried the rosary, wearing it around their necks, or wound about the head like a coronet. Hers was oftenest in her hands. These Indians understood only their own language; but the ordinary prayers were all translated for them from the French or Latin, into Iroquois. Father Cholenec, to whose care Kateri Tekakwitha had been so particularly commended, watched her actions closely during the first few months of her life at the Sault. He was the one to decide how soon she should be permitted to receive communion,--a decision of great importance to the happiness of Kateri. To gain this privilege, she had nerved herself to undergo threats, privations, and persecutions, and had become an exile; now she cared for nothing so much in all the world as to hasten, by every means in her power, the long-looked-for day of her first communion.

After commenting on her attendance at the daily Ma.s.ses and her morning devotions, Cholenec speaks of her as follows:--

"During the course of the day she from time to time broke off from her work to go and hold communion with Jesus Christ at the foot of the altar. In the evening she returned again to the church, and did not leave it until the night was far advanced.

When engaged in her prayers, she seemed entirely unconscious of what was pa.s.sing about her; and in a short time the Holy Spirit raised her to so sublime a devotion that she often spent many hours in intimate communion with G.o.d.

"To this inclination for prayer she joined an almost unceasing application to labor.... She always ended the week by an exact investigation of her faults and imperfections, that she might efface them by the sacrament of penance, which she underwent every Sat.u.r.day evening. For this she prepared herself by different mortifications with which she afflicted her body; and when she accused herself of faults, even the most light, it was with such vivid feelings of compunction that she shed tears, and her words were choked by sighs and sobbings. The lofty idea she had of the majesty of G.o.d made her regard the least offence with horror; and when any had escaped her, she seemed not able to pardon herself for its commission.

"Virtues so marked did not permit me for a very long time to refuse her the permission which she so earnestly desired, that on the approaching festival of Christmas she should receive her first communion. This is a privilege which is not accorded to those who come to reside among the Iroquois, until after some years of probation and many trials; but the piety of Katherine placed her beyond the ordinary rules. She partic.i.p.ated, for the first time in her life, in the Holy Eucharist, with a degree of fervor proportioned to the reverence she had for this grace, and the earnestness with which she had desired to obtain it."

She made her communion on Christmas day. Her fervor did not slacken afterward. Whenever there was a general communion among the Indians at the Sault, the most virtuous neophytes endeavored with emulation to be near her, because, said they, the sight alone of Kateri served them as an excellent preparation for communing worthily. She was allowed to make her second communion at Easter time. Father Fremin, her former guest of the Mohawk Valley, soon admitted her, without the customary delay, into the Confraternity of the Holy Family. This honor was accorded only to well-tried and thoroughly instructed Christians. The meetings of the Confraternity filled up the hours of each Sunday afternoon, and the members of it were expected to reproduce in their own homes, as far as possible, the family life of the three who dwelt together in the Holy House at Nazareth,--Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Saint Joseph was held up as a model for the men, the Blessed Virgin for the women, and the child Jesus for the children.

Kateri had no sorrows at this time save one, which was that her nearest kindred still rejected and scorned the faith that was dearer to her than life. The ties of blood are strong in a n.o.ble heart. Anastasia, her own good friend and instructress, was there at the Sault; the adopted sister was there, a relative in name if nothing more; the "great Mohawk" was there, and he was a host in himself. But after all, what a handful were these compared to the brave men and women of her tribe in the Mohawk Valley,--those who had shared in the defence of Caughnawaga Castle against the Mohegans, and who still dwelt in her native land, and were bound to her by so many ties! Her uncle, her kindred, her nation, were against her in her Christian faith; and the struggle that wrung her own heart foreshadowed a great struggle that was yet to come between the haughty nations of the Iroquois League and their exiled Christian tribesmen,--one that would make martyrs, glorious Iroquois martyrs. At Onondaga, the capital of the League, it was indeed proved, in course of time, that these children of the forest could give up their lives as n.o.bly as the early Christians who were torn to pieces in the Amphitheatre at Rome.

With sympathetic insight, Kateri felt the gathering storm. She foresaw it more or less clearly from the first. And as if in antic.i.p.ation of what was in store for the Christian Iroquois, her short life at the Sault became, as we shall see, a holocaust of prayer and self-torture.

It must be remembered that in her day the laws of hygiene were not made prominent and taught to the young people as they are now; nor were the missionaries in authority over her aware at the time of all her practices, which their wise counsels might have better directed. So Kateri, unchecked, pa.s.sed her life at the Sault in a ceaseless, tireless effort to lift her nature high above the lawless pa.s.sions to which the people of her race were subject. For their sins and for her own she suffered and prayed. Five times a day she knelt in the mission chapel and pleaded with G.o.d for the infidel Indians, her friends and her kindred.

What wonder, then, that after her life on earth was ended, and her life with Christ began, the Christian Indians should continue even till now to think of her as interceding with G.o.d in their behalf!

FOOTNOTES:

[60] See map, Les Cinq Stations du Village, etc. The circle enclosing a figure 2, and surmounted by a cross, marks the site here described.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE HUNTING-CAMP.

Kateri came to Canada when the woods were rich in color, but now the winter had set in. The Christmas ceremonies are over at the Mission of St. Francois Xavier du Sault, and the village is almost deserted. The Fathers are indeed there,--Fremin, Cholenec, and Chauchetiere; but they lead a quiet, studious life in the absence of their spiritual children.

The snow lies heavy on the ground, and only a few stray Indians occupy the desolate cabins. What has become of the zealous band of Christian Iroquois that so lately dwelt there, answering every call of the chapel bell, and chanting back and forth at the daily Ma.s.s? Have the Fathers lost their dusky flock? Will they ever come back? They have gone far into the heart of the forest, but the blackgowns have no fear. They will all return at Easter time, and the chapel will ring again with the sound of their voices; the men in motley attire will gather on one side of the aisle, and the women shrouded in their blankets on the other.

The Indians of the Sault have no thought as yet of giving up their forest life, nor do the missionaries ask it of them. Food becomes scarce as the snow deepens, so they depart with their women and children to some good hunting-ground and locate a camp for the winter months. They like this sojourn in the forest. The freedom from restraint accords well with their wild tastes and old habits of life. But Kateri would willingly have stayed in the village if her sister had favored such an arrangement. She knows the life of the hunting-camp right well. She has been on these expeditions before with her aunts in the Mohawk country.

Among these Christians it must of course be different from the life she led in the camp at Saratoga; and so it is. The dogiques go with the mission Indians to the forest, and during the time of the hunt they retain, as far as possible, the religious exercises of the Sault. They call the Indians together for morning and evening prayers, and a spirit of sobriety and good order prevails. This is in marked contrast to the excesses indulged in by the pagan Mohawks at their hunting-camps, where they generally take a keg or more of Fort Orange liquor to keep them warm.

The Canadian winter seems bitter cold to Kateri. This band of Indians from the mission are camping northward of the Adirondacks; but most of them are used to the frosty atmosphere, and have made themselves quite cosey and comfortable in their hunting-lodges of bark and close-woven boughs. They have a full supply of furs and skins to wrap about them or to hang over the openings and cracks in their temporary houses. Kateri is poorer than the rest in this respect, for she has no hunter to provide these things for her. Her brother-in-law is willing to do what he can; but he has a large family of his own, and is not as active in the chase as formerly, being past middle age. There are enough young hunters among the relatives and friends of the venerable Anastasia to provide her with all she needs. The elder woman would gladly have made a match between Kateri and one of these young braves, but the least allusion to such a thing annoys Kateri. The girl never complains of the cold, but Anastasia can see that though closely enveloped in her blanket, she is not so warmly clothed as the rest. She has spoken to her several times of the advantages of the married state. On one occasion she pressed the matter so far that Kateri, from a spirit of mischievous fun rather than ill-humor, retorted by telling Anastasia that she had better marry again herself, if she thought so much of marriage. As for her, if they could convince her that marriage was necessary to salvation, she would embrace it, but she doubted much if there were not something more perfect. She did not see the necessity of it in her case, as she could provide for her own wants by the labor of her hands. If this Mohawk maiden had known anything about convent life, she would soon have discovered that she had a vocation for it, and would have become a nun. But thus far no Indian had ever taken the vows, and Anastasia could not understand why Kateri should not marry, as she was now more than twenty years old. There was no denying, however, that she did add very much to the resources of the family, and to the general comfort of the lodge by her industry and dexterity at every kind of Indian handicraft practised by the women. Had she been less generous in giving, and preferred to bargain away what she made, she would soon have grown rich in wampum money on account of her skill, and then she could have bought all the furs she needed. But having no fear of poverty, she worked freely for all, and so was always poor. She kept only what was necessary for her own support. She was never a burden to those with whom she dwelt. On the contrary, she helped to enrich them while denying herself everything but a bare subsistence. She often fasted till evening even when hard at work, and then, if un.o.bserved, would mingle ashes with her food, that it might be devoid of everything that could afford pleasure to the taste.

It may be well to describe the way in which she spends her day at the hunting-camp. The women are supposed to have a very easy time in the forest, whereas the men have hard work. They are gone all day long, tracking animals over the snow and into their burrows. It is when the hunters come in bringing their game, and drop off to sleep from sheer exhaustion, that the task of the women begins, for they have to prepare the flesh of the animals for food, and take care of the skins. But this done, they have plenty of time left for gossip and fancy-work. When they are in the village, they have more of household cares to fill up each day, besides working in the fields and attending daily services at the chapel. If these women all followed the example of Kateri while in the forest, they would have fewer sins to confess when they go back to the village at Easter time.

The quiet retreat which Kateri has chosen for herself is near the pathway leading to the stream, and made by the women of the hunting-camp in tramping back and forth for water. There, in her rustic oratory, she is accustomed to kneel amid the snow. She does not raise her head except to look at the cross she has cut on the trunk of a tree. Her hands are crossed on her breast, and her blanket hangs loosely down from her head and shoulders in many a careless fold. The rivulet close beside her is crusted with ice, and the bushes are heavy with snow. The water runs freely and swiftly a little beyond her where there is a break in the line of bushes along the brink of the stream. They have been thrust aside, and the snow has fallen from them. Here it is that the women come to dip water for the camp. Kateri was there in the morning, and among the very first. She helped to prepare the breakfast for the hunters. She was present also at the morning prayers which were said in common. It was not until the men were busily engaged in eating a meal that would last them the greater part of the day, and the women, with nothing special to do, were hovering about seeking a chance to join in the good cheer and see the hunters off, that Kateri slipped away, and now is hiding among the trees, as though she were nothing else than a little white rabbit that makes his home in a snow-bank. One would scarcely notice the print of her moccasins where she pa.s.sed along by the bushes.

The snow is tufty and light. The long, low branches of Kateri's tree--the one on which she has marked the cross--are bowed with its weight. They almost touch the ground, and shelter her motionless figure on the side towards the moccasin-trail that leads to the water's edge.

Little wavy lines on either side of the interlacing footprints of the women show where their blankets and skirts with s.h.a.ggy fringe disturbed the even surface of the new-fallen snow as they pa.s.sed along. Kateri brushed away the freshest of the snowy ma.s.s in front of her cross, before she began her prayers. She kneels on the hard-packed snow that is fast frozen to the ground. Her figure is sharply outlined against a little white mound of feathery flakes. Her thoughts are many miles away, though her eyes are fixed on the cross, which is suddenly lit up by a flash from the rising sun. She knows that the moment has come for Ma.s.s to begin in the village chapel at the great rapid of the St. Lawrence.

In spirit she kneels with the few who are gathered there, and follows the Ma.s.s from beginning to end with appropriate prayers. She begs her guardian angel to fly away to the chapel and bring her back the fruits of the sacrifice there being offered.

She will need the good spirit at her side more when the morning meal is over and plenty of fuel has been gathered in to keep the fires burning all day long. Then she will sit among the women, whose tongues are ever on the go, and whose hands are busy embroidering elk-skin belts and making little ornaments of various kinds. Kateri is able to give them many suggestions about their work. They often interrupt her with questions concerning the st.i.tches and colors. The task she has set for herself while at the camp is of a more unusual kind than theirs. She is making wooden pack-pins and two ingenious boxes or chests from the wood of a tree. Her sister greatly admires these boxes, and would like to be able to make them as well herself. Kateri's good angel whispers to her, when the gossip reaches its highest point, and prompts her to ask a maiden beside her who has the sweetest of voices to sing an Iroquois hymn. Soon the tide of the women's talk is turned, and they are telling one another stories from the lives of the saints. These they have learned from the Fathers, or heard at the conferences in the village.

Kateri has been gleaning them all along in her talks with Anastasia. As told by the women at the hunting-camp, these edifying stories brought over from old Europe gain rather than lose in picturesqueness of detail.

It would puzzle many of these Indians to know just how it comes about, but in some way whenever Kateri sits among them they seem to forget their neighbors' faults, and begin to talk of people who delighted in doing unselfish or heroic deeds. Little by little their thoughts drift off to a better world, and their fingers move all the faster for it.

There is more of work going on and less noise of chattering tongues.

When the shadows gather about them, they scatter well pleased with themselves and the work of the day. They a.s.semble again when the hunters are all in and the last meal of the day is over. The evening prayers are recited together. Then they find their mats for the night, and drop off one by one to sleep. But Kateri is again on her knees, and prays for herself and for all in the silent darkness; and thus while the others are dreaming of beaver and marten, of venison and captured game, she is thinking only of how to please G.o.d. But one thing is certain: were she to eat more, sleep sounder, and pray less, there would have been a better promise of long life, and less occasion to excite the suspicions of that worthy squaw whose jealous eye is always open. Her well-meaning tongue could give a deeper stab than any Kateri has yet had to endure.

Thus far she holds her peace well, has not breathed a word of what is in her mind, but yet would like to know just where the young Mohawk keeps herself at the times when she does not see her among the women. This squaw found her husband sound asleep one morning not far from Kateri's place in the lodge. The hunter came in late, worn out by a long chase after a Canadian elk, and dropped to sleep in the first place he could find, as he crept in among the prostrate, sleeping Indians. He was a good man, and had never had any misunderstanding with his wife till a strange, sudden notion overcame her. She was possessed with the idea that Kateri was making mischief between herself and her husband. A second unfortunate incident which ordinarily would have pa.s.sed unnoticed served to confirm this woman in her suspicion. As the time approached to return to the village, her husband said one day to the a.s.sembled women that he was working on a canoe which would have to be st.i.tched. Then turning naturally enough to Kateri, whose skill with the needle was well known, he asked her if she would not do it for him. She had an obliging disposition, and did not hesitate to say that she would; but "Voila qui donna encore a penser!" says Chauchetiere. He continues thus:--

"The one who had these thoughts was wise enough not to speak of them till she got to the village. She went to find the Father, and told him her suspicion and the foundation for her judgment.

The Father, who feared much in so delicate an affair, which seemed perhaps possible enough, spoke to Catherine as much to question as to exhort her. Whatever Catherine could say, however, she was not entirely believed; her instructress spoke to her also, either to remedy the evil in case there might be any or to prevent it. Never before did the blessed Catherine suffer so much as on this occasion. What grieved her was that the Father seemed not to believe her, and accused her as if she had been guilty; but G.o.d permitted it thus to purify her virtue, for nothing remained to so virtuous a girl, after leaving her country, her relations, and all the comforts she might have found in a good marriage, which she could not have failed to make if she wished,--nothing more remained for her to do than to practise abnegation in her honor, and to retain not a particle of rancor.... She said only what was necessary to make known the truth, and said not the least thing that could make it appear that she was displeased with any one of those who were with her at the chase."

In the end her remarkable patience and her silence helped to vindicate her in this severest trial of her life. Compared to it, the lying tale of her malicious aunt was as nothing, for no one had believed what she said. In this case it was very different; and Kateri, unable to defend herself against the plausible suspicion of this woman, could only live down the calumny as bravely as possible, leaving G.o.d to clear her memory of every shadow of a doubt, as he would not fail to do in time. The good man who was accused with her never before or after gave his wife any occasion to complain of him. She became convinced that her own jealousy had led her into error; when Kateri was dead, she who had done the mischief could never speak of her without weeping to think how needlessly she had wronged and grieved her. But who can ever heal the wound of a reckless tongue? Alas that the Lily of the Mohawks, "the fairest flower that ever bloomed among the redmen," should have been thus accused! One result of this affair was Kateri's resolve never again to exchange the life of the village for that of the hunting-camp, even at the cost of starvation.

Not long after the Indians returned to the mission, the ceremonies of Holy Week began in the chapel at the Sault. Kateri had never witnessed them before. She was deeply impressed and almost overpowered with emotion as the divine tragedy of Calvary unrolled itself before her. It was brought to her mind by degrees with every detail in the daily services, culminating on Good Friday, with mournful chants, the broken, mutilated Ma.s.s of the prophecies, and the slow unveiling of the crucifix.

These ceremonies of Holy Week, together with the fervent words of the missionaries who, like the first preachers of Christianity, spoke to the people in their "own tongues the wonderful works of G.o.d," made a profound impression on all the Indians of the Praying Castle. As the bells of Holy Sat.u.r.day rang in the news of the resurrection, their joy broke forth into song. A thrill of emotion stirred the throng. Happy tears were in Kateri's eyes. On Easter Sunday the swell of glad Iroquois voices, singing from their inmost souls, wafted her responsive spirit to the opened gates of Paradise.

CHAPTER XIX.

KATERI'S FRIEND,--THeReSE TEGAIAGUENTA.

A joy was in store for Kateri Tekakwitha that would remain until the end of her life. No greater blessing can Heaven send us than a friend whose heart responds to our own in closest sympathy, and to whom we can unfold the hidden places of our soul with no fear of betrayal.

Had Kateri failed to find such a heart-friend before she died, we should never have learned what a wealth of strong human love and a craving for human companionship had been growing up within her through the lonely years she had lived until now.

Never before had she greater need of a friend to sustain her; never before had she been so cruelly mistrusted as on her return from the hunting-camp.

The gift of G.o.d was ready. The friend was close at hand; but the knowledge of this was kept from Kateri, until her desolate heart, turned in on itself, could find no refuge except in the bitterest self-condemnation. Knowing the goodness of G.o.d and finding herself unsatisfied at heart, she could find no reason for it except by magnifying her slightest faults into a dreadful wickedness for which she needed punishment. This tendency of her mind was encouraged constantly by Anastasia's instructions and exhortations. They were well-intentioned and suitable enough for lawless and pa.s.sionate natures, but too severe for the pure and sensitive soul of Kateri. The suffering that comes not from evil doing or thinking, but rather from well-meaning bluntness, can easily be utilized and undone in the far-reaching plans of G.o.d. Kateri's cruel self-reproach cannot be looked upon as a useless pain when we see how it pierced another heart, and bounded back to her own richly freighted with new-found friendship and much-needed, n.o.ble companionship.

What are Kateri Tekakwitha and Therese Tegaiaguenta doing there by the new stone chapel? Why do they stand apart in the life-giving sunlight?

Why do they not speak to each other? Can it be that they have never before met? Both belong to the Praying Castle; both are Christians, both are Iroquois. Kateri came from the Mohawk country before the snow had fallen. Now it has melted away; the gra.s.s is green. Mount Royal, La Prairie, the village, the woods, the waters, are bathed in sunshine. The river is roaring and rushing tumultuously with the added wealth of the spring-time freshets. The mission chapel is nearly completed. The stones are all in place, and the roof has been reared. Kateri compares it, no doubt, with the Dutch church at Fort Orange, the most imposing structure of the kind she has ever had a chance to see. We need not ask her whether she prefers the bright little weather-c.o.c.k there, or the cross on the belfry here; for we know how she cut the cross in the bark of a forest-tree, and how she carries it day by day buried deep in her heart.

Therese sees Kateri, and wonders what she is thinking about. Therese has the dress and the look of an Oneida. Her glance is freer and bolder than Kateri's. She is older and not so shy, and has seen the sunshine and shadow of twenty-eight summers. Health and beauty and vigor attend on the young Oneida; but all at once her face grows thoughtful and sad.

The chill of a terrible winter comes up from the past, and strikes on her heart as she watches the face of Kateri, so quiet and so collected.

It was only an idle curiosity that brought her to look at the building; but now she is led by a strange attraction, and follows the Mohawk girl as she enters the chapel. The floor has recently been laid, and a man is at work on the wainscoting round the wall. No benches or seats are yet to be seen, nor any kind of divisions. Kateri turns to Therese, and gives her an Iroquois greeting. She is about to ask a question. The Oneida returns the salutation graciously, and a conversation begins in two slightly different dialects. Though one is using the Mohawk language and one the Oneida, they understand each other perfectly. Kateri asks Therese if she knows which portion of the church will be set apart for the women. Therese points out to her the place where she thinks they will be, and the conversation continues. It is all about the new building in which they are standing. Their thoughts chime well together; but Kateri, whose mind, as she came from Anastasia's cabin and wandered into the chapel, was dwelling less on what she actually saw before her than on her own internal wretchedness and unworthiness, suddenly exclaims, with a heavy sigh: "Alas! it is not in this building of wood and stone that G.o.d most loves to dwell. Our hearts are the lodge that is most pleasing to him. But, miserable creature that I am, how many times have I forced him to leave this heart in which he should reign alone! Do I not deserve that to punish me for my ingrat.i.tude, they should forever exclude me from this church, which they are raising to his glory?"

These words, with their spiritual thought and beautiful imagery, came rolling from the tongue of the Mohawk girl with all the eloquence of tone and gesture so natural to her race. They were spoken, too, with an added force that belongs only to the utterance of those who live in habitual silence concerning their inward life. Therese could not look upon them as a mere language of the lips, for she saw, as she watched the face of her companion, that the last words came like a sob from her very heart. They echoed strangely in her own soul. Her past life, that terrible winter in the woods, her vow to Heaven unfulfilled, conscience, remorse, an impulse of love and sympathy for the one who thus wailed out her sorrow in a direct appeal to her,--all this, and more disturbed the soul of Therese. She looked at Kateri, and then at the new-laid planks on the chapel floor. Her tongue was silent, but her eyes spoke out in a single glance, and said to the Mohawk girl, "If you only knew--if you only knew how it is with me!" And these were the words that she seemed to be reading along the boards that lay close to her feet: "She is better than I, or she would not speak like that. She can help me. G.o.d has sent her here. I will tell her what I have promised and left undone.

She thinks she is wicked. I don't believe it; I want her to be my friend." She lifted her eyes again, and in a few quick words opened her heart to Kateri. "Insensibly the conversation led them," says Cholenec, "to disclose to each other their most secret thoughts. To converse with greater ease, they went and sat at the foot of a cross which was erected on the banks of the river." There, where the cross still stands as of old, near the great rapid, Therese told Kateri the story of her life; and there their souls were knit together in a friendship that would outlast death and time. Therese became a part of Kateri, and Kateri of Therese. Henceforth they were two souls leading but one life. The history of one is the history of the other, except that Kateri was necessarily, though often unconsciously, the leading spirit.

But what was the life of Therese Tegaiaguenta before she met her guiding spirit, and linked her soul to the soul of the Lily? What were the sins for which she resolved to do penance together with Kateri? What was the story she told, as they sat on the gra.s.sy bank at the foot of the tall wooden cross? The gloom of the evening fell about them before they could separate. When at last they turned their faces from the great river, and bent their footsteps toward the cl.u.s.ter of Iroquois lodges near the Portage, Kateri had learned much of what here follows concerning the life of her friend, and many secrets of her heart which have never been recorded.

Therese was baptized by Father Bruyas in the Oneida country. When that missionary first arrived among her people, he converted Kateri Ganneaktena, who served as interpreter while he was learning the language, and who afterwards with her husband went to Canada and founded the Praying Castle at La Prairie. Tegaiaguenta, like Ganneaktena, was a young married woman when Bruyas converted and baptized her. She had been united to an Oneida brave after the Iroquois fashion, but unlike Ganneaktena, she did not succeed in converting her husband. On the contrary, she herself was led away by the force of evil example about her, and almost lost her Christian faith.

In the history of the Iroquois missions it is related that a certain brave Christian woman literally fought with tooth and nail to keep some of her infidel tribesmen from pouring fire-water down her throat. If they succeeded in making any of the Christians drunk, they often managed to win them away from the influence of the blackgowns.

Therese, less resolute than Ganneaktena and the woman just mentioned, fell a victim to this persistent policy of the infidel Indians. After her baptism they beguiled her into the prevailing sin of intoxication, for which she afterwards shed bitter tears and suffered many self-inflicted torments in company with Kateri.